Primordial Unleashed: Epic Progression Fantasy

Every mind was a song. Every thought, a tone in the eternal melody. Each phrase possessed a beginning and an end, but the orchestra never paused for breath. Oyaltun, Goddess Sentiescence, drifted blissfully through verse. Where two minds met, their songs became entwined and a new resonance was formed. Its birth did not diminish the former. Rather, the musicians bloomed and sang all the brighter.

But some minds were not so weightless. Their songs, disharmonious, clashed with the symphony of nature. These songs, most often, were human. They droned and dragged each note, slurring from one pitch to the next. Suddenly, a shrill clash rang out–a moment of anger, or terror. Or songs brash and brazen, without care for harmony, bellowed above the rest, drowning the sweeter melodies that hummed with the wind, and the birds, and the trees.

Oyaltun came to those gentle minds the most. She took them in her bosom and crooned sweet lullabies, and drifted, forever lovingly, upon the symphony of her creation.

Arise.

The earth shuddered–a shockwave which slapped against the atmosphere, ringing back, doubling and tripling in frenzy, rattling her mind. She froze. He had awoken. That could only mean one thing.

***

Skippii was exhausted by the time the legion finally encamped for the evening. Throwing down his shield in his companeight's spot, he fell down beside it and didn't budge until somebody kicked him awake an hour later.

"Skippii Altay." A gaunt-faced man looked down his nose at him. Bleary eyed, Skippii mistook him for Flexilus at first, but there was a more imperial manner to him. His white leather thorax was lacquered clean, his greaves polished bronze. Three brass bracelets were latched over his vambraces–medals earned in service. His hand rested on the pommel of a knife, but it was not quite the length of the superior's short-swords. Skippii checked for a white hem to his cloak–to see if he was of rank in the legion–but saw none.

"Get up," the man said. It was then that Skippii recognised his voice: Tonnage VI's second in command, the Octio, Spurius Altivus.

The Octio snapped his fingers, and a heap was thrown into Skippii's lap.

"Sharpen up," he said. "The Primus requires your presence."

In the sack were replacements for all the gear he had burned: his thorax, vambraces, sandals, tunic and cloak. It had all been pre-worn; the tunic was torn and re-stitched and the thorax contained a reddish scar along the shoulder seam, where dried blood had evaded the slave's brushes. But he was just grateful to have not had to pay for the replacements himself.

"Good luck," Orsin said as he rose for the Primus' tent.

"Should I accompany you?" Tenoris asked.

"Were you summoned?" Flexilus butted in.

"No, I was not. However-"

"Then stay here and make yourself useful," the old veteran snapped. "No wandering. We're on vigilance."

"Vigilance?" Skippii said. "The enemy are near?"

Flexilus nodded. "Command came while you were napping. The Ürkün are nipping at our heels." He waved a finger towards the trees surrounding their camp. Skippii could see that the palisade walls were late to be raised. The legion's auxiliaries must be occupied with skirmishing.

His eyes fell on the slave. Pointedly, Clidensis ignored his gaze, focusing on erecting their tent. Could he trust the slave to hold his tongue while he was away from the companeight? What if he blabbed, would the others believe him? Skippii had wanted to take him aside at the earliest opportunity for a quiet chat, but with the order for vigilance hanging over their shoulders, he might not get the chance at all tonight.

"It's alright." Kaesii patted his shoulder. "If we have to fight them again tonight, I'll stand by your side."

Drusilla snorted. "If you stand by his side, he'll have no room to breathe."

"Cheers," Skippii said, and made his leave quickly before he was roped into another argument between the two.

The massive camp was organised the same way at the end of each day: at the centre was the command district nested within their own palisade defences, stationing the elite First Cohort, artillery divisions, and Legion IX's Imperator and his staff. Arrayed like nine petals of a flower were the remaining nine cohorts. Each cohort contained six tonnages–units of eighty fighting men led by a Primus. At the edges of camp were pitched the legion's cavalry and beasts, protected by a palisade wall and deep ditch, which was dug each night by the auxiliaries. Beyond that, the auxiliaries pitched their tents in the wild–the first response if the enemy attacked.

Even though the faces and insignias were different, the camp's streets and grooves remained the same. Skippii had been raised amongst the honeycomb tents–like a city whose buildings, markets and walls disappear in the morning light, only to reappear when the sun sets. He knew his way instinctively to his Primus' tent at the head of Cohort II, Tonnage VI's row.

The walk was brief–too brief for Skippii to settle his heart and get his story straight. Custos Maritor waved him inside as soon as he was spotted. Broad shouldered and square-chinned, Maritor spoke and moved with a precision which exuded confidence. His quarters were decorated austerely with what furniture could be hauled by the legion's oxen.

"I have already heard the day's accounts told in rumours," he said with a light smile, handing him a mug of wine. "I would like to hear the truth from you now."

Dry mouthed, Skippii swallowed the wine and glanced at those in attendance. The Octio was there, glaring at him, and a scribe, ready to take his account.

"The arcanus?" Skippii said, wincing at the nervousness in his voice. "Where is she?"

"You must want to see her more than us, I understand," Custos Maritor said, taking a seat by a desk. "But she is busy. All the Pantheonos and the Coven are scouring the lands for more heretic magi. Mine and Spurius' company will have to do for now."

"Of course," Skippii sighed a breath of relief.

"But she will be with you before nightfall. I have made sure of that."

That stung. He may be able to warp the truth from his superiors, but how could he hide from one whose insight was shared with the very Gods? And what might the slave feel emboldened to say, if Skippii did not secure their vow of secrecy before the arcanus' arrival? All of his fears swirled in his gut–swelling in his skull. But outwardly, he nodded simply, and eased into his retelling of the day's events.

"That was very brave of you," Custos Maritor once he had finished. "A fine legionnaire."

Skippii straightened and held his Primus' eyes proudly.

"But don't wager your life so eagerly," his Primus continued. "You've only just got here. I need to make proper men out of you recruits. There's no point in you dying before we even catch sight of Nerithon."

"Yes, Primus," Skippii said.

"The road will become hard. The worst is yet to come. The Ürkün will do everything in their power to stop us from getting through these mountains to the plains before Nerithon. They know the passes, the sites of ambush. They know, as well as we, how dire the Fifth Legion's situation is. They'll try and stop us reuniting outside the city." Custos Maritor tilted his head at Skippii. "But will they stop us?"

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"No, Primus."

"No, not while ordinary legionnaires are killing their champions. Good work, Skippii Altay, and know that your valour will not go unrewarded. All in time. For now, you are dismissed, but stay vigilant."

"Glory Auctoria," Skippii saluted–fist raised beside his head as though throwing a javelin.

"Glory Auctoria," Maritor repeated stoically.

He arrived at his companeight's tent briskly and sought out the slave. Clidensis was helping to prepare a meal over a scant campfire. The legionnaires had not been allowed to collect much wood from the surrounding forests due to the vigilance command; they had to be prepared to form up and sally out at a moment's notice. Skippii's feet itched to take a walk in the secluded forests beyond their camp, if only to breathe the fresh evening air and gather his thoughts.

Resigning himself with a sigh, he sat beside Orsin and received a cob of bread and honey from the veteran. They shared no words, for Tenoris held the stage. The big legionnaire retold the tale of the day with rapturous enthusiasm.

"And so, Skippii said, it's just me and you, legionnaire. We must save this poor girl from the enemy's vile intent."

The campfire shone on Tenoris' youthful cheeks as he leaned over the flames, savouring the suspense. "Thwack!" he pounded his broad chest. "A dark shadow overcame me, and I was scattered against the floorboards. However, the heretic had not the guts nor strength to end my life, so he fled, and Skippii hastened after him."

A curious audience had gathered around their camp as legionnaires wandered over to listen in. Skippii bowed his head, not wanting to be seen. As Tenoris' performance went on, the only part he omitted–on account of not being there–was when he miraculously transformed into a fireball and immolated the enemy magus.

"Fires had claimed them both," Tenoris continued. "The heretic's magia was so accursed that it burned the very flesh of the wielder too."

At the mention of the heretic magus, Drusilla clenched and unclenched his fists–making a show of his forearm's knotted strength. His black hair bore veins of grey despite his young age. It reminded Skippii of granite on basalt. Beside him, Kaesii's hand drifted towards a charm of three brass columns around his neck and whispered a prayer.

The fifth recruit of their companeight, Fulmin, listened with a tortured expression. He had sat-out of the foray that day due to food poisoning. The companeight had faced their most hated enemy, and he had not been there to help. Skippii's heart ached for his companion, but he could not show it or try to ease Fulmin's pain–that would only injure his pride further.

"That is when I thrust my spear through his core, and ended his sorry life," Tenoris concluded.

Drusilla clapped slowly. "And that's when Kaesii finally took his head out of the farmer's honeypot and realised something was going on."

Kaesii scoffed. "I was no slower than you."

"You were fifteen paces behind," Drusilla pressed.

As their argument continued, Orsin shuffled beside Skippii. "Let me take a look at your shield."

The Ürkün's obsidian stone had lodged itself in the willow-core body. Orsin jabbed it with the butt of his dagger and the stone popped out. Carefully, using the blade of his dagger, he flicked it into a pouch, fastened it and set it aside.

"Patch job," he murmured. "Not worth a new shield. Hey, Fulmin, your father was a blacksmith, right?"

Fulmin picked his head up and nodded solemnly.

"Do you know anything about shields?"

He shrugged, combing his fingers through his short orange hair. "Not really."

"You hail from Vestia?" Kaesii asked.

"On the outskirts," Fulmin nodded.

"Why did you not mention earlier, brother?"

Fulmin shrugged again. "I grew up there, but it's not really a part of me. I always wanted to get out."

"Understandable," Drusilla said.

Kaesii seemed puzzled by the statement, but shook it off. "Which forge was yours?"

"Erymenes' Anvil."

Kaesii chuckled. "There's about twelve smithies that I know of named after Erymenes."

"I know," Fulmin said. "Naming things wasn't my father's strong-suit. Hence…" he pointed at himself. "Quintus."

"How many brothers?" Orsin asked.

Fulmin raised his eyebrows. "Four... All of them. I was to be a tradesman while my older brothers worked the forge. Contractor, set up deals." He grimaced, and a cynical smile cut through. "Didn't turn out that way though, did it."

"He didn't put you to work on the forge?"

"He tried," Fulmin said, rubbing his hand. A discoloured patch of pale flesh spread from thumb to wrist. "I wasn't any good. Whoever heard of a blacksmith who was afraid of fire?"

"Burn yourself?" Orsin asked.

Fulmin nodded, hiding his hand as though it brought him shame. "Pretty early on. If I was any good at smithing, I wouldn't be here, would I?"

Skippii frowned. Certainly, blacksmithing was a better paid job, but it was of utmost honour to be a legionnaire. Wasn't that the reason they were all here?

"You weren't anywhere this afternoon," Cur cawed, not looking up from his kettle.

Fulmin's lips twisted into a snarl and he rose to his feet. Skippii tensed–he'd seen brawls between legionnaires start over less. But then, the brawny recruit let out a sigh and turned his attention to Orsin. "Let me take a look at it."

"I reckon it's a patch job," Orsin said. "Bit of wood and glue. What do you think, Fulmin?"

The young legionnaire fingered the splintered wood. It marred the shield's insignia: a lightning bolt flanked by tidal waves–the symbol of Cohort II, which all legionnaires under its banner carried.

"Rivet a piece of iron here and wood glue the patch."

Skippii clicked his tongue. "Iron, not bronze?"

Fulmin shook his head. "Bronze is too brittle. It'd crack at the rivets after long. Waste of money."

"I don't have any iron. I can't afford it."

"Hold on," Orsin said, fetching his personal supplies from the tent. Fishing a large minted coin from his pouch, he measured it against the hole in Skipii's shield and grinned. "It's the right size."

Skippii laughed. "What, an eagle-eye? That's more expensive than the iron."

"And minted bronze is half as strong," Fulmin added.

"But ten times as lucky," Orsin said, jamming the coin in the breach, fitting it snugly in the centre of the wood. On the front of the coin was minted the column of Junirox, atop which sat a woman whose gown flowed over her feminine figure–the personification of the Imperium's capital: Vestia. "Fulmin, would you mind taking this to the armourer's apprentice. Don't come back until they've finished patching it up. Don't take no for an answer."

"Yes sir," Fulmin said, rising with the shield.

"No," Orsin chuckled, then raised his voice for all to hear. "No sir. It's Orsin. We're of equal rank."

"Call me sir all you want," said Cur.

"Sir Cur?" Kaesii scowled. "What sort of name is Cur anyway? It does not sound Auctorian at all."

"It's not his birth name." Orsin grinned. "It's his legion name. Can anyone guess what it stands for?"

Kaesii cupped his wide chin in thought. "Perhaps cursed?"

"Who the fuck you calling cursed?" Cur snapped, turning on him with the steaming ladle.

Kaesii froze and looked away, a nervous smile on his lips. But beside him, Drusilla bit his lip not to laugh.

"Something funny?" Cur snarled.

Drusilla shook his head, then his eyes widened. "Cur-" The big man broke out sputtering with laughter. "Curre-" he tried again, but crumbled into a fit. Kaesii frowned at him and slapped him on the back, but upon contact, the contagion spread, and the two of them went red-faced with laughter.

"What?" Orsin said. "It can't be that good."

"Current," Drusilla squeezed out. "Like a dried grape. Because he's so…" He drew his hand over his face. "Old."

The disgust on Cur's face was palpable, and Skippii burst out laughing. His bruised ribs ached, but he couldn't help himself. All the stress of the day was wrung from him like a dirty flannel.

"Get it off your chests, velvets," Cur said, stirring the kettle. "I'll remember this."

"Velvets? What do you mean?" asked Kaesii, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Clean cloaks."

"Clean cloaks?"

"Recruits!" Cur snapped. "Bloody fools."

As the laughter died down, Skippii looked around the faces of his companeight. In the two weeks they had been travelling together, this was the first time they had laughed freely like true companions. Suddenly, they didn't feel like such strangers to him, but the legionnaires whom he would spend the next months and years of their lives with.

That was, assuming the arcanus didn't discover a dark secret to the magia which possessed him. If only he could keep it a secret just long enough to discern its nature, he could decide for himself his fate without bringing dishonour to the legion.

Once more, his eyes drifted to the slave. Clidensis was watching him, but averted his gaze. He had not been laughing with the legionnaires. Skippii read the fear plain on his face. It was past time that he spoke with the slave in private, but still, the release from vigilance had not sounded. He must remain at his station for now.

"Alright, but what nickname are we giving this guy?" Drusilla thumbed Kaesii.

"Do I need one?" Kaesii said.

"Yeah. You've got a girl's name," Drusilla said bluntly.

"What women do you know who are called Kaesii Taurus, for I am named after Arctheros' own bullish steed, and my family all reign from noble Vestia."

"In Summitas, about half of them are called that."

"Well… the women in Summitas are all golems. You've got the ugliest women in all the Imperium."

Drusilla banged his fist on his shield. "How dare you-"

Just then, a trumpet rang out. Skippii's heart leapt and he held his breath. The note stretched out long and cool, echoed by each cohort's trumpeter throughout camp, signaling the end to their vigilance.

Rising hastily, Skippii fetched an axe from the mule's harness. "I think I'll fetch some firewood. Clidensis. Give me a hand, would you?"

The scrawny man froze and his eyes went wide, lingering on the axe in Skippii's hand. Swallowing, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Of course, legio. Lead the way."