Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Skippii shot like a blazing arrow and struck the Ürkün in his chest. His fists felt as dense as mallets, yet light as coal, trailing fire. His blood boiled. He swung again and again as his enemy retreated, arms raised to block his blows. Dark spheres manifested on the Ürkün's forearms, absorbing the force of impact. It felt like he was pummelling the dark waters of a lake. His heart raced for the kill, locked in pursuit. He was one good strike–one fatal crunch– from ending the heretic's life.

Yet with each strike, the lake's surface appeared upon impact, dark and vigilant. Its surface rippled and thrummed. The black magia stuck to his hands like tar–burning fluorescent silver with an acrid smoke. It was repulsive to touch, like sewage on his skin. But he did not abate. Skippii chased his opponent relentlessly, throwing fists from the left and right, under his opponent's guard and around the back of his head. He struck towards the kidneys, but still the black magia manifested and absorbed the blow.

His assault force pushed the Ürkün back. The bearded man suddenly grimaced as Skippii's fiery fist plunged beneath the surface of his shield.

Magia tore through his body–a bonfire of power with him at its head. But still, he wanted more. Reaching down, he planted his palms into the earth. The power which found him was devastating. Fissures split the earth. Steaming vents burst into the air. The heretic spun and flailed as he was seared alive. His hands trailed dark clouds, trying to extinguish the flames. But still, his furs caught alight. Desperately, the heretic threw off his heavy mantle and staggered from the turmoil. But as he turned to behold Skippii, his eyes grew wide with terror.

Magia rippled through him–fiery waves overflowing his arms, spurting from his fists. No mortal could withstand so much power, and he knew he was destined to die. But fear eluded him. Enraptured, he hardly felt the strain on his heart. Pain flared, but above it all was rage.

Rising above his enemy, Skippii grew larger than himself–a flame which took shape from his mortal flesh, far exceeding its bounds. And, so too, he merged with the ground. The embers at his feet swept into deep canyons until all the earth around him was his own blood. At its centre: an orb of power, richly layered, bright upon its surface with a solid red core. Magia flowed from the earth, feeding the orb. Dense as a boulder, it tugged on his soul, tearing him at the seams, rending his eternal essence from mortal flesh. In a moment, it would unmake him.

Skippii lunged. The Ürkün's black magia shattered, and he was sent reeling.

Like plunging a hot iron into a bucket, all of his power was extinguished in a single, terrifying blow.

Skippii's knees buckled. Staggering backwards, he drew his kuri. Panting like a horse, his vision spun as he struggled to keep his feet beneath him. A light glowed faintly at his core, but swiftly diminished. Yet the echoes of its presence remained there, like a brand on his soul.

His body shook with exhaustion. His mouth was dry. He looked down at his hands, expecting to find blackened charred stumps. But there were his fingers–his tanned complexion–his callouses from training the spear. He was weak, exhausted, but not dead. Indeed, with a breath, he felt alive like never before.

Steeling himself, he staggered towards the grounded Ürkün, who knelt face-down in the dirt, neck exposed. A sickness grumbled in his stomach–a sense of wrongness, a ward for violence. Gone was his exhilaration for battle. Before him knelt not only a heretic, but a man, defeated. Naturally, he wanted to heed his heart–to stay his blade and spare his foe. However, he had been trained to oppose those feelings. Much of what separated a legionnaire from a lesser man was his ability to do what was necessary. War demanded stoicism. No land was ever made safe without first the spilling of blood.

Skippii seized him by his matted hair and drew his head back. The Ürkün suddenly spun, hatred in his eyes, and grabbed Skippii's leg. His swollen and burned lips twitched, and snakes shot from the shadows like bolts. His kuri was wrenched from his grasp, flung into the air. Suddenly, the weight of a bull pressed down on Skippii's shoulders. Knees buckling, he fell to the ground wheezing. Gone was the fire of the earth–there was only the cold wet mud, and his murderous foe.

Through a thin black mist, the big Ürkün climbed on top of him with an impossible weight. Skippii struggled to push him back, but he suddenly felt as weak as a child contesting an adult. The Ürkün's face was blackened by soot and one eye was swollen and singed, but he did not slow. He snarled, black teeth dripping with blood as the last moments of his life fled him, only one thing remained: a grim determination to drag Skippii into the underworld after him.

Panic spread through him like a gale, spurring his drained limbs. Raising his legs, he wrapped them around the Ürkün's waist and locked his ankles, then raised his arms to protect his face. All his life, he had wrestled with older legionnaires, and learned every gladiator's trick to hold his own. But no friendly contest could have prepared him to face death, and see the very same fear in his enemy's eyes, and the very same desperation to emerge the victor.

The Ürkün battered his face with fists and elbows. Each blow was worse than the last, and still his impossible weight held him in place. Then his enemy wrapped their forearms around his neck. Skippii dug his chin in, but the Ürkün was deft. A vice squeezed his throat. He let out a gurgling sound and writhed, but the pressure would not relent.

A horrible, primal fear gripped him. With his final strained breath, Skipii focussed on the ground beneath him. A flicker of heat tickled his spine, like the tiny ember of a morning campfire, long since burned sodden by midnight rains. He reached out to that ember, cupping it in his thoughts–sheltering it–blowing it gently to life. Please, he begged. Burn for me again.

Suddenly, the pressure was released. The Ürkün pressed his palm into Skippii's face, rising upwards and arching his back. Skippii flung him off and rolled him over, ready to seize the advantage. But already the fight was over. Tenoris stood above the Ürkün, nostrils flared, red with rage. Knife in hand, he stabbed again and made good on his promise, making a corpse of the villain.

There was much shouting, as legionnaires came from afar, but it sounded too distant to comprehend. Skippii's head swam, and suddenly he was too thirsty to think. Rolling over, he placed his forehead on the cool earth and sucked in the moist air.

"Water," he croaked, blinking away the dizziness.

A flask was pressed to his lips and he drank heavily. Like a desert plant, he bloomed awake. Standing over him with the flask was no legionnaire. It was Clidensis, one of the companeight's slaves. He had accompanied them to the farm with their mule in order to load provisions. How long had he been nearby? How much of the fight had he witnessed?

"Thank you." he said, rising to his knees. But the look in Clidensis' eyes stopped him–a certain fearful knowing. Skippii blinked through exhaustion as best he could to hold the slave's gaze, trying to read what was being unsaid beneath his expression. Perplexion creased his brow, and bewilderment. Skippii wished he had answers for the slave–even just a quick explanation to ease his doubts–but all he could do was stare back, sharing in his disbelief.

Skippii was no magus and what had happened was no ceremonial awakening. Magi of the Imperium's pantheon devoted their lives to serving their Gods in order to beseech a fraction of their power. So withholding were the Gods of their precious magia, that it required a whole procession of devotees to form a single invocation.

But Skippii was astray. He had never once prayed in earnest, nor been inducted into a sect by a father or priest. Few amongst the pantheon could even explain his powers, except perhaps the God of Gods: Chrysaetos, Lord of the Sun. But indeed, if Chrysaetos had chosen him on a whim–without even requiring his worship–then why hadn't he been burned to a crisp? All Chrysaetos' subjects were–the God of Gods did not care for their lives.

What he had just done–what power he had weilded–defied reason and religion. It bordered on the heretic, and raised questions which clouded Skippii's heart.

There were other forces in the world, strange spirits and lesser gods which sometimes corrupted the hearts of men. The Ürkün worshipped these uncivilised, insane gods, who bestowed chaotic powers upon their subjects. Perhaps Skippii had been chosen by one such barbaric god. If that were the case, and it was discovered, to call him a traitor would be reasonable. He would face execution, a disgrace to the legion. Though the inferno had saved his life, now it dawned like a curse.

"I am no heretic." Skippii shook his head at Clidensis, challenging the slave's gaze. There was no weakness of allegiance in his heart. No evil god had visited him in a vision with a persuasion or bribe. Rather, the power had felt as though to come from the earth itself, kindled through him. It was a sensation he had been aware of all of his life, minuscule, like the whisper of the wind or touch of fog, but never before had he discovered its true potential.

The slave quivered like a mouse, then nodded. "No. I know, legio. You are, I mean… What was that?"

Skippii's heart raced, ready to challenge the accusation in his eyes, but at being referred to as 'legio', he bit his tongue. Clidensis was a slave and he was a legionnaire; for once, the chain of command favoured him. He need not act with haste or force.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"You didn't see anything," Skippii said.

"But-"

"Nothing."

Like a gale, the red cloaks of legionnaires swept about him.

"Are there more of them?" Orsin said.

"No," Skippii croaked, throat already dry again.

"How are you, lad?" Orsin said, taking a knee. "Bleeding?"

Skippii shook his head.

Orsin handed him a waterskin and quickly gave him a once-over, checking his neck for cuts and eyes for focus. His tunic was burned to a crisp; the white leather of his thorax armour was brown and curling at the edges; the straps had singed, and it dangled in charred segments about his shoulders. His bronze greaves glowed with a residual heat, and there was nothing left of his leather vambraces. The last vestiges of heat fled his body, leaving him cold and numb. Drawing his cloak about him, Skippii was pained to feel it crumble and fray at his touch.

"I just got it," Skippii grumbled.

"Nevermind it," Orsin said. "You did well. We'll get you a new one."

Meanwhile, his companions paced through the cracked and sundered earth to inspect the heretic magus' corpse. Tenoris kicked his body over, revealing his blistered face, streaking with dark warpaint like mournful tears.

"Fire magia?" Kaesii said. "Was that it, Skippii? Did he burn you?"

Nodding limply, Skippii sat on his shield sipping water.

"He's unharmed, don't worry," Orsin said. "Miraculously."

"Erymenes protects him," Tenoris said reverently. "For this must be an act of the Gods. They have spared our friend's life from the fires of the enemy. Look! There is not a scratch upon him."

"There's a few scratches," Skippii wheezed through pained ribs. "I almost died, Tenoris. Thanks for the help."

"We both were aided by the Gods, I am sure of it."

His companions had more questions for him, but he answered mutely, deep in thought and lost to exhaustion. Others searched the farmstead and interrogated the Philoxenia farmers. They dragged the Ürkün bodies outside and arrayed the three of them along the fence, motionless in the afternoon sunlight.

"Here, look," Drusilla raised his mountainous voice over the group. "You're a hero, Skip. The girl's alright."

Skippii peered through the crowd and beyond the chicken coup towards the farmhouse where the residents stood watching from the doorway. Though afraid, they were unharmed. Nervously, the young woman fled inside with her father, but the old Philoxenian lady remained watching over the legionnaires stoically. Her eyes fell on Skippii's and she mouthed a word. Though he couldn't hear her, her gratitude was clear.

Smiling softly, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. A blanket of calm fell over his shoulders, surrounded as he was by his companions. The fight hardly seemed real, though the immutable evidence was there: his hands were bloodied and charred, his ribs sore from taking a beating. His gear was ruined. Unfastening his mother's brooch–shaped like a horseshoe–he attached it over his wrist to keep it safe.

"This must be Siesmorix," Drusilla said, kicking at the earth.

"No, it cannot be," Kaesii replied, the sharpness of his aristocratic Vestian accent making it sound as though he were a scholar talking down to a student.

"Of course it is," Drusilla argued. "Look at the cracked earth. This is the work of the Quakelord Siesmirox for sure. Don't you know your own Pantheon?"

"I know it better than you," Kaesii lectured. "Ürkün don't worship our Gods. They don't accept barbarian allegiance. How could this be Siesmirox?"

"Oh, and you know that for certain?" Drusilla said. "Arrogant. All you Vestians are. Think you know the answers to everything?"

"It's basic lore," Kaesii said.

The two strong-hands continued to argue amongst themselves, but Cur' attention was fixed on Skippii, as though he was trying to read his mind.

"Are you sure nothing else did this?" the old veteran said.

Skippii nodded. "Dark magia. I can't explain it… It was like the dead of night. Like midnight pools, bottomless pits… And fire too."

The old man scowled.

"Could be that he was a slave to several heretic gods," Orsin suggested.

"Several…" Cur repeated. "And barely a scratch on our recruit here."

"I got lucky," Skippii said quietly.

"No," Cur said. The old legionnaire stepped in closer. "No, you are mistaken, boy. No spring lamb's killing a magus on his own. Not a heretic one. They're crafty. Tenacious. They don't die. They're not like rats. They're wolves."

"Not alone," Tenoris complained. "We both faced those Ürkün."

"Aye, but him for the most part." Cur pointed the tip of his spear at Skippii's nose. "How are you not dead, kid?"

Skippii scowled and pushed the spear aside with the back of his hand. Around him, his companeight watched silently; even Orsin did not react. Skippii was well accustomed to the rules of the pack–Cur was testing him–one of many prods and punches that would determine where he stood in the pecking-order of his unit. All his life, Skippii had subsided at the bottom of that pack. Always with the least food, always the butt of jokes and subject of pranks, always the mutt an older legionnaire would snap at after a rough day. That had always been the natural order of things, but no more.

Anger gurgled in his gut. Without meaning to, he pulled his feet beneath him, ready to rise. He envisioned darting inside Cur' guard and punching the man in the neck, just above the collar of his thorax. A flicker of fire–like a candle's flame–tickled the soles of his feet, rising up from the earth below. So it was still there, that unusual power of his, still awaiting his command.

"The heretic thought I was defeated," Skippii said, dormant anger squeezing through his voice. "I struck him when his guard was down. Also, Tenoris had already injured him, hit him in the head. His aim was off. I landed my javelin, then knife. But he'd have taken me with him, had Tenoris not regained his wits and saved my life."

"Alright, come on now, Cur," Orsin said, stepping between them. "We'll hear the details later at camp. Let the lad shake it off."

"Shouldn't we inform the Coven?" Kaesii asked.

"No," Orsin said. "The warmagi don't parley with legionnaires. An arcanus will come and take the details, let the chain of command deal with it. But carry the body, they might want to inspect it."

As Skippii staggered back towards the valley trail, he shared a knowing glance with Clidensis. The skinny slave bowed his head a fraction, but kept his eyes on Skippii. He had not given his account to the other legionnaires, for now. How much could he be trusted to keep his silence?

Marching up the valley trail, spear and shield in hand, Skippii's fatigue drew the energy from his mind, until all he could focus on was putting one foot in front of another. It would be a hard march for the remainder of the day until they set up camp for the night, but when was it ever easy?

Tenoris strode beside him as the other legionnaires loaded the pack mules and carried their hauls up the hill. The big legionnaire began to laugh, then he lifted his head to the blue sky.

"Aequentia laughs with us, I feel. Their chariot races circles around the moon and confuses the stars. It must be their doing for things to be so misaligned. Don't you agree?"

Skippii nodded in spite of his meagre interest in the Pantheon. Raised on the road, he'd never had a priest nor temple of worship. Some people saw the world through the Gods; Skippii saw the dirt, the sky and the trees, and that was enough for him.

"A heretic Ürkün," Tenoris laughed, as though the words themselves weren't barbed. "I fear our careers may have reached their zenith on the first day. They will shower us with medals come time for ceremony. Perhaps we should retire already and tell this story to our children."

"It all pays the same," Skippii said, attempting to downplay events. For the moment, any attention was unwanted. The last thing he needed was an arcanus asking him questions before he could have a confidential chat with Clidensis and figure out what exactly this power was inside him.

"No, I expect a bonus," Tenoris trumpetted. "A boon. A promotion."

Despite himself, Skippii smiled. Realistically, there was no way he could keep the story in check. Rumours spread around a legion's camp like rain clouds. Soon, everyone would be talking about the companeight who defeated a renegade Ürkün magus with only iron and brawn. Before them, three more companeights of legionnaires sallied forth from the hilltop to convene with them in the valley. They must have heard the fighting, for as best as he could tell, his battle with the magus had been sheltered from their view by the orchard and farmhouse roof.

Skippii stiffened as he spotted a dark cloaked figure amongst the legionnaires, approaching swiftly. Cohort II's arcanus–a dedicated priest of the legion. For certain, she had detected the heretic's magia from afar and came to intervene. But how acute were her senses? Could she also tell what forces raged inside? Would one look reveal it? How would they treat him–an astray–inexplicably possessing a volatile magia? The Gods of Auctoria's pantheon suffered no equals. Neither would the arcanus. Neither would the Coven of warmagi whose purpose was to purge heresy. Suddenly, as never before, Skippii feared his allies.

He needed answers quickly. Tonight, he would take the slave aside and secure an oath of secrecy. Then… he didn't know what then. But he'd figure it out.

As the arcanus approached, graciously, Orsin stepped forward and steered her away. The veteran clearly thought that he was too tired for questions, but they would come before the night was up. Skippii bowed his head, hiding somewhat behind Tenoris' massive figure.

Once he made it back up to Cohort II, he slid out of his tattered thorax and handed it to a slave to carry. As the cohort lined up and prepared to march, a memory rose to the surface of his mind–a story he had once been told around a campfire many years ago. Skippii's eyes glazed over, and in his mind, he was back within that mountain cave, the orange glow of flames dancing over the walls…

The wind howled outside, rustling the forest's canopy. Eight legionnaires snored beside him. It was Skippii's watch–often the duty of a camp slave after a long march–but he did not take it alone. The travelling annalist and philosopher, Thales, kept him company, stroking his thin white goat's beard, wrapped in a long philosopher's toga.

Thales took an ember from the dying fire and lit his pipe. "Gratius, the cunning senator, grew a crop of golden grapes which once eaten were foretold to keep hunger at bay. Rich as he was, his appetite never strayed, and so endowed in wealth, he had no need for the grape. Yet Septimus the Seed was young and growing, his strength showed no signs of slowing, and so when offered the golden grape, he ate with haste, savouring the taste, and swallowed that which was not of his knowing. The grape grew inside of him, its seed soaking his vitamins, and before long, Septimus' strong will withered away. In his place, a puppet remained. The lesson: some offerings are disguised as bait. First, a taste of power, ere the conditions it creates."

The memory faded, but the fable's message remained. Skippii had ingested the grape, and taken the power offered to him. He remembered how ferociously the flames had wreathed his body–how devastating his fists had blazed. He had sensed layers of magia, deep beneath him, far beyond his mustering. And within his chest had glowed an orb, which was now dark. Probing with his mind, he felt its presence, like the soft touch of sunlight on his skin.

Perhaps the power was his to take, or perhaps it was a snare. Malevolent spirits were known to set traps for their victims. As soon as he had a moment free to be alone, he would investigate the power's nature and plumb his mind for impurities. If indeed, corruption had claimed him, and he had been infected by a heretic god or evil force, he would do the honourable thing and unburden the legion of his malignancy. He would go quietly into the night and be remembered as a man of honour, who had slain the heretic, and died a legionnaire.

But if that were not the case. If the magia was his… What feats were possible to a man who could bring to bear the ruination of flame? His mind wandered between fear and fantasy as the repetition of march drew on.