Hespera pranced around the earth, glowing girlishly in the Chrysaetos' rays. She had danced for twenty-five days out of darkness, and came now close to her climax. Beneath her, the earth slept in shadow, shunned by the sun. But she was more generous than he, and her spirits lifted with each twirling night. Soon, all the realm would be aglow in her pearlescent aura.

She knew every secret… every sordid infidelity, every act of passion and love. Her moonlight made them wild–and most changed was humanity. No matter what sentience her sister, Oyaltun, had bestowed upon them, none were immune to the feverish spirit of her full-moon luminescence. Even the blighted lands lifted their skirts for her to see.

Her name was called a thousand times at once by mortals in throws of ecstasy, or wonderment, or waylaid by desperation and despair. But then a glint caught her attention–a gemstone reflection. Curiously, it reminded her of something long past, buried aeons ago. Focusing her glow, she gazed upon a campfire. But then a cold fog overcast the sky, forming a glittering barrier.

"Sister." Oyaltun swooned. "Look this way. You would never believe the debauchery. Four men and five women, and more wine than is seemly to drink. I have laced the threads of their thoughts, and now they come to delicately dine. Won't you come and see?"

It was Hespera's favourite sort of debauchery, and she could not resist. And her curiosity for the gem was quickly forgotten, but for an afterimage glare at the edges of her vast mind.

***

Skippii awoke early the next day and ventured outside into the crisp morning air. Dew clung to the grass like crystal-beaded fruit, but there was no evidence of the frost he had seen last night. Wrapping his cloak about, he ventured to the campfire and rebuilt it from last night's embers.

The legion's trumpets had yet to sound. Alone, he glanced at the surrounding camps. They were pitched ten metres away in a honeycomb structure, as large as hedgerows. From where he sat, there were no other legionnaires in sight, only a few slaves milling around on their morning duties.

Intrigue got the better of him. Pressing his palms into the earth, he invited the magia in. Like a warm breeze, it swept through his body, awakening stiff muscles. Stretching, he relished in the sensation as it eased his aching ribs.

The campfire at his feet spluttered and burst to life, sudden fires singing the damp in a plume of white smoke. Skippii breathed sharply as a thrill sprung in his chest. Vapour rose from his flesh as the heat escaped him. Clenching his fists, he tried to contain it, but it evaded him like wind through a net. In the air about him, a thin golden halo formed, almost imperceptible in the morning sunlight. And closing his eyes, he sensed it clearer within him–a ring of energy at his core.

He had sensed that core distinctly during his battle–it was not the source of the magia, but a vessel, as a vase is to wine. Tensing his abdomen, he felt the energy of the earth pool within his core. The mists about him lessened—less energy wasted in the air. So that was how it was controlled–he must grip it firmly like the reins of a horse.

Yet when he had awoken, he had felt overwhelmed–plunged into a lake of fire. Now, the magia came to him thinly. Perhaps it had receded, and would disappear altogether in time. Or perhaps he could learn to reach those depths of power with control. Could it indeed be a gift? What if he was truly meant for something greater? What were the limitations of a man who could so easily call upon the fire of the earth?

The tent stirred and Cur burst out. With a jolt, Skippii closed his hand. The ember extinguished, forming a thin vapour trail which rose towards the sky. Shivering closer to the fire, he wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and levelled his breathing.

"Sleep well?" he asked politely, stirring the pot of tea. The old legionnaire simply grunted in return. Skippii could have been ablaze from head to toe and Cur would hardly have noticed, or cared.

Just then, a tall figure approached their campfire. His hawkish nose stretched beneath the hood of a dark cloak. It took a moment for Skippii to recognise Arius. The veteran was frequently away from their companeight's camp. His dark-olive skin was in artful contrast to his white thorax, but he bore no legionnaire's cloak. In his hand was a slender spear, a single brass medallion adorned his wrist. It did not gleam as Orsin made his; almost, it looked like the metal had been intentionally dulled. Arius stared at him, silent and statuesque.

"Right on time, Arius," Cur said, not looking up from the campfire. "Have fun with the auxiliaries?"

Arius did not take his dark eyes off Skippii, and it took all his nerve to return the veteran's gaze. He possessed the intimidating aura of a man who had faced the violence of war and triumphed over his lessers–the sort of aura one didn't adopt merely by completing eight months of disciplina training.

"The Ürkün fight like wolves," he said finally. "It makes for good game. It sharpens my speed."

"Very good," Cur said plainly. "I sold your cloak to a whore while you were gone. She wanted it as a blanket. But it stunk, so I only got half price."

Arius smiled with his teeth. "But the fornicaria charge you double, so it must not have been cheap."

"Too right," Cur said. "Worth it though."

Just then, the first trumpeter sounded. His song swooned melodically, savouring his audience of thousands. As the call swept across camp, more trumpets joined the symphony, and the song became confused, discordant, even alarming–a gaggle of geese attempting to mimic a songbird.

A touch of blue graced the sky as each of his companions awoke to the morning call. Their camp's cook–a young slave named Pavlos Oionos–prepared oat cakes to accompany the bone broth which they had left stewing over the fire's embers overnight. The slaves took their smaller portions aside and ate with the mule while the legionnaires stretched around the campfire, warming their bodies for the march to come.

A second call was given. They all rose and took up their arms to the staging grounds. A field was kept empty at the camp's entrance for all the legion to gather within the palisade walls. Their companeight lined up in a row amongst nine other companeights, forming the eighty-strong force: Tonnage VI. Their tonnage's Primus–Custos Maritor–stood to attention beside the standard bearer and his staff.

Six tonnages arranged themselves in a rectangular formation to form Cohort II. There were many fresh, young faces amongst the legionnaires. Veterans made up the minority of their ranks–standing out like black sheep, cloaked in their grimness.

A long trumpet blew. The quiet attention of five-thousand men was palpable. At the head of the First Cohort was Legion IX's Imperator. His golden helmet shone like the sun, split down the centre by a purple crescent. His body was plated in immaculate silver. Blue veins ran through the embossed musculature, pulsating softly with energy. At his hip was a short blade–a weapon borne by all legion superiors instead of the spear. Its pommel was weighted with a simple marble sphere: a weapon intended to be used, not merely worn.

The Imperator's gaze crossed over the legion, then hung on Skippii. Suddenly, he felt starved for breath–his heart unable to beat. Could he read his secret so easily? Could anything escape those scrupulous eyes?

Skippii swallowed dryly, but as he blinked, the Imperator's gaze moved on. The supreme commander gazed down the long ranks of legionnaires, then he gave a signal, and their superiors turned to convene. Orders of the day were discussed–marching patterns, strategies and duties. In the meantime, each cohort's arcanus came forward to give a sermon to the legionnaires.

Kylinissa Clarivoxa paraded down Cohort II's formation, her voice light on the morning air.

"The new month marks the movement of the stars, and the concession of Kylin, Stormstress, in way of Lacustris the Rivermaster…"

His companions–all astral–hung on her oracle with reverence. Skippii merely waited, admiring the iron armour of his superiors and their fluttering standards, before it was his Primus' turn to address their tonnage.

"The legion is to split into three consortiums. We are to embark across the rough terrain with the Third and Fourth Cohorts. Accompanying us will be the siege detachment. Expect a slog. The journey will be three days through the hills. Nerithon should come into sight on the fourth morning. There, the Fifth Legion is waiting for us to arrive. The Ürkün have them surrounded. They're good legionnaires, in the Fifth. I served with them once. Strong men, veterans all. I've heard that they call us the velvet legion. They don't think you recruits are up to the task."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

A murmur rippled through their ranks.

"I say, in that, they're wrong," their Primus continued. "So don't drag your feet. Once we reach the plains on the opposite side of these mountains, the Ürkün will be drawn away from the Fifth. There, they will fight us. I say, it cannot come sooner."

"Aye," Drusilla said beside him, reflecting the sentiment of all nearby.

"Battle nears, so don't catch any sprains on the road. Any questions?"

The legionnaires were silent. Skippii straightened his spine pridefully.

"Our position is rear guard," Custos Maritor announced, unable to keep the roughness of displeasure from his voice. Skippii winced as a groan murmured through their tonnage. Maritor waited for it to pass before speaking again. "Suck it up boys, and strap your sandals on tight."

"Three days of slogging through mule shit," Cur complained an hour later as they marched through the camp's perimeter defences. The legion split into three columns, each a consortium of three cohorts, and spread into the hills. Skippii's consortium followed a forested trail heading downwards.

At its most narrow, the path could only fit three men abreast. But the decline was favourable for the siege division. Marching at the rear of the siege wagons, their trail was quickly churned to mud. The majority of the scorpio field artillery were dismantled, however each cart possessed one mounted on the rear, ready to be used defensively if the army had to entrench itself against an oncoming attack. Not particularly useful in the cramped forested terrain, but he had grown used to his superiors following their tactical doctrines without exemption.

Tonnage VI stretched thinly down the path. Behind them all, the impedimenta lingered in a disorganised fashion: traders, huntsmen and hangers-on, travelling at their own leisurely pace. Three children chased one another up and down the rear column, as energetic as spring lambs, giggling at the seriousness of the legionnaire's march while remaining just beyond the range of a quick slap. Skippii smiled at the fond memories which surfaced in his mind. How might his peers react if they saw him now, armoured and cloaked, a genuine legionnaire. Many had doubted he could make it, but where were they now?

There was a shout from the trees, and Skippii's head turned. Auxiliaries were scouting the higher ground on their flanks, picking through the forest, fanning out from the column. And at the top of the verge, concealed by the trees, a lone horseman cloaked in shadow.

"Why have we divided?" Tenoris asked, marching beside him. "Is this not unusual?"

"Not through mountains," Orsin said. "Three paths. Three ways that each favour different parts of the legion."

"And we get the bog-trail," Cur grumbled.

"Aren't we stronger as one?" Fulmin chimed. "Isn't that the whole point of a phalanx?"

Cur snorted. "One and-a-half centuries of men is still pretty bloody strong. "We'll be fine. There's a whole procedure you're forgetting, velvet. The auxiliaries and scouts and their dogs. We'll hear an ambush coming a mile away, if the chalkies are so bold to set one."

"Chalkies?" Fulmin asked. "The Ürkün?"

Cur turned with a wicked smile. "Chalk-skinned, aren't they?"

"Besides," Skippii said. "The legion would move too slowly on one path in the mountains. It would take all day to stretch out on a thin road like this. It would be nightfall before the rear guard ever left camp. The cavalry went into the mountains and most of the infantry went north. We'd have followed them too, if the siege engines could take that uphill trail."

"Masterfully observed, young Skippii," Cur said. "Next I need orders, I'll ask you first, and wait for the Primus to repeat them."

Skippii's ribs ached as they headed up a short incline into the hills. His legs stiffened quicker than usual–the remnants of yesterday's fatigue. The temptation to draw upon magia from the ground rose within him, but he pushed it down. The energy might relieve his pains, but it might also set him ablaze. Now was not the time to experiment and find out.

By afternoon, they declined to a stream's ford. As the cold waters splashed against his calves, he gazed down the stream's length. Horsemen watered their steeds at a distance on the streambank, adorned in the white cloaks of the Nodreos tribe. Masters of the land, the Nodreos had avoided extinction at the hands of the Ürkün by retreating into these mountains, and now they aided the legions in pursuit of revenge.

Yet something troubled Skippii. His neck prickled as he glanced down the stream at the Nodreos tribesmen, one of whom glanced back, face hidden beneath a dark hood.

"Whoa." Kaesii, marching behind him, bumped him with his shield. "Pick it up, Skip."

"You're not lagging already?" Orsin chided over his shoulder. "Come on, I won't be happy if we're the last cohort to foothills."

"But we're gonna be," Drusilla said. "It'll take days for them to drag the artillery."

"We're taking the easiest route," Skippii said. "I'd rather walk six hours through these valleys than four through the mountains."

"We'll be the last," Cur grumbled. "And they'll blame us for it."

"How do you know?" Skippi said.

"Logistics."

"Logistics? Have you seen the maps?"

"Experience, kid." And that was the last anyone got out of the old man all day.

***

The sky darkened as they made camp in a wide valley. For the price of treading the hardest path caked in mud and mule droppings, Skippii and his tonnage avoided the most laborious of camp duties: the trenches were already dug by the vanguard, palisades hammered into place, firewood gathered, and any obstructive brush burned and whacked into submission. When their companeight found their turf, they only had to set up their tent and unpack their supplies from the mule before settling in for the night.

Skippii glanced beyond the palisade at the thin cliff-side forests. Their camp was more compact than usual, with little space to roam. Figures moved in the shadows–likely the legion's auxiliaries–but he couldn't know for sure unless he were close. However, he would risk it. He could not put his task off any longer.

"I saw a cacadre bush by the roadside," he said, rising from the campfire. "It's a good stimulant. Think I'll go and pick some."

"Would you like some help?" Cliae asked.

Skippii hesitated, then nodded.

Tenoris looked up from kneading the soles of his big feet. "Be careful, Skip. I sense that the enemy are near."

Venturing from the palisade walls, he and Cliae walked in a companionable silence. Skippii led the slave to the cacardé bush and instructed them which leaves to harvest. While the work was done, he brought his mind to the earth. A single breath brought the heat to his heart. A halo of golden light shone around it. Clenching his fists, Skippii fought to contain the magia. Opening his eyes, he saw an ember form in his palm. Then, as sudden as breath upon tinder, it burst to life. Flames shone through his fingers, thick and red.

"Erymenes," Cliae gasped. "Your hands."

Skippii's heart raced with excitement. Suddenly, all sense of trepidation burned away. Raising his fist before his face, he opened his hand slowly. A smokeless flame burned bright, then vanished as it was exposed to the air.

He stood, shaking with pleasure, and raised his face to the heavens. With a deep breath, he let the magia go. It streamed off him as vapour, turning his flesh a scalded red. A smile spread across his face. "Is that the sort of control you were talking about, Cliae?"

"You can invoke it so willfully?"

Skippii nodded.

"Then perhaps a better term would be evoke."

"Why is that?"

"Because it is yours. And you feel no anger? No persuasion?"

"None." Skippii flexed and massaged his fingers. The hairs on his wrists had singed, but his flesh was unmarred. How could that be? He wondered, were he to stick his hand inside a campfire, would he be burned? Or was all flame now an aspect of his?

Cliae stepped closer, a glint in their eye. "If we were to begin developing an ordinatio of your evocations, perhaps a suitable name for this one would be Blazing Fist."

"A name?" Skippii said. "Why is that useful?"

"It helps a magus keep separate his invocations, and forge them into sharper tools. You see, most magia is like metallurgy, or maths. Its basic form is chaotic and rather unwieldy, but as soon as you begin to break it into pieces and understand its composition, then you can create new things from it, and build more extraordinary structures. Magus have been doing so ever since the Aetas Arcanum. Most people just see the end result: the great winds and fires and springing crops, but really, there's a more delicate system to it than that, underlying it all."

Skippii considered it. "What else do you think I could do? Could I evocate?"

"That's not for me to answer," Cliae said. "But, I will help you find the answers. My father… he practiced a system called ordinatio. It's when a magus transcribes their abilities into a set written form–a formula of sorts."

"Not now," he sighed. "We should return. If we're away for too long, someone might get suspicious."

"When do you think…" Cliae trailed off.

"When will I reveal this to others?" Skippii guessed. "To the companeight. To an arcanus?"

He contemplated it during their journey back to the consortium's camp.

"The arcanus will demand answers," Skippii said as they passed the palisade walls. "And I don't have them. Not those which would satisfy more than a slave."

"And the legionnaires?"

"Soon." Skippii chewed his lip. Could he trust any of them? Tenoris was friendly, but he was devoted to the pantheon. Weren't they, to some degree? Few had acted fondly to discover that he was astray. What about the veterans of their group? How willing would they be to risk their hides for a velvet like him? How swiftly would they demand he be stripped of his cloak if they had the slightest suspicion that he was a heretic? And so soon after he earned it… It seemed like only yesterday that he had first fastened it with his mother's broach about his chest.

"But not tonight," Skippii said, and knew it was wrong, but could not help himself. "I think I can control it now. I think it has lessened somewhat."

"No more outbursts?" Cliae asked.

"No. I don't think so." But the waver in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.