Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Once, he had claimed the whole world as his domain. The rightful progenitor. Now, he languished in the deepest dungeon, boiling with hate, seething for revenge. The hounds that bayed at his gates were ferocious indeed, but they had not yet learned about his seed. The child had come to age. Weak of flesh. Frail of mind. But the seed may bud, if he allowed it. Its roots ran deep, probing for his hand in power. But he held a clenched sphere, and would accept no embrace.

Relentlessly, the seed probed…

***

Skippii winced as Tenoris' shield scraped loudly against the wooden wall. The big legionnaire paused on the stairs above, adjusted his grip and continued on. The old steps creaked beneath them. No matter how slowly and carefully he moved, Tenoris couldn't help but make a racket.

Skippii had discarded his spear and shield at the bottom of the steps, out of sight behind a ragged curtain. In the cramped space, he favoured his kuri–a two-handspan curved blade, forged with the purpose of thrusting beneath an enemy's armour.

Until now, he had only ever practiced tricks with the blade. He had never killed before, but he had seen it done on a massive scale from afar. He assumed that it would come easily to him, but as he neared the top of the stairs, his heart began to race, and his breath came more thickly.

Three doors adjoined the narrow hallway above, and at the far end, it bent sharply out of sight. Tenoris glanced back to see that Skippii was following, then, as carefully as he could muster, he opened a door which was hanging half-ajar into a nearby chamber. The old hinges creaked. Skippii suddenly felt dizzy with nerves. They were moving too fast. They could be walking right into a trap.

Tenoris rounded the doorway, and Skippii dashed after him. The room was empty. The smell of the meadow drifted through an open window, shedding light on a clutter of upturned draws. Worthless trinkets–patches and beads–were scattered atop a straw mattress. Somebody had ransacked the room. Tenoris returned to the hallway when Skippii grabbed his arm and held a finger up to his lips.

He could feel the big man's heart pounding in the veins of his muscular forearm, but he paused while Skippii's mind raced for a tactic. There was no sound from the two remaining rooms, whose doors were closed shut. Whatever imposters were inside were keeping quiet. Clearly, they had seen the legion arrive–heard the trumpet's blare and watched them from the windows–and were hoping to remain undiscovered. But no doubt, they had swords, spears or bows trained on one of the two remaining closed doors. Perhaps they had even barricaded them with furniture. Without the element of surprise, his gambit was doomed to fail.

Skippii wet his lips, softly clearing his throat. "Act drunk," he whispered.

Tenoris turned and scowled at him.

"Ransack the house," Skippii continued. "Walk down there, around the corner. Create a row. Draw them out."

Tenoris' scowl slowly alleviated and he nodded slowly. Raising his voice abruptly, he stormed down the hallway. "I'll take whatever I please, peasants."

Where before, Tenoris had done a poor job of stalking, he excelled in causing a racket. Scraping the butt of his spear against the floor, he stomped around the corner imitating a winehouse pantomime. Meanwhile, Skippii hid in the shadows of the chamber nearest the stairs, kuri in hand, watching the closed doors intently.

"I said booze," Tenoris slurred loudly. "What sorry lives of farmers must be quenched with strong liquor. Miserable folk must drink. Where is it? I shall upturn every stone, you lying Philoxenian fiends."

Slowly, the handle of the door opposite Skippii turned. Jumping back into the shadows, he listened to the quietly creaking hinges, footsteps and the shuffling of bodies as the trespassers slipped into the hallway behind Tenoris. Gripping his kuri tight to his chest, he cleared his mind and sprang into action.

Two men crept down the hallway with their backs to him, heading towards the corner, around which Tenoris was making a row. Their long shaggy black hair fell about grey furs. Broad, like upright wildebeests, their scent was pungent–all woodsmoke and musk. The rearmost man half-turned to Skippii. The skin of his cheek was pale like dried clay. There was no doubt about it, and no hesitation in his heart as he roared and plunged his knife into the Ürkün's kidney.

The sharp blade pierced his thick fur armour. Skippii grabbed a tuft of the Ürkün's black mane and yanked it downwards, thrusting his knife deeper. His enemy's spine arched as he gasped, dropping his axe and falling to the floorboards.

There was a whooshing sound, then something thudded beside Skippii's head. Ducking, he raised his left arm–just as he had been drilled to–but bore no shield. From the adjacent room, a third Ürkün raised a shortbow and quickly nocked another arrow.

Skippii twisted from the doorway, putting his back to the frame, out of the archer's sight. Tenoris charged around the corner and tackled the second Ürkün warrior, each having dropped their unwieldy weapons in the cramped space. Though the enemy was big, Tenoris was ferocious, pinning him to the wall, bashing him into submission. He had it under control. But any moment now, the third Ürkün might join them and tip the balance. That made him Skippii's target.

He whipped his red legionnaire's cloak into the doorway, feigning an advance. An arrow tore through his cloak harmlessly, and he swung around the corner after it.

Crouching low, he barrelled into the bowman. The two of them fell upon a cot and scrambled to their feet, but Skippii was faster. Kuri in hand, he climbed atop the Ürkün and began stabbing. The man kicked and screamed, and grabbed his knife-arm, eyes bulging. Skippii transferred his knife to his other hand and went for the throat. With one clean slash, his enemy's grip loosened and his eyes grew vacant.

Skippii pulled the collar of the man's furs over the wound so that the spurting blood would not drench him or the farmer's chambers. Sitting back, he panted, dripping with sweat, heart racing fiercely. He could hear Tenoris' struggle in the hallway beyond, but it sounded muffled, as though his head had been plunged underwater. His jaw hung slack as he absently gazed around the room. Vision spinning. Time slowing…

In a corner, crouched a young woman, knees pulled tight against her chest. Her hair was matted over her eyes like straw, yet her gaze shone golden. He stared back, mind blank, then held up a bloody hand in greeting.

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"Philia," he said, and uttering the word woke him from a daze. There was a bang and a figure ran from the hallway. Footsteps rained down the stairs as they fled the farmhouse. Grabbing his kuri, he stumbled into the hallway, and was shocked to see Tenoris slumped against the wall. The legionnaire swayed, trying to rise to his feet. Skippii anxiously scanned him for a death blow–a pool of blood or dislodged limb that would spell his end–but no such injury was evident. He had been bested, but not killed. Now Skippii must face the last of their enemies alone.

Charging down the stairs after the fleeing Ürkün, he snatched up his shield and spear and ran outside. The light of day dazzled him as he scanned the backyard for his enemy. A hedgerow separated the yard from a horse paddock beyond, and a pond to his right. It was too much to take in. One man could hide anywhere amongst the foliage.

Skippii listened for footsteps, but all he heard was the squawking of chickens from a pen behind the hedgerow. A disturbance. Before he knew it, he was running towards the sound, shield raised and spear poised.

Following the backyard path, he rounded on the coop and spotted someone jumping the fence at the opposite end. Chickens squawked and flapped into the air as Skippii charged after the Ürkün, and in one spry leap, he cleared the fence and landed in a crouch on the opposite side.

A field of crops stretched before him, empty but for crows. Scowling, he straightened himself, shield before him, scanning for the enemy, trusting his ears.

Something moved behind him. Skippii spun to face them, but did not bring his shield around in time. A hammerblow slammed against his ribs. Wincing, he staggered backwards, gripping his spear, and faced his foe.

The Ürkün was standing a few yards out of reach. The pale flesh of his face was painted with black markings. He was seemingly unarmed, except in one hand he held a stone. About it, a dark aura palpitated like a sickly spot–a blight on the world–oozing with malice.

"Akra kabool, Cosmipox," he spat, and launched the stone. Skippii ducked behind his shield, preparing to charge. But what struck him was no mere pebble. It kicked him backwards, pushing him off-balance. Darkness doused him. In a moment of panic, he thought he had blacked out. But light re-surfaced. The world returned, blinding by contrast, and his enemy stood before him, another stone in hand, another dark energy amassing.

Suddenly, it made sense how the Ürkün had overcome Tenoris so easily: he was a heretic magus–a legionnaire's bane. There was no telling what malevolent god lent him their strength.

Another stone came. Skippii clenched and ducked. The rim of his shield struck his ribs as the stone bounced off. A cloud of darkness once again concealed his vision. Gritting his teeth, Skippii righted himself–spear raised–and peered over his shield. He had expected to see his enemy before him, moving in for a killing blow, but instead, the Ürkün fled.

Here, behind the farmhouse, they were sheltered from view by a high hedge and the orchard's trees. They were alone. Even if Skippii cried the alarm, no help would come for him quickly. Though the heretic outmatched him alone, likely, he was afraid of Cohort II's banners fluttering atop the valley's distant ridgeline. Heretic or not, the enemy did not wish to match his strength against hundreds of legions' arrows and spears.

A flush of relief cooled his veins as he watched the heretic flee. But it did not last long. A prickling realisation replaced it: if Skippii let the heretic get away, he would flee into the hills and live to fight again–to kill legionnaires and terrorise Philoxanians. What baleful plans had the Ürkün possessed for the farmer's daughter? What evil had now turned its back on him, unafraid of his ire, assured that Skippii would not follow?

No fear of peril was enough to rein his anger, nor quash his oaths as a legionnaire.

Giving chase, he barked a challenge. "Face me. Auctoria!"

The magus stopped and glanced back. For a moment, he seemed stunned, then an executioner's expression darkened the pits of his painted eyes. As Skippii charged, he snatched another stone from his pouch. A shadow trailed his hand as he held the black gemstone above his head and uttered a command.

Poised behind his shield, Skippii mirrored him, raising his spear to the sky. A cloud of black, and the stone struck him and smashed halfway through his willowcore shield. There, it lodged in the wood. Suddenly, his shield felt as though it were wrought of cast iron. He dropped it, and its edge buried upright in the freshly tilled earth. Without falter, he strode forward and twisted his hips, and launched his spear high into the air.

The lance flew true, sure to skewer the Ürkün, but at the last moment, the magus thrust his hand out. The spear sprung into the air as though it had hit a sudden wall. A small black shield formed in the Ürkün's palm, as black as midnight. It seemed to pull in the light of the world, siphoning colour from the earth and the sky, twisting and consuming it.

"Dro-ka Cosmipox!" The heretic's face darkened with rage as a shadow drew over the world, and with it, a tremendous current. Skippii was dragged forward, snared by an impossible gale. Digging his heels into the earth, he slipped and fell onto his back. He turned and groped in the mud, but the snare held fast. With a howl, the air was sucked from the world, and a deafening silence pressed against his ears, crushing his lungs, squeezing his throat shut. His eyes bulged and the blood pounded in his veins, threatening to burst. Blackness descended upon him. Unconsciousness followed close behind.

But a light deep within the earth would not go out.

As he felt himself die and the soul leave his body, he was drawn to its distant depths. All the earth was a vast body of heat, and it embraced him. A pure energy–like a fire without smoke–burned through his mind painlessly. He had felt it before many times, in much less potency than this. It was his purposeless gift–the touch of the earth–the fires which had followed him his entire life.

With a dizzying rush, the flames rose to his head, billowing with smoke and sparks, expanding his mind with a flash of discordant geometric shapes–like ancient runes turning and pulsating in iridescent space. As he fell deeper, the smoke dissipated, the visions vanished, and his body came alive; blood boiled with passion–a desperate primal heat screaming for eruption. Finally, he plummeted to the core of the world and was absorbed by a purifying crystal heat, more ancient than all life on the surface above. An immaculate ocean of vast, indomitable power.

He had died. This must be it. At least he had died fighting. Golden light–the Pantheon's gates–streched out before him; an ocean of power. With his final will, he reached out and touched it. Then, in its vastness, a titanic consciousness emerged and regarded him.

Awake now.

Skippii jolted as he felt something burst inside his chest–coming to life. The spark formed a flame which burned brighter, condensing, like the sun itself, inside his chest. Power flooded into him, ravaging him. He seethed with pain and writhed as the fires threatened to consume his organs. Boil his blood. Burst his mind. Clenching, he willed it to stop… pleaded for it to relent.

Arise.

The voice swept through his flesh like a cooling wind, scattering the flames. Gone was the agony, replaced by a prickling frenzy. Skippii opened his eyes. He was standing, but had no memory of getting up. Flames blazed upon his flesh. A vapour rose from the fires, tinged yellow, forming mists in the air. Within the mist, a halo of golden light shone.

Thoughts came fleeting, muddied by passion. Had he been sent back from the afterlife? By which God, or what spirit? And for what purpose? That at least became clear as he looked at his enemy.

The heretic gawped at him. A swirling black disk formed in his palm–a shield to his light.

With a breath, Skippii bellowed the coals. Red tongues flickered towards the Ürkün, drawn towards the black shield in his hand. As the flames touched its surface, the obsidian shield shivered and burned silver. Cracks appeared on its surface–silver like shattered ice.

A primal hatred uncurled within him, teeth bared. He took a step towards the heretic.

Terrified, the Ürkün backed away. Fire reflected in his eyes. What did he see? What had Skippii become? A monster? A fell shade? Questions that could wait while his enemy still breathed.

With a powerful inhale, the flames gushed in, burning him with devastating ecstasy.

"I am Skippii Altay, son of Ardenia."

At the utterance of his mother's name, the furnace inside his chest blazed brighter. Sweat streamed down his forehead, and he removed his helmet, casting it aside so that the Ürkün could look upon his face.

"Do not run. I will not be merciful."