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B3 Chapter 35: Cleaning House

B3 Chapter 35: Cleaning House

Tiberius resisted the urge to shift on his throne. It was astonishingly uncomfortable. Not for lack of trying—the regal seat was positively piled with padding and elaborately stitched cushions that made him feel as though he were sinking into a cloud.

But the sheer amount of the stuff was so excessive that it wrapped right back around to being problematic. It made him worry that he wouldn't be able to navigate to his feet when he needed to stand. Not to mention that the decadence itself filled him with a deep discomfort.

The irony was not lost on Tiberius. But still, it was a throne.

He shifted atop the mountain of pillows and considered how far he'd come. This was a position he'd never thought to be in, though it would be lying to say that he’d never seriously considered the possibility. Even before arriving in this world, the thought had crossed his mind. Not that he’d had the political capital to act on it. Not quite.

If things had gone to shit back in Rome, perhaps it would have come to that. But here in Novara, he had no such moral qualms. The throne was all too easy for him to take.

To either side of the hall stood a combination of Legion officers and the Novaran nobles that had chosen to swear fealty to Rome. Before him knelt a sweaty, balding man decked out in all manner of finery and rich clothes. Legionnaire guards flanked him on either side. His face was contorted in impotent rage as they locked on Tiberius—or rather, the throne that Tiberius sat upon.

“Gerald Antinori,” Gaius began, reading off a long scroll. “You are charged with the following crimes: Embezzlement of kingdom funds, conspiring against the noble houses, wrongful stripping of noble titles, unjust imprisonment…”

The list went on and on. The charges were honestly rather irrelevant. The fact that he’d stood against Rome was enough to damn this man to death. Yet there were ways to go about such things. And after speaking with the Duke of Redcliffe and a number of the other nobles, it was agreed that this approach would do much to satisfy the populace.

Gaius finished the list of charges before stepping forward. “What have you to say in your defense?”

“You people are insane,” the deposed Novaran king spat. “You think you can take this country from me? Me? I am the king!”

The man continued to ramble for a minute longer before Tiberius had heard enough. He motioned for silence. When the kneeling man didn’t comply, one of the guards struck him upside the head. That shut his mouth immediately as he whimpered in pain.

Gaius turned to Tiberius. “Emperor? What is your verdict?”

“Guilty.” He spoke without hesitation, the “trial” a mere formality. “I sentence him to death.”

His young Legatus nodded. With a few more words, the doors of the hall swung open and the people inside began filtering out. Tiberius waited for them to leave before following suit—seeing one’s emperor struggle to rise from his throne wouldn’t exactly be the greatest for his image.

They reconvened at a platform that had been erected in front of the castle. A massive crowd of Novarans gathered before it, many jeering and throwing stones or rotten fruit at their former ruler.

Gerald was forced to his knees atop the platform, where Quintus and a few contuberniums of Legionnaires waited. More stood guard at the platform’s base to ensure the crowd didn’t try anything. But given their disposition? He supposed he should be more worried about them trying to kill the former king themselves rather than the Romans.

The man’s rage slowly turned to fear as the reality of his situation set in. Gerald’s wide eyes darted back and forth as he began to blubber and beg for mercy.

Of course, his pleas fell on deaf ears. If he wanted mercy, then he should have done the honorable thing and committed suicide before his trial—though he admittedly hadn’t been given much time to do so. Though from what Tiberius knew of the man, he honestly hadn’t expected that.

Besides, this really was a mercy. The man’s standing as nobility meant that Tiberius wouldn’t crucify him or subject him to any other shameful method of execution. Instead, a simple beheading would do.

At Tiberius’s order, Quintus raised his gladius up high and swung. It arced downward in a flash, neatly parting the king’s head from his body.

The Legionnaires flashed with blinding gold and white light, turning the crowd’s shouts of approval into cries of surprise. But they weren’t the only ones to undergo a change. Tiberius, too, felt something shift. Something different from before.

He hid a smile. Perhaps his next visit to a class stone wouldn’t be so disappointing after all.

Yet as much as he longed to immediately go and investigate the changes, he restrained himself. There was more work to be done.

After concluding the public execution, Tiberius returned to the castle to do just that. Rather than the throne room, however he instead chose to utilize one of the adjacent rooms for his purposes. The decor remained opulent, but at least it had a more functional chair than that gods-forsaken throne.

A Legionnaire appeared before him, saluting smartly. “Emperor. The men have finished clearing the castle. The remaining staff, nobles, and other individuals we found have been rounded up and imprisoned for the time being.”

Tiberius nodded. “Good. I will see to their fates.”

Given that these people had been ostensibly on the side of the former king, that meant they had stood against the Legion. But what exact form their punishment took would vary. 

“Additionaly,” the man continued, “We found prisoners in the dungeon. Many of them. Most are criminals, but many claim to be advisers, nobles, guard captains, and others whose only crime was offending the king. What would you have us do with them?”

He leaned back in his chair and thought. It would be simple to leave them to rot. But if there were as many as the man claimed, then perhaps it would do them good to clear out some of the space. And if they had gotten themselves locked away due to disobeying the king… perhaps their allegiances could be swayed.

He came to a decision. "Interview each of them to determine their abilities, skill sets, and loyalties. I may have use for some of them.”

Simply throwing away assets, especially ones that were well versed in the management of Novara, would be a monumental waste. Not that he expected to keep all of these people around. There were certain to be some whose incompetence had aided in bringing the kingdom to its current state, and others that wouldn't hesitate to betray Rome. But perhaps some would prove salvageable.

“... Include Marcus in the interviews,” Tiberius continued after a moment of thought. The bard's ability to read people might come in handy in a situation such as this. Not to mention that he might be familiar with some of the imprisoned court members.

"Yes, sir." The Legionnaire saluted. But rather then running off to do as he was bid, the man hesitated as though he had more to say. Tiberius raised an eyebrow. 

“There is one more matter, emperor,” the man admitted. “That of the royal family. Specifically, the former king’s daughters…”

***

“So, the emperor requested my assistance in working with the prisoners?” Marcus clarified with the Legionnaire leading him. 

“That's right.”

“Then wouldn't it make more sense for us to make our way to the dungeons?” Marcus gestured behind them. “If I recall correctly, they were located in that direction. Unless you lot have already done some quite impressive restructuring.”

The Legionnaire chuckled. “No, nothing that major. Not yet, at least. As it turns out, there are a few prisoners located elsewhere.”

Marcus frowned. While it was true that there were a few more comfortable accommodations for noble prisoners in the towers, the fact that they would start with those surprised him. Surely Tiberius would be more interested in the functionaries and other officials that were directly responsible for the day-to-day operations of the kingdom.

They began heading up a set of winding stairs, making idle talk as they moved. Marcus had spoken with this particular Legionnaire a number of times and found him to be a rather pleasant fellow—considerably more laid back and agreeable than the majority of his brethren. He wouldn't have called them friends by any means, but Marcus had found himself by this man's campfire or drinking alongside his contubernium a disproportionate number of times. His appreciation for music certainly helped as well.

“All right,” the Legionnaire said as the end of the latest staircase came into sight. “Looks like we're just about here.”

Marcus’s brow furrowed more deeply. A glance out a nearby window confirmed that this was the top of the tower they'd been climbing—though the exertion had tired him less than expected. Who could be so important as to justify imprisonment here? 

The Legionnaire fished a key out of his pouch. “So for these two, we mostly just want you to help verify their identities. The others will be a bit more complicated, since the emperor wants to know how likely they are to betray Rome. But the guys and I thought it best to start off simple.”

“You still haven't told me whose identity I'll be verifying,” Marcus pointed out. 

The other man grinned. “Well… these two claim to be princesses.”

Marcus felt his heart stop as the soldier rapped on the door. The world around him seemed to slow to a crawl as it was thrown open.

A pair of two identical women occupied a table at the center of the chamber, both of them primly picking away at plates of food. Although merely calling them “women” was as insufficient as calling the radiant form of a phoenix a simple bird.

Hair of finely spun gold fell down their backs in waterfalls, with a few resplendent strands braided into circlets that crowned their heads. Fine features that the greatest of artists would only dream of putting to paper characterized their perfect skin. They sat with regal poise befitting of their stations, the very picture of class. 

It was a level of beauty that inspired men to compose their greatest works. Him included.

Their eyes rose to meet his as the door opened, then widened further in shock. Both women shot to their feet.

"Marcus!" they exclaimed in the eerie unison they often spoke in. "You're alive!”

The twin princesses rushed toward him, their food forgotten in an instant. It was at that point that he noticed their physiques. Neither princess had the gaunt or slightly withered look about them that one might expect from a prisoner, even ones as well treated as them. Instead, they looked more radiant than ever. In fact, it seemed that they’d actually gained a bit of weight. Especially in the belly area.

Both princesses wrapped about him in a crushing hug as Marcus fixed a broad grin to his face. For once, he was caught entirely off balance. But there was no way he’d let them see that. Or the Legionnaire that was currently grinning with obvious amusement.

“Well,” Marcus managed past his constricted ribcage. “You found the princesses, all right.”

B3 Chapter 34: Everyone Loves a Good Execution

B3 Chapter 34: Everyone Loves a Good Execution

The rocky expanse of Grund's home came into view as the orcs barreled down the pass like an avalanche. Their numbers were smaller than when they'd set out—significantly so. But that was no problem. If anything, it just made his current task a modicum easier. 

“For honor!”

“Death to the Tulok Clan!”

“Kill them and take their shinies!”

Grund just sighed. He ran alongside the rest of his considerably less intelligent brethren, occasionally reminding them of their current goal and destination so they didn't get off track. After all, getting an orc to retreat was an exercise in futility. Getting one to seek out a different battlefield? Far more doable.

Every once in a while, he'd get resistance. An orc scowling at him and demanding why such a “puny wimp” should be listened to. Those were met with swift violence. Given that they'd lost not only Thak, but most of the other clan leaders and true terrors of their kind in the assault? Grund now held the title of strongest, and not by a small margin.

This had a number of consequences. For one, the lack of other leaders made herding the orc horde even more frustrating than usual. It was like herding… well, he didn’t actually know of anything more annoying to herd than a bunch of orcs. 

The green wave descended upon the unsuspecting Tulok clan a short while later. They were a relatively small bunch, more inclined toward the hunting of beasts to feed the clans rather than actual war. However, they were far from the only ones—and the weakest of the lot. Sacrificing them to get his people home was an acceptable loss. Though Grund would certainly miss their recipe for roasted rockrat.

As the village burned around them, the orcs hooted in victory. The battle lust slowly began to subside now that their aim had been achieved. Grund found a nearby rock to sit on, already working to plan out his next moves. But not even a minute passed before a green musclehead with disproportionately sized tusks swaggered up to him.

“Grund of Clan Gormash!” The brawny figure roared. “I am Glob’guul of Clan Matok! You are a coward and a weakling! I challenge you!”

Grund just stared at the idiot before him and sighed. This was… not his preferred way to go about things. Leading this way was exhausting. Everyone wanted to challenge him, either because they saw him as weak or because they wanted to test themselves. 

It was quite annoying. Having his brother deal with all this had been so much easier.

Reluctantly, Grund hauled himself back to his feet. The one named Glob took that as acceptance of his challenge, hefting his axe and roaring as he charged forward. Glob swung his axe horizontally to cleave at Grund’s waist. The scrawnier orc leaned back slightly, feeling the axe head whistle harmlessly past his stomach. Then his hands darted forward.

[Expert Grappling] and [Precise Grip] activated as he seized the orc’s throat and wrist with pinpoint accuracy. At the same time, he flicked a foot up at his kneecap, crushing it. Glob howled as the limb gave way beneath him. Grund took advantage of the momentum to spin and slam the other orc’s body into the ground, his [Wrestling Savant] title making the move even more powerful. A ring of dust exploded into the air as Grund slammed the orc into the ground.

People thought that because he didn’t like to fight, he couldn’t fight. But that was a misconception. Few orcs managed to survive without being able to hold their own in battle. And while his late brother had been admittedly more capable in some areas, that certainly didn’t mean that Grund was an easy opponent. His size meant that he was less muscle-bound than his brethren, more able to move quickly and react.

Grund set his feet and lifted Glob up by his throat, holding him off the ground with one hand. His other ripped the orc’s axe away and tossed it aside. Grund forced down the [Battle Lust] that clouded his judgement as he turned to face the crowd of spectators, squeezing to cut the vainly struggling Glob’s oxygen off.

“Look at this fool!” Grund shouted to the others. He spun in place to ensure all could see his latest challenger. “This pathetic little worm thought he could challenge me! Grund of Clan Gormash! Pathetic—see how low and weak you truly are!”

The others stared in awe. As much as Grund would have liked to believe it was due to his speech or the clear skill had displayed in his counterattack… he knew better. It was because he was holding the rather large-looking orc up with one arm.

That showed he was strong.

It wasn’t anything special. He was still an orc, after all, Most of them certainly could have done the same. But this was about the showmanship of the thing. The theater.

Of course, they didn’t have to know that it wasn’t really strength he was using. [Brutal Demise] worked best with an audience and scaled off his charisma and intelligence instead. But that was beside the point. It gave him the appearance of strength, and that was what mattered.

As he continued to choke Glob out, Grund reached up with his free hand to grab the orc’s topknot. He wrenched it back and began to pull. Glob tried to scream, his legs kicking frantically, but couldn’t get enough air to manage more than a pained wheeze. There was a sickening sound of wet tearing and popping as Grund slowly ripped the orc’s head from his body.

The others hooted and roared with approval at the gruesome display. At this point, the entirety of their remaining forces had gathered to watch as Grund dropped the orc’s head and kicked it away, letting the remainder of the corpse fall to the ground. He allowed the noise to die down slightly before shouting over them.

“The next challenger will not receive any such mercies from me! Now come! We go to prepare for battle!”

A roar of approval punctuated his words as he began herding the orcs once again, this time back home. Between Grund’s display, the fading [Battle Lust] and the successful destruction of the Tulok clan, his kin proved a bit easier to manipulate. At least, for now. He had no doubts that they’d forget about all this within a day or two. Then, Grund would be challenged again and have to make another example.

As they ran through the remains of the village, Grund made sure to take them past the rough monolith of black stone that occupied its center. Each orc slapped a hand on it as they passed, flashing gold as they gained whatever levels they had earned throughout this campaign. They visibly swelled in size as their muscles grew to match their new stats. Given that orcs gained experience simply through fighting, he was certain that this group had quickly rocketed to the top of the hierarchy for their clans.

He did the same, not sparing more than a cursory glance at his stat sheet. His stat points were automatically assigned, and he didn’t exactly have a lot of choice when it came to skills, either. But he did notice that he’d earned a new title. Something to look into later.

It didn’t take long before they reached the heart of orcish territory. The others began to split off, streaming toward their own villages and settlements to establish their newfound dominance. Grund let them go. They would be back soon enough—and with more reinforcements as well. Besides, he had matters of his own to tend to.

As the last of the orcs dispersed, Grund changed directions. He began heading toward a more barren section of wilderness, one dotted with stones like jagged teeth instead of huts and campfires. One that the orcs seemed to avoid, though they didn’t understand why.

He used the growing feeling of unease as a guide, pressing further and further into the rocky terrain. Eventually, he rounded a final formation of razor sharp rocks and found what he was looking for. A small tent of stretched hide. Its sides were decorated with colorful depictions of foxes and wolves, as well as a few familiar green figures—though these were not warriors in the heat of battle as one might expect. Instead, they wore robes and carried intricately carved staves as they led armies forth.

The flap opened as Grund stepped forward. A wizened orc female stepped out, her back bowed and her long hair as gray as thunderclouds. Her stooped stature made her look no larger than a goblin. Large wooden disks stretched her earlobes to impossible sizes, while her yellowed tusks were broken and chipped.

She was older than any orc Grund had ever known. Far older. Of course, orcs weren’t exactly known for having the longest of lifespans in the first place. But he’d always gotten the sense that this woman had seen far more years than her race would imply.

She hobbled forward, leaning on a staff of her own. Strings of bone beads clattered with the movement. Grund dropped to one knee. “Elder Onya.”

“Grund.” Elder Onya’s voice was phlegmy and thin. “Morgranth has seen your works, child. You have done well.”

He bowed his head a little deeper. “Thank you, elder. I could not have done it without his wisdom. Or yours.”

A dry chuckle like dry sticks rattling together escaped the woman. “Do not thank me, child. Your blessings are a result of your devotion and works in Morgranth’s name. May the day come where his long-forgotten teachings see the light once more.”

Grund echoed the sentiment as racking coughs sent Elder Onya into a spasm. She thumped her chest, and with one final wheeze, she spat an oddly shaped stone into her palm.

The old woman grunted. “It seems Morgranth has seen fit to bless you once more. Here, child. Take it.”

With that, she thrust the stone into Grund's chest. He accepted the item, heedless of the spittle and phlegm that still coated it. 

A fist-sized oval the color of yellowed bone sat in his palm. It was carved in the image of a sleeping fox curled into a ball, its tail tucked beneath its chin. All across its back were carved intricate runes that Grund could not begin to decipher. Flipping it over, he saw that the feet and legs of the fox clung tightly to an axe hidden beneath.

Given the thing’s size, it was no wonder the woman had sounded like she was choking. Grund honestly wasn't certain how she'd managed to avoid choking in the first place. Then again, who was he to question a god?

“Use it well,” she said simply. Then, the ancient orc hobbled back to her tent.

Grund stood there for a moment longer, simply staring at the item. His hand buzzed with the divine power held within. Slowly, a smile stretched across his face. This was a great blessing indeed. 

He pulled a piece of twine from his pocket. With a few deft motions of his fingers, Grund securely knotted the cord around the stone and hung it around his neck. Then, he turned to leave. There was much to do before the next assault, after all. And he wanted to be certain that his armies were even greater than those Thak had managed to pull together.

B3 Chapter 33: In a Flash

B3 Chapter 33: In a Flash

Marcus was, but usually one to take cheap shots. Of course, he'd sung his share of crude and bawdy drinking songs with lyrics simple enough that a borderline catatonic man could follow along. But when it came to original compositions? He preferred subtlety and a layering of meaning that demanded conscious dissection to be fully appreciated.

But Tiberius had asked him to be provocative, and, well… perhaps he wasn't feeling particularly charitable after nearly dying.

The response wasn't immediate, but that was only to be expected. The king himself obviously wouldn't be standing on the battlements to listen. But the series of pale-faced guards that disappeared and began running toward the castle proper made it clear that he'd hear of it soon.

In the meantime, Marcus enjoyed the mixture of open horror and amused laughter he could feel on the walls. It became all too clear which of the defenders were there out of loyalty to Novara and which were simply seeking a payday—one that perhaps was becoming less worthwhile, considering the occasional dissatisfaction and bitterness that laced the laughs.

He reached the second chorus before the king heard of his performance. How did he know? Well, the scream of incoherent rage that reverberated off the castle walls was a fairly good indicator.

It was almost the end of the song when the defenders acted—evidently, he'd done a good enough job at being provocative that they weren't willing to wait just a few seconds more. A bit rude, but he couldn't entirely fault them.

All along the wall, individuals lit up with myriad colors and raised their weapons. A barrage of ranged skills—arrows, spells, spears, even beams of solid light—sliced through the air from every angle, all headed directly towards him.

It took every ounce of Marcus's will to keep from flinching away from the assault. Not that he expected it to do any good. At least some of those projectiles had to have homing properties, and he very much doubted his ability to outrun the radius of one [Exploding Fireball], much less the three that appeared to be hurtling toward him. Thankfully, he didn't have to. 

The Legionnaires sprang into action, snapping into place around him in one massive shell of shields. The world went dark as he heard the assault hammer into the men's defenses like a demented hailstorm. Yet the men didn't do so much as budge. Then, he heard something else. Muffled shouts and screams.

Marcus sang another [Inspirational Song] just to bolster the Legionnaires further. His previous one had obviously doubled as a preemptive buff to the men, but it never hurt to go the extra mile. Especially not when it was his own hide on the line as well.

Yet internally, he swore. As grateful as he was to be safe, he hadn't really considered his own viewpoint on the battle. He couldn't see a thing from in here.

Without much else to do, Marcus tried to peer through the wall of shields, wondering how exactly the battlefield looked. 

***

Tiberius had to admit, the man certainly knew how to piss people off, in a useful way. He doubted that even the Legion’s specialized [Taunt] and enemy redirection members would have this much success at baiting out an enemy.

The attacks came in from all sides, screaming toward the purple-cloaked performer before he disappeared beneath a solid mass of shields. They struck as an avalanche, each stopping bare inches away from the black and gold rectangles layered like the scales of a fish. Yet rather than clatter uselessly to the ground or simply disperse, the enemy’s eyes widened as their own attacks were reflected right back toward them.

Some of the more quick-witted fighters stationed on the walls ducked or dodged out of the way of the incoming projectiles. Others blocked or saw the attacks swatted out of the way by their neighbors. But most of them were not so lucky.

The ranged fighters were sent into a state of disarray. Cries of pain carried across the battlefield as archers found themselves turned to pincushions by their own arrows, and mages froze solid from beams of ice. And that was before the more explosive projectiles began to land, engulfing entire sections of the wall in gouts of flame and sending others flying off the wall from bursts of force.

Tiberius smiled grimly. They’d done a fair amount of testing to ensure that the defensive turtle formation specialists could integrate seamlessly with those utilizing damage redirection and reflection abilities. Still, seeing the fruits of their labors truly was satisfying. The defenders on the wall hadn’t been the most organized of forces before. But now? They were sent scrambling to recover from their own assault.

The Legion didn’t hesitate to capitalize on the opportunity.

Groups of half-mages stepped out from behind the barricades, finishing their incantations. Tiberius saw rolls of paper burn to ash as a series of tornadoes whirled into existence up all along the wall. The already off-balance Novarans were sucked off their feet and into the gales as the elven archers stood and fired arrows after them, turning the swirling wind into razor-filled cones of death.

He heard Grand Mage Claude shout something to the apprentices behind him, though Tiberius couldn’t quite make out what it was. Likely something about the scale or effectiveness of the spells. The man’s interest in this particular tactic was purely academic, of course, as the man still bizarrely refused to involve himself directly in any combat. But that didn’t keep him from using the Legionnaires to test certain things. When their interests aligned.

Within moments, the walls that had once been filled with defenders and royal guards were reduced to a shadow of their former selves. The tornadoes turned red with blood and gristle as Legionnaires hurled exploding spears and sling stones into the mix, along with whatever else they could use to make the Novarans’ lives miserable and short. The ones that managed to escape were rewarded with a hail of focused fire from elven and human Legionnaires alike, or simply charged by the Legionnaires that lay in wait on the ground below. Any that still remained had to face the all-out firing of siege weaponry as it battered the tops of the walls, which were holding up far better than the humans standing on it.

Of course, the assault didn’t manage to completely eradicate the enemy. Several higher-leveled individuals not only managed to weather the initial attack but also kept their footing and avoided the follow-up assault as well. Tiberius saw the bare-fisted [Berzerker] woman leap down to charge a contingent of Legionnaires as the old swordsman sliced one of the hurricanes clean in half, causing it to sputter and disperse. The long-haired [Force Mage] lazily glided above it all, attacks pinging harmlessly off an unseen shield.

A net of shimmering metal shot into the air and wrapped around the mage’s invisible bubble. Purple sparks sputtered where the net met the force field, cutting into its surface as it tightened. The mage’s eyes widened, and he let out a small yelp as he and the net were forcibly dragged back down to earth—right into the waiting arms of mage-killers.

Across the battlefield, the scene repeated itself as contuberniums of specialists took the field to focus down more powerful foes. The [Breathing] specialists swept forth to meet the swordsman in combat, their flowing attacks meeting his blade in a dance of narrowly-avoided death. The damage-reflection specialists split off from the defensive formation to charge the [Berserker] as their initial role was completed. All around the wall, clusters of Legionnaires swarmed adventurers like vengeful ants, each one supported by centuries of elven and human Legionnaires as they made quick work of the other defenders.

The enemy fought well—at least, those that survived up until this point. But in the end, they proved no match. Tiberius watched on with satisfaction as their plan took shape, ruthlessly cutting down the last of Novara’s defenses. He’d honestly expected them to do a bit better, considering their not insignificant numbers. But perhaps it made sense.

These people were clearly not experienced at fighting as large groups. Even if they organized as parties, the coordination between those parties left much to be desired. So, when faced with superior coordination? It was easy to divide and conquer. Now, they were just fodder.

As the mass of defenders thinned and began to retreat, Tiberius turned to Gaius and Sylendor. “Order the men to advance.”

His two Legatuses nodded and relayed the command. The Legionnaires began to pull together near the destroyed castle gate; the defenders who had been guarding it long since pulled away from their task. They began marching forward, leaving the line the now-deceased [Force Mage] had left in the ground behind them as they marched on.

Tiberius glanced over to see Marcus emerge from the protective formation like a purple chick from an egg. He blinked, looking around with a mixture of awe and slight horror at the battlefield around him.

***

By the time Marcus could see the battle, it was already over.

The Legionnaires protecting him parted just enough to see a few final wisps of howling wind disappear into the sky—the last of the tornadoes he'd glimpsed when some of the Legionnaires split from the formation. The opposing forces looked as though they'd simply disappeared into thin air, though the mysterious patches of red that splattered the ground and walls in places told a much more gruesome story.

The men headed for the castle entrance, reconvening in formation and leading the way. He stepped to the side as more followed along behind them, swarming through the hole to finish their conquest. Elven archers soon replaced the adventurers and guards who had manned the walls just minutes before. Finally, it seemed, Novara would be theirs.

“Well, that certainly worked out.”

Marcus looked over to see Gaius approaching. The man relayed a few orders to one of his aides before waving him off and stepping beside the bard.

“Indeed,” Marcus replied, arching an eyebrow. “Though  I’m surprised that you have time to talk. Don’t you have additional duties to tend to, Legatus?"

Gaius’s eye twitched slightly, a barely perceptible reaction that piqued Marcus’s interest greatly. But rather than acknowledge it, Gaius simply shook his head. “Not as much as you would think. Most of the men already have their orders. Besides, the battle is all but over. All that’s left now is to finish the job and count our losses.

The two men looked at the castle before them. While Marcus had felt a number of Legionnaire deaths, the number was small enough that he’d been able to actually count them. Evidently, the planning and preparation they’d done had paid off in spades, especially considering how poorly this all could have gone.

Yet Gaius seemed dissatisfied. After a moment of quiet, Marcus called him out on it.

The young Legatus scratched his cheek. “Truthfully, I’m almost a bit disappointed. I was hoping that the miners’ work would bear fruit.”

Marcus shook the man’s shoulder. “It was a good plan.”

“It was, sure. But I don’t look forward to telling them that they’ll need to refill the tunnels they just spent so much time making.” He shook his head. “I thought that the plan was a great improvement over my actions in the last battle, and yet… It seems that I’ve fallen short once again.”

“Fallen short?” Marcus queried.

“Of expectations. The emperor’s, to be specific.” Gaius explained.

“I wouldn’t say that. Emperor Tiberius clearly approves of you. He wouldn’t have given you his Legion otherwise.”

Gaius hummed thoughtfully. “I wonder about that.”

Marcus waited for him to elaborate, but none came. Yet he understood the Legionnaire’s point. Tiberius had been extremely independent of his own emperor, a necessary consequence of the man being who knows how many universes away. And the emperor was quite understandably respected by his people. The elves borderline worshipped the man. But at the same time, Marcus had gotten the impression that a Legatus was practically a god to their men while they were on campaign.

Perhaps the feelings of inadequacy would fade as Gaius settled more into his role. He just needed to earn the men’s respect.

He clapped Gaius on the shoulder. “Well, I suppose you’ll find yourself with more opportunities sooner than you’d think. Now that Rome has a proper kingdom to rule, I imagine you’re going to be a lot busier.”

“I suppose you’re right about that,” the young Legatus chuckled. “Especially given that we have more to do.”

“Oh?”

“Given the amount of trouble the orcs have given Novara, the emperor wants to exterminate the trouble at the root, before it can bother us again. Especially given that there are apparently quite a number of useful resources located in orcish lands…”

Marcus groaned internally. Another war with the bloody orcs for resources. Some things never changed.

B3 Chapter 32: God Save the King

B3 Chapter 32: God Save the King

It took astonishingly little time for the siege to take its toll on the castle’s defenders.

In the first few hours, there had been a definite air of vigilance about the place. The castle guards marched along the walls with zeal, and while the assorted adventurers and mercenaries clearly lacked the same sort of organized discipline, they also kept a keen eye on the soldiers that surrounded the castle.

Now, though? The number and enthusiasm of the patrols had dwindled considerably. The guards had settled back into the dreary monotony of routine. Those fighters who had initially been so eager and battle-ready now lazed at the top of the walls, dozing or playing cards to pass the time. They weren’t trained soldiers, after all, meant to maintain discipline and watchfulness for months on end. They were unprofessional, yet powerful, and used to far more action than this.

Although that wasn’t to say that there was no action to be had. Far from it. Given the Legion’s continuous bombardment of the castle with stones, explosives, and animal carcasses, there was plenty to do for those with defensive or ranged skills. Some of the defenders with particularly long-ranged skills had even tried to destroy the siege weapons from afar, cheering when one was reduced to rubble—only to fall silent as they were rebuilt further away within the hour. They’d more or less given up after a day or so of that.

But even this had become so continuous that the enemy seemed bored rather than actually threatened by the assault. They barely reacted when the boom of one of the more powerful siege weapons went off, firing stone blocks at speeds that left trails of disintegrated dust in their wake.

Of course, such a bombardment wasn’t meant to actually break through the defenses. It was instead meant to tire the enemy. And considering how they’d gone from repelling every projectile to prioritizing only those with potential to do real harm, he suspected they were accomplishing that aim quite well. It helped that one of the men had come up with the idea to include gravel and caltrop sprays into the firing rotation, specifically to harass and annoy any enemies atop the walls. That particular development had chased quite a number of them off.

One thing that hadn’t seen much change, however, was morale regarding rations. Evidently, they had been right. These higher-leveled individuals had far less need for food than one would normally expect. Still, a few of his scouts could read lips well enough to note dissatisfaction on that front as well.

Neither Tiberius nor his men had spent this time idle, of course. Beyond securing the city and managing its operations, they'd leveled more ground and prepared additional fortifications and men for a real assault.

Several armored turtle formations, as they'd come to be called, had been drilling nonstop. Specialist groups were on standby behind or inside buildings where they couldn't be easily seen. The elves had staked out positions where their arrows would prove most effective, their free time used to level skills. All the while, men with mining skills toiled away underground, working to slowly and sneakily erode the very foundations of the castle.

That last group was more of a backup plan than anything. Considering the abnormal strength of the castle's enchanted stone and the monumental nature of the task, Tiberius truly did not expect their efforts to bear fruit for another few weeks at least. But compared to the months it may have taken in their old world? It was still quite an impressive feat. Especially considering the lengths taken to preserve the men's stealth.

Once those tunnels were done, they'd be able to flood inside and overwhelm the enemy from multiple fronts. But in the meantime… Tiberius wanted to press them just a little harder. 

He watched as the Legionnaires, elven and human, began to take their positions. Absentmindedly, he began to fiddle with the small amulet that now adorned his neck—a mind-bendingly intricate construction of some sort of crystal and a brass-like metal that hummed to the touch.

There was one thing that concerned him, even more so than the siege. It was his level. He was still only level four, the same as he'd been when his class evolved and split from that of his Legionnaires.

Leading Rome in battle had earned him nothing. Nor had the defeat of Marquis Morozov's forces. He'd hoped that taking the city would change that. But perhaps the System didn't consider the job finished yet. Not until the castle and its king had fallen. That was the best explanation Tiberius could think of.

In the meantime, he faced a problem. The Legion had already experienced more than its share of being underestimated due to their unimpressive levels. But now that his was even lower… The risk of such a deficiency calling his ability rule into question became a real issue. Not among his men, of course, but among the Novarans and perhaps even the elves. Hence the amulet.

The accessory had been traded to him by Grand Mage Claude, on the condition that Tiberius participated in a few experiments regarding his unique class. Normally, he would have been hesitant to agree to such a condition. But at this point? He would do what he had to. At least until his level was more reasonable. Besides, the old mage had no reason to betray Tiberius. Not yet.

In the meantime, he'd been assured that his level and class were safely obscured from others. Well, so long as they were below level 70 and didn't possess [Clairvoyance]. Which seemed perfectly serviceable to Tiberius.

Gaius stepped forward and saluted. “Emperor. The preparations are ready.”

“Good. And the bait?”

He saw a flicker of something cross Gaius's expression, but the boy clamped down on it with impressive speed. “He's preparing in the storeroom nearby. We thought it best to keep him hidden as long as possible. Although… I suspect he wouldn’t be pleased to hear himself referred to as such…”

Tiberius nodded in agreement. “See to your men. We’ll begin at the signal.”

He turned away from the young Legatus and headed toward the storeroom in question. Stepping inside, he saw the star of their current operation, tuning a lute in all of his purple-cloaked glory.

“Marcus.” Tiberius addressed the bard as he stepped inside. “We are ready.”

Marcus swept to his feet with a smile that was only a little forced. “Of course, of course, emperor. I suppose you’ll want me to venture forth, then?”

He nodded. The fact that the Novaran king hated Marcus was something that Tiberius had been aware of for quite a while. However, the recent attempt on the bard’s life had put into perspective just how deep that hatred ran. It was borderline irrational how much this fool of a king was out to get the bard—and that was something they could certainly use to their advantage.

The sound of a throat being cleared drew Tiberius’s attention back to the performer. “Far be it from me to question your decisions, emperor, but… Are you certain about this course of action? Not that I doubt your men and their abilities, but…”

“You will be protected. You have my word.” Tiberius promised. The man was understandably apprehensive about the plan. But this was a golden opportunity to draw out more of the Novaran king’s forces from beyond the wall. Already he’d sent multiple other squads to assassinate the bard. So presenting him openly like this was certain to draw an even greater response. Especially if his performance proved as provocative as Tiberius hoped.

Marcus sighed with resignation. “I understand. Well, then, I suppose I’d better hope that Regulus hasn’t slacked off in his training… Though I suppose I should be grateful.” His lips twitched into a sardonic grin. “It’s been a while since I’ve performed for such a large audience.”

With that, they exited the building. Marcus walked forward, emerging from the barricades that the Legionnaires had surrounded the castle with. His cloak glittered in the sunlight as he stepped into no man’s land, remaining carefully out of range of the attacks they’d seen thus far. A group of armored turtle Legionnaires advanced just behind him, staying within range to assist should anything go wrong.

“Hail, friends!” Marcus called, his voice carrying across the distance easily. “My name is Marcus Silvanus D’Angelo! Many of you may already know me. And those who don’t… Well, I’ll see to it that you don’t forget my name after today.”

The sudden appearance of the bard drew the attention of the defenders. Many straightened and peeked their heads over the wall’s edge to take a look at the strange sight. Tiberius managed to pick out a few guards that disappeared as well, undoubtedly rushing to inform their liege of the development.

Marcus unslung his lute and squared his shoulders. Now that he stood before an audience, any trace of the bard’s prior uncertainty had evaporated—though he did seem less pleased to be the center of attention than usual. Instead, he cleared his throat and strummed a few chords.

“This is a piece that I’ve been working on in my spare time,” he began, the chords weaving together to form a more cohesive tapestry. “It’s relatively simple, compared to my usual works, but, well… I believe in playing to one’s audience. It simply wouldn’t do to create an artistic marvel layered with subtext and metaphor, only for it to go over one’s head, now would it? No, I believe this level of subtlety is appropriate for the piece’s intended listener.”

The man closed his eyes and focused on the music. Tiberius felt a shift in the world around him, leaning forward with anticipation despite himself. He’d always suspected that the Legionnaires had a resistance to the bard’s influence, yet even that wasn’t enough to fully counteract whatever he was doing now.

Then, Marcus began to sing.

Gods save the king,

The tyrannical regime!

A wine-drunk fool,

Unfit for rule!

B3 Chapter 31: No Strings Attached

B3 Chapter 31: No Strings Attached

Quintus was on his way back from his meeting with Gaius when he felt it. A strange compulsion, as though someone were tugging on his very soul. Not entirely dissimilar to the feeling when one of his brothers died, though this lacked the sting of cold dread.

He could have ignored it. But that similarity and the urgency of the sensation drew him forward with haste.

On one hand, having a good fight to test out his new abilities was a clear benefit. Especially given that he'd be ridding the city of these troublemakers in the process. On the other hand… it became rather apparent that the source of his summon was not a fellow Legionnaire. It was the bard. And that disquieted him. Quintus had no fondness for manipulation, and the idea that the foppish man could do something like this to him…

That was a matter to be investigated later. For now, Quintus had to deal with the problem before him.

[Tactician’s Awareness] activated, and Quintus felt as though he were surveying the situation from afar. Of the five opponents in this alley, one had already been dealt with. The archer at the back of the group was unconscious and in the process of being restrained by two of the other Legionnaires that had arrived alongside him. The others were wheeling to face the newcomers with weapons drawn.

Given that they seemed intent on resisting, they might not be as fortunate as their companion. Then again, perhaps dying here would be better than seeing whatever punishment would be visited upon them for this disturbance. Either way, he felt relatively confident that the Legionnaires would be able to handle at least the other archer and the smarmy man with the knife, especially given the sound of footsteps that indicated more reinforcements on the way. 

Out of curiosity, he also triggered [Lead From The Front]. He felt his connection to the Legionnaires around him strengthen. Intuitively, he knew that they felt his will without him even speaking it aloud.

Quintus mentally issued orders to his men as he stared down the burly man, his blade steady as the man hefted his axe. Yet strangely, despite the clear and obvious threat of the hulking figure, Quintus felt as though he wasn’t the biggest problem here. Rather, the lanky one stood out to his senses. For what reason, though, he couldn’t quite tell.

The axe-wielding man roared and lunged forward to chop down at Quintus. He dodged to the side, [Swordsmastery] guiding his blade in a fluid motion that diverted the strike into the ground instead of his own head. A shower of sharp stone peppered his arms and face as the axe carved a deep groove. The centurion moved to take advantage of the opening, sending a stab toward the man’s side.

A feeling of wrongness overwhelmed him. Quintus’s wrist twisted as though it had a mind of its own. It was a small movement, barely perceptible. But it was enough to send his blade off course. His sword opened a line of red along the axe-wielder’s side rather than sliding between his ribs.

The man cursed and swung again, sending Quintus leaping backwards to dodge. Again, the feeling returned. It was as though his body wasn’t responding as it should.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the bard gesticulating wildly. The man had retreated back a ways and was moving his mouth, yet no more words came out—a first for him, surely. He pointed emphatically at the lanky figure that was currently attempting to distance himself from the conflict, one hand over his mouth and his other held at a strange angle with his fingers splayed.

As Quintus’s attention turned to the spindly man, his eyes widened. His fingers danced, and suddenly Quintus found his feet tripping over each other. The jerks and twists came at such unexpected times that, even though he could wrest control back with ease, they still left him feeling off-balance. Even [Sure Footing] couldn’t completely counteract the disorientation of his body simply refusing to cooperate.

He ducked low under another swing of the axe, the dodge more narrow than he would have preferred. Quintus practically fell into a forward roll, struggling to pop back up to his feet under the influence of whatever the spindly man was doing. Given the plain clothes their opponents wore, it was quite difficult to tell whether he was a mage of some sort. But whatever he was, Quintus needed to get rid of him. Even with his impressive stats, he wasn’t confident in surviving one of those axe strikes. Not without a line of Legionnaires with him.

Quintus darted toward the man—at least, he tried to. He had barely taken two fumbling steps before his target's fingers began to fly even faster as he danced away from the incoming centurion. Between that and having to watch his back for incoming attacks, he simply couldn't get close.

Quintus was forced to turn and divert another axe strike into the ground as an idea struck. His movements were compromised. But no one said he was the one who needed to move.

He turned toward the spindly man again, raising his blade high. The figure’s spiderlike fingers danced, and Quintus felt the sudden urge to shift and tangle his feet. Yet he didn’t move. Instead, he focused all of his attention on keeping his feet firmly in place. That, and [Sure Footing].

He felt at the skill, how it connected his feet to the ground below. How the ground itself rose up to cradle them, grabbing onto the soles of his caligae like the manifold suckers of an octopus. He knew instinctively that, the instant he moved, the ground would do the same, positioning itself so that he could launch forward with explosive speed.

But he didn’t move. allow it to stop there. Quintus gritted his teeth, willing the skill to bend to his will. He wanted to move. He would move. But he wouldn’t allow his feet to budge one inch. The ground could shift beneath him, that much was obvious. He just needed it to do a little more.

He heard the whistle of the headsman’s axe arcing toward his neck from behind. Quintus was on the verge of turning to face it when he felt the ground slam into his feet beneath him. The response was so violent and sudden that it caught him off guard, nearly sending him tumbling for an entirely different reason than he’d experienced during this fight.

The spindly man’s eyes grew round with fear as Quintus launched toward him. He gestured with his fingers again, diving sideways to dodge even as the centurion’s blade fell. His efforts threw off its arc by a few inches. But it didn’t matter.

The blade passed just above the man’s thin fingers. [Rend] and [Tear] ripped a hole through the air, shredding everything in the vicinity of the strike. A scream of pain echoed through the alley as the opponent’s fingers churned into a shapeless mass of blood and gristle that fell to the floor. Quintus pressed the advantage to bash forward with his shield, catching the man in the jaw. Teeth flew as he was sent to the ground.

A familiar flare of warning had Quintus spinning in place before his first opponent had even finished falling. A pair of knives skittered off of his curved shield even as he repeated his [Sure Footing] trick to launch away from another axe strike. He slid to a stop, once again in control of his body, and faced down the brute.

The rest of the battle occupied a corner in the back of Quintus's mind. He continued to issue orders, using his awareness of the battlefield to help them avoid sneak attacks and coordinate against the pair of far more nimble combatants. Yet it was difficult for him to manage both at the same time. Perhaps his neglect of his mental stats was coming back to bite him.

He focused on the enemy before him and readied to attack. Yet before either man could charge each other, a familiar song filled the air—the same one that Quintus had heard upon entering the city. Annoyance flashed through him for the briefest of moments as the bard decided to play a song now, of all times. But then he felt his muscles swell with renewed vigor, his aches and exhaustion washed away as though by clear water.

Right. It wasn’t just a song.

Quintus lunged forward. For all of his impossible strength, the musclehead’s speed left quite a lot to be desired. And especially under the influence of this empowering song? He didn’t stand a chance.

The centurion easily dodged the larger man’s attacks, the ground gathering beneath his heel and launching him forward with unprecedented force. This time, he was ready for it—even if the opponent wasn’t. His gladius stabbed through the man’s gut in a strike that would have seen him dead within days back at home. But here? He would take no chances.

The axe man struggled to get his weapon into position, but found the cumbersome thing too unwieldy to keep up with Quintus’s nimble strikes. One cut, then another, then a third. [Rend] widened the wounds until the man was nearly slipping in his own blood as Quintus continued skating forward unbothered. The others could be interrogated. But this one? This man had earned himself death.

Before long, Quintus had severed enough muscles and tendons that the man could no longer hold himself upright. The giant toppled to the ground with a final pained gurgle. Then, with one final strike to the neck, Quintus put him out of his misery.

Glancing around, he saw the results of his men’s efforts. More Legionnaires had arrived during the battle and managed to subdue the final two opponents, leaving three tied up in the street. The spindly puppetmaster type lay unconscious, his mangled stump of an arm still bleeding, while the axe wielder twitched and lay still.

Quintus flicked the blood from his blade sheathing it as he heard footsteps approach. Marcus the bard came to a halt before him. His purple cloak, now stained with mud and a few splotches of blood, nevertheless swirled as the man gave a flourishing bow and a smile.

“My thanks, Primus Pilus. Your aid was quite timely indeed.”

“Bard,” he practically growled the word. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Ah, well, it's not as though I intended to make trouble,” Marcus sounded almost offended. “Nor so I believe I've engaged in any particularly egregious acts as of late. Rather, I suspect that this is the king's doing. It seems that he has not taken too kindly to my presence here.”

“That's not what I meant,” Quintus frowned. Although that was somewhat interesting. He'd heard that the bard had somehow earned the ire of the Novaran king, but for him to go to these lengths, in the middle of a siege no less? That was a story he wanted to hear. Not from Marcus's own mouth, though. He had places to be today.

Quintus crossed his arms. “What kind of spell did you use to manipulate us into coming to your aid?”

The bard blinked, but his face remained unreadable. “Ah. That. Well… That's a more difficult question to answer. Though rest assured I had no intention to manipulate. I only intended to reach out with a cry for help. The choice to follow it was nothing but your own, I am certain.”

Quintus glanced toward the other Legionnaires. At this point, the street was filled with them. After giving a few brief orders on what to do with the criminals and the bodies, he turned his attention back on Marcus. “Follow me.”

He began walking, expecting the bard to follow. This whole incident certainly seemed like something that Gaius would want to hear about. Perhaps Tiberius as well.

B3 Chapter 30: The Executioner’s Axe

/// supper rare double post! Make sure you read 29 that was posted a few minutes ago first. With this to finally push us to 20 chapters ahead! It's only taken about 10 months to do so.... don't expect us to get to 25 ahead any time soon...

B3 Chapter 30: The Executioner’s Axe

Marcus darted between the tall buildings as his mind worked furiously. Attempting to sing a tune revealed that he was still silenced, meaning that his options were limited. His grimoire of spells would be all but useless until he got that taken care of, as would his persuasion skills. Although he honestly had no confidence that the latter would be able to come through for him in this case. They also weren’t likely to fall for a trick like the one he’d just pulled again.

He kept on singing a silent tune. Whatever that [Puppeteer] was doing had to take stamina, and it was possible that using his voice would make that drain greater. In the meantime, his best hope was to lose them—either among the city’s dizzying network of alleyways or in a crowd. He would have preferred the first, but given the group’s apparent familiarity with the terrain, it seemed unlikely.

Unfortunately, his pursuers weren’t so easily lost. Even as [Mythchaser] spurred him forward, he felt his steps become more labored as though he’d sank into an invisible bog. The group began to close the distance, capitalizing on whatever slowing skill they’d used to run him down.

Marcus forced his feet to move just a little faster, keeping ahead of them and rounding a nearby corner to break line of sight. He breathed a sigh of relief. A small crowd of shabbily-dressed people bustling about roughshod stands filled the street before him. He’d found the slums. It wasn’t the densest group of people. But it would have to be enough.

Flaring [Illusory Domain] once more, Marcus manifested a thick cloud of gray smoke in the road. Shouts of alarm rose from the assembled Novarans as they were blinded. He ducked within, changing his face, build, clothes, and everything else that he could think of.

His pursuers rounded the corner a moment later. Without hesitation, a three of them dove into the smoke to search for him while the others took up positions to block his escape. He felt their positions with [Critical Reception], working to stay away from the blind strikes they sent out as they moved. But rather than make the rookie mistake of moving the cloud along with him, he kept it stationary as he moved with painstaking slowness toward an escape.

When he emerged from the cloud, it was as an elderly man with a bowed back and ratty cloak. He hobbled forward, taking advantage of the slowing effect to sell the disguise. Yet he hadn’t made it a few steps before the [Poacher] emerged from the cloud.

The man scowled as he scanned the surroundings. His glare fell upon the disguised Marcus, but without recognition.

“You.” He leveled a longsword at the “old man” before him. “Did you see a bard run through here? Fancy lookin’ man with a shiny cloak?”

Marcus stammered in soundless fear. He pointed a trembling finger further down the street, in the direction that any sane person would have run. The [Poacher]’s mouth twisted in distaste. He lashed out suddenly with his foot, kicking Marcus into a nearby stall.

The wooden fruit stand that had already been barely holding together collapsed on his head. He felt the wind go out of him as he focused on keeping the illusion intact. His ruse seemed to work as the [Poacher] turned away and began heading down the street. 

“There he is!”

Marcus glanced over to see the female [Bounty Hunter] pointing directly at him. The [Poacher]’s attention whipped back to him as his eyes narrowed, taking in his clothes.

As he looked down, the problem became evident. He should have been covered in splinters of wood and splattered fruit from the destroyed stall. Yet he hadn't incorporated the debris into the illusion. Instead, shreds of wood seemed to poke through his undamaged skin and clothes nonsensically. Colorful splatters of half-rotted fruit painted the street while leaving his ratty cloak miraculously untouched.

He dove to the side just as the [Poacher] cleaved downward with his sword. The blow demolished what little remained of the stand in a spray of splinters and produce. Several wet splats impacted the back of his head as he rolled away, springing to his feet to continue his flight.

It was quite clear that these were no simple adventurers. Not because of their unscrupulous classes, of course. The guild was known for being rather lenient about such things. And given their relatively high levels, Marcus felt relatively certain they had been adventurers at one point. But the obvious lack of regard for their surroundings and the lack of visible plates denoting their ranks suggested they had found themselves on the outs with the organization.

It was almost an accomplishment to be kicked from the Adventurers’ Guild. Not the kind of accomplishment any reasonable or moral person would ever boast about, but, well, such people would almost never have cause to. Such punishments were rarely meted out for mere accidents or mistakes. They were reserved for willful acts of malice—and unsuccessful ones, at that. Murders that either failed or left witnesses, committed by those not strong enough to prove indispensable. Crimes perpetrated by those not careful enough to hide the evidence or with too low of charisma to shake off an investigation. Those kinds of things.

That wasn’t to say that all adventurers were saints. Marcus was well aware of some of the more heinous deeds that they were capable of. But most at least had the good sense to make an effort at hiding them.

Regardless, these individuals quite clearly had no interest in subtlety. Or in reducing the damage they did to their surroundings. Likely, they were tolerated in the city only because the king often had use for such types—which was exactly what Marcus suspected was happening now. It also meant that they probably were not the best of the best when it came to fighting, though that didn’t exactly matter when it was five on one and he wasn’t a combat class.

He dropped the old man disguise and sprinted for another alleyway, dropping low into a slide as he heard the twang of bowstrings. A volley of arrows passed just above his head and sank a couple of inches into the stone building ahead. Hiding in a crowd wouldn't work. Worse, it was putting other people in danger. A few pained screams from bystanders made that abundantly clear.

A splatter of mud sullied his cloak, a detail that caused him to wince as he popped to his feet. His feet still felt as though they had blocks of lead tied to them as he darted around another corner… and face-first into a hulking wall of muscle standing in front of him.

He bounced off the [Executioner] and almost fell to the ground. The wall of meat reached down toward him with one hand, grabbing for a dagger at his side with the other. A dagger that suddenly found itself in Marcus’s grip.

The bard lunged forward, driving the sharp blade up and into the other man’s palm. The [Executioner] roared in anger as blood spurted from the wound.

The ironic timing of the situation was not lost on Marcus. [Dagger Proficiency] likely wouldn’t have helped much in his current predicament, to be fair. But still.

Despite his shout, the wound didn’t seem to particularly bother the hulking man. But it did distract him just long enough for Marcus to slip past. He blurred his form, making his actual position uncertain enough that a flying blade narrowly missed instead of taking him in the back of the leg.

Gritting his teeth, Marcus dropped [Illusory Domain] for the moment and focused on moving. He could already feel the drain of the skill on his stamina reserves. He would need to conserve his energy if he wanted to avoid simply collapsing mid-chase. Especially considering that the nearest group of Legionnaires was still quite a distance away.

Despite his best efforts, his pursuers stayed locked onto him like bloodhounds. The [Bounty Hunter] shouted directions to the others, even as Marcus circled around and dodged in directions they shouldn't have been able to predict. A tracking skill, then.

He led them away from groups of people going about their days, doing his best to minimize the damage while also saving his own hide. Meanwhile, the squad of would-be assassins left a trail of destruction in their wake. Storefronts, stalls, and carts were left in shambles as anything that remotely impeded their progress was summarily smashed aside.

A few times, he managed to keep the enemy from attacking an unfortunate bystander by activating [Magnetic Presence]. They were already after him, anyway. What was the harm in keeping their attention a bit more actively?

But as he dodged the projectiles and attacks sent his way, Marcus realized it was only a matter of time. His dexterity stat was helping him to evade, but eventually he'd slip up or tire. And when he did, his enemies would be right there to take advantage.

He desperately reached out toward the connections he felt to every nearby Legionnaire and pulled. It was a bit of a longshot—he wasn’t entirely sure if something like that even could work, much less whether they’d listen. But it was one of the only things he had

The response was immediate. The connections grew taut and began to shorten as Marcus felt them begin heading his way at an incredible rate. He would have celebrated if not for the axe whistling through the air above his head.

Marcus narrowly avoided the blade, only to feel pain blossom in his shoulder. He hissed silently, tumbling forward as he grabbed at the wound and pulled out a throwing knife. Another round of arrows passed through the space where he had just been.

The [Executioner] loomed overhead, his yellowed teeth bared in a grin. Marcus suppressed a grimace and looked around. The other members of the man’s group were closing in, and the damn [Puppeteer] still had his hand clasped over his mouth.

The sound of feet pounding against cobblestone filled the air. A patrol of Legionnaires rounded the corner, their shields and gladii already drawn and at the ready. Before they’d fully come into view, the [Poacher] had already loosed a rapid-fire stream of arrows at the soldiers. They passed through harmlessly.

“Nice try,” the man sneered as more Legionnaires filled the alleys. “Your little party tricks won’t save you now.”

Marcus smiled. The man was correct. The Legionnaires were an illusion. Well, most of them were.

Eight of the soldiers crashed into the [Poacher], piling on him and forcing him to the ground. The unexpected assault saw the man rendered unconscious in a matter of moments. The [Bounty Hunter] and [Cutpurse] reacted quickly, spinning to face the new threat as the [Executioner] grabbed for Marcus again. He tried to weasel out of the burly man’s grasp, but felt his muscles lock up as the [Puppetteer] made his own body go completely rigid.

“I was told to make this slow, but…” The hulking axe-wielder snorted, hefting his weapon. “Got no time, looks like. Lucky for you.”

The axe swung toward Marcus’s neck, its edge glowing with malicious red light. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the blow.

A metallic clang rang directly in his ear. Peeking over, Marcus saw the axe blade where it had been halted an inch from his throat. In its path was a single gladius, wielded by a familiar-looking centurion.

The executioner’s arm was flung wide as Quintus twisted, then lashed out at the [Executioner] with a fluid strike. The giant roared in rage as a line of red spouted from a fresh wound. Marcus dropped to the ground, still stiff but able to resist the paralysis enough to avoid falling flat on his face.

He looked up at the scowling brute. Across from him, a stoic Quintus stood with his blade at the ready.

B3 Chapter 29: Mythchaser

B3 Chapter 29: Mythchaser

Marcus was an impressive bard. That, few would dispute. With a single song, he could transform a room full of scowling adventurers on the verge of coming to blows into a site of bawdy merriment usually reserved for festivals and holidays. He could talk his way into any establishment worth visiting, and out of most where he'd overstayed his welcome.

He was a professional. And here, on his home turf? He was absolutely a force to be reckoned with. 

Marcus bobbed down the broad avenue, enjoying the warm day and the familiar bustle of city life. He'd never thought he’d walk these streets so freely again—much less while hearing the populace humming his latest songs. It was incredibly nostalgic.

His efforts to spin the tale of Novara's invasion into that of a miraculous and heroic rescue from an age-old enemy had borne fruit—more quickly and dramatically than he ever could have hoped. It certainly helped that anyone could go see the castle for themselves, as well as the massive concentration of forces that had gathered there. Forces that hadn't been used to fortify the wall or defend the city itself. But he suspected that wasn’t the only factor at play. Which was one of the many, many reasons he was taking advantage of the Legion’s current preoccupation with city matters to commandeer a class stone.

Despite his enjoyment of the current situation, Marcus still kept his guard up and his awareness spread about himself. There were still threats about, after all. Though the Legionnaires, elven and human both, had managed to clear the last of the orcs from the city, there still remained other troubles within.

The castle was the most obvious pocket of resistance, isolated as it was. But more active among the populace were the nobility who hadn’t bent the knee and the priests who had declared Rome to be heretics and enemies of their gods.

Marcus passed by one of the noble houses in question as he walked. It was no more than a pile of finely-ground rubble. Even the red “X” he’d inscribed beside their gate had disappeared as the Legion had leveled the place to build other, more “useful” projects. Apparently, the rebellious houses hadn’t counted on the Romans living up to the stories Marcus told—or the complete and utter lack of support from the king. Despite the fact that he’d tried to warn them of both. At least he’d tried.

As for the churches, they had yet to make another overt move against Rome. Well, officially, at least. There had been some skirmishes with Legionnaire patrols that featured suspiciously divine-looking skills wielded by people in plain civilian clothing. Between that and their open hostility toward the Romans, it was clear that they had no intent to get along with the capital’s new leadership. But they certainly tried to seed discontent and thoughts of rebellion among the populace. Seeds that Marcus so far had little problem crushing before they took root. As it turned out, their own decision to prioritize attacking the Legionnaires over the orcs was just as unpopular as one might expect. If it continued he expected the legion to stamp them out soon, once they were done with all their other problems.

Of course, his efforts had been rewarded. And quite handsomely, too.

Information:

Name: Marcus Silvanus D'Angelo

Age: 23

Class: Royal Bard (Rare)

Level: 30

Experience: 902 / 3,000

Stats:

Strength: 5

Dexterity: 40

Constitution: 6

Charisma: 79

Wisdom: 13

Intelligence: 11

Free Points: 1

Titles:

Chronicler of Novara

Dashing Dastard

Traveler of Novara

Harbinger of Rome

Crowd Favorite

Chronicler of Legends

Skills:

[Charm] (Uncommon) - Lvl 42

[Silver Tongue] (Epic) - Lvl 7

[Appraisal] (Uncommon) - Lvl 30

[Sleight of Hand] (Common) - Lvl 42

[Inspirational Song] (Rare) - Lvl 15

[Critical Reception] (Rare) - Lvl 12

[Spellcraft] (Uncommon) - Lvl 4

[Glamor] (Uncommon) - Lvl 48

[Dagger Proficiency] (Common) - Lvl 4

[Running] (Common) - Lvl 34

A flare of pride burned within Marcus’s chest at the sight. He'd had a brief opportunity to check his status when they'd first taken the city, but little time to do more. The sheer number of Legionnaires who needed to assign their skill points and do general maintenance was overwhelming, even considering that the capital had multiple class stones dotted throughout its interior. And, well, he'd been quite busy himself.

His eyes lingered on the first portion of his sheet. Level thirty. An incomprehensible milestone he didn't think he'd reach for another decade at least. And as a non-combat class? It was unheard of.

Of course, he found himself involved in a bit more combat than he would have liked. But given the results? He supposed he couldn't rightfully complain.

The levels of his performance-related skills were growing quite satisfyingly. Both [Silver Tongue] and [Critical Reception] in particular had seen a lot of use lately, a fact reflected in the leaps and bounds they’d made. He’d also earned the coveted Chronicler of Legends title, which only further confirmed that his work with the Legion was truly making a mark on history. He certainly wouldn’t complain about the 20% effective charisma boost it gave, either.

But it got even better when he switched over to check his skills. He had evolutions.

Available Skill Evolutions:

[Charm] (Uncommon) -> [Magnetic Presence] (Rare)

He had an evolution for [Charm]. [Charm], one of the most foundational skills for any charisma-based build worth its salt. It would be no exaggeration to say that it was a skill that accompanied most of the greats into their graves. And he was getting a better version of it—before even leveling it to fifty, no less.

Despite being a rare skill, [Magnetic Presence] was actually one that Marcus had heard of before. One of the [Royal Bard]s of old was said to have obtained it, though details on how were scarce. People were usually hesitant to share the capabilities of their skills, much less how to get them.

Regardless, the story went that people found themselves drawn to the man and his performances from afar, often without even knowing why. Some even said that such an effect was merely a result of the skill’s passive nature, that it could be activated to draw attention so intensely that it put even taunt skills to shame. All of this was practically impossible to verify, given the subtle nature of such skills and the suite of other performance-related abilities usually employed by bards and entertainers. But if true, then it may well prove to be a strict upgrade with added flexibility. Needless to say, he accepted it.

[Glamor] (Uncommon) -> [Illusory Domain] (Rare)

His second evolution came as a bit less of a surprise. Not that he'd truly expected it, of course, but Marcus did feel as though he'd been pushing the skill a bit more than the others—especially during the encounter with House Aridus. He hadn't even known that [Glamour] could manage such large-scale effects.

Well, evidently it wasn't supposed to. But based on the name, this new skill would specialize in it. He could only imagine the kind of theatrical displays that he'd be able to conjure using more complicated illusions.

[Running] (Common) -> [Mythchaser] (Rare)

Marcus had to do a double take. A mere common skill evolving to a rare one? And one he’d only picked up recently, no less? It was absurd. And the name…

He frowned inwardly. This was no skill he'd ever heard of, either in stories or otherwise. But he has to admit that it was a tantalizing one. Its name spoke of a grand calling that he couldn't help but be attracted to. Who was he, if not a pursuer of myths and legends?

Hopefully it would allow him to better keep up with the Legion on the march. Perhaps it would keep him from looking and feeling as though he'd plunged into a rather disgusting ocean after such exertions.

Nearly weeping at what his life had come to, Marcus swapped the last skill for [Running]. Some part of him had secretly hoped for an upgrade to [Inspirational Song] or [Critical Reception]. Unfortunately, skills proved much more difficult to evolve as they increased in rarity. Perhaps even thinking such a thing was greedy of him. He would just have to be satisfied with the three evolutions he had been offered, as well as all the skill levels in each.

With that done, Marcus took the opportunity to slot a few other skills he'd picked up in one of the freshly evolved skills’ slots. He might as well take advantage to keep the things, even if he had absolutely zero intention of ever using [Tumbling] or [Heretical Influence].

Last but not least, he eyed his [Dagger Proficiency] skill. It had seen next to no use as of late, and for good reason. What fights he'd managed to find himself in simply required more firepower than the skill—and his meager abilities with it—allowed. At this point, if he found himself using his dagger, Marcus was fairly certain that he'd already be dead to rights.

He checked through the rest of his skills to find something more useful. It didn't take long before he found a candidate: [Diplomacy]. Something that, in hindsight, he probably should have picked up ages ago.

Not having a single weapon skill was a bit of a risk, but not the end of the world. He would just have to rely on his spells a bit more than before. Something he'd already been doing anyway.

[Congratulations! You have assigned the skill [Diplomacy] (Uncommon) - Lvl 0.]

After finishing his business, Marcus went on his merry way with a newfound spring in his step—both from the bit of dexterity he’d gained and excitement at his new capabilities. He was eager to try them out. And what better venue than The Gilded Lily? Bernard would certainly never say no to the extra business, and he needed to ask the man about the church of Arashim’s recent movements. He thought he’d seen a familiar face stopping by one of the remaining noble houses in his wanderings, and he wanted to minimize the amount of blatantly suicidal plots where he could.

It was probably a lost cause. But who knows? Even if the church of Arashim and its allies seemed fixated on making problems, maybe he’d even be able to convince some of the other churches to break away. Especially with his newfound capabilities.

But as the saying went, everything that rose into the air must also fall back to the earth. As he navigated through the sprawling labyrinth of streets—ones that the Legion had not yet rebuilt and improved—a note of disquiet began to ring discordant beneath his otherwise harmonious joviality. He felt as though he were being watched.

Marcus continued on as though he hadn’t noticed. However, he flared [Critical Reception] to get a feel for the moods of the individuals around him. Most were as he expected. Satisfied, bored, stressed over work and these uncertain times… But there were a few that didn’t fit at all. From them, he felt only malice.

There were five of them, and even a discreet glance around didn’t allow him to detect the figures visually. But they were there, of that he was certain. And they were closing in.

As subtly as he could manage, Marcus adjusted his route to take him away from the five spots of ill intent. They followed, continuing to close in. There was no doubt about it now. That malice was meant for him. And despite trying to lose them, it seemed that his knowledge of these streets was no longer quite as impressive as it once was. He found himself gradually herded away from the crowds and groups of patrolling Legionnaires and into a dead-end alley.

Once it became clear that there was no getting out of this, Marcus turned to face his pursuers. The five figures blocked the path before him, their clothing dark and nondescript enough to blend in with a crowd of common folk. Yet they were anything but.

[Cutpurse] (Lvl 21)

[Puppeteer] (Lvl 17)

[Executioner] (Lvl 22)

[Bounty Hunter] (Lvl 20)

[Poacher] (Lvl 19)

If their demeanors and the slimy grins written plain across their faces hadn’t made it clear, their classes did. These were not particularly savory types. And while he might have hoped that he was simply being robbed by a band of suspiciously high-leveled ruffians, the presence of the [Executioner] made it abundantly obvious that wasn’t the case. He in particular was ugly enough to make Marcus wonder if there were some orc in his lineage.

“Friends, friends!” Marcus spread his arms wide in a gesture of openness and clear invitation. “I assure you, there is no need for such skulking around. Come, let us talk. I'm certain I can make it worth your while—”

The [Executioner]—who appeared to be the one in charge—glanced toward the spiderlike figure of the [Puppeteer]. Before Marcus could say more, the man clapped a hand over his own mouth.

Marcus’s words suddenly cut off. His lips continued to move, but no sound came out.

The [Executioner] grinned wordlessly, an ugly expression on the hulking figure’s lumpy face. Marcus's heart sank. They had clearly come prepared. And while he couldn’t be certain exactly who had sent them, he had a couple of pretty damn good ideas.

Seeing that talking his way out of this wasn't an option, Marcus shifted tactics. This wasn't exactly the kind of environment he'd hoped to test his new skills in. But it seemed like he had no other choice.

The world around him seemed to ripple as he activated [Illusory Domain]. Marcus had to keep his eyes from going wide. He could feel the skill’s power, feel the potential he wielded. He could turn the entire area around him into a fantasyland of impossible sights and sounds with a mere thought.

Of course, he didn't need that right now. He needed something a bit more believable.

He began to conjure a ball of lightning in his hands, sending flashes of crackling electricity through the alley. It swelled to an incredible size that made his attackers stop in their tracks. Turning to the [Puppeteer], he loosed the ball of energy toward the spindly man. 

The projectile rocketed forth, sending the man and his companions diving away from fright. At the same time, Marcus willed his body to turn invisible as he sprinted after the ball, shielding his eyes as it exploded in a flash of blinding light—a harmless one. He slipped between the figures before they could react and kept on running.

Even that had taken quite a bit of stamina out of him. It seemed that [Illusory Domain] wasn't exactly a cheap skill to use. But it had gotten the job done.

Shouts arose behind him as the figures realized they'd been played. Praying that this skill lived up to its name, he activated [Mythchaser]. His feet began to fly as though they had a mind of their own. He accelerated, racing through the streets and away from his attackers even as they gave chase.

Reaching out, he could feel the tenuous threads that connected him to Legionnaires around the city. But he also felt something else. The skill was tugging him in a particular direction, deeper into the city. 

Not willing to question it at the moment, he sprinted that way. It was close enough to a group of Legionnaires that he wouldn't be picky. He just hoped that whatever it was leading him towards would help him get out of this mess.

/// stay tuned ;)

B3 Chapter 28: Growth Spurts

B3 Chapter 28: Growth Spurts

During his pursuit of the orcs, Quintus and his men had neither the time nor the opportunity to visit a class stone—an oversight that he was eager to remedy upon his return. Tiberius’s promise that they’d soon strike at the castle only made it more pressing. Given the amount of resistance they were sure to face, making sure that he was up-to-date on his skills, stat allocations, and everything else would be paramount.

Of course, he hadn’t missed the fact that the Legion had leveled. Nor had Devin and his men, who had nearly leaped off their horses at the sudden sunburst that engulfed the Legionnaires on their march. Luckily, they’d been a bit more restrained for the second—which was very fortunate, considering that it had happened in the midst of battle.

Quintus personally wasn’t too shocked. Between the number of orcs they’d felled, their levels, and the securing of Novara, it was well past due. Thought earning two levels was an unexpected surprise. The other varied activities of the Legion certainly helped as well. Perhaps the garrisons in Habersville, Stonester, and the rest of their territories were doing even more than expected to funnel experience toward the group. If they could keep this up, then perhaps reaching level ten wasn’t so distant of a prospect after all.

The prospect of his newfound gains had the centurion seeking out the nearest class stone as soon as his meeting was over. He laid his hand against the obelisk’s smooth surface, waiting for the golden glow to resolve into text before him.

Information:

Name: Quintus Carius Libo

Age: 43 (XLIII)

Class: Legionnaire – Primus Pilus (Legendary)

Level: 6 (VI)

Experience: 248 / 3,600,000 (CCXLVIII/ M̅M̅M̅D̅C̅)

Stats:

Strength: 24 (XIV)

Dexterity: 20 (XX)

Constitution: 19 (IXX)

Charisma: 17 (XVII)

Wisdom: 15 (XV)

Intelligence: 15 (XV)

Free Points: 8 (VIII)

Titles:

Born to Fight

Bonds of Brotherhood

Bane of Cats (III)

Bane of Spiders (II)

Bane of Ghouls (V)

Boss Slayer (I)

Craftsman (III)

Blood on Your Hands (III)

Titanslayer

Warforged (I)

Crowd Favorite

Arena Champion (I)

Bane of Orcs (II)

Hero of Legend

Skills:

[Swordsmastery] (Rare) - Lvl 15 (Individual)

[Voice of Command] (Uncommon) - Lvl 49 (Individual)

[Tear] (Rare) - Lvl 7 (Individual)

[Battlefield Intuition] (Uncommon) - Lvl 53 (Individual)

[Sure Footing] (Common) - Lvl 145 (Individual)

[Warpath] (Uncommon) - Lvl 48 (Legion)

[Coordinated Bulwark] (Uncommon) - Lvl 51 (Legion)

[Unity] (Rare) - Lvl 10 (Cohort)

[Rend] (Rare) - Lvl 7 (Century)

[Coordinated Offense] (Rare) - Lvl 5 (Contubernium)

The sight brought a smile to his face. It had been too long since he'd seen his numbers increase to this extent. The more gains he made, the more difficult the next ones became.

Before anything else, Quintus assigned his stats. Two points each went to strength, dexterity, and constitution. After a bit of thought, he also put the final two into constitution as well. Increasing his resilience was never a bad idea. Especially if he was to continue working alongside the cavalry. The last thing he wanted was for a stray kick or fall from his saddle to end him.

The titles were also welcome, if not entirely unexpected. They’d certainly killed enough orcs to warrant a bane for them, which would help in future conflicts. The [Hero of Legend] title, though… Quintus wasn’t entirely sure where that came from. But the bonuses it gave to “heroic actions” might come in handy, whatever those were.

As for his skills, they also proved quite a welcome surprise. [Voice of Command] and [Battlefield Intuition] had both made greater strides than he’d expected. Perhaps leading Devin and his men had helped to spur new growth in the skills, a consequence of both learning to work with unfamiliar troops and an entirely new style of battlefield tactics. He’d certainly had to change his own approach to both.

The leveling of his rare skills was comparatively slow, but quicker than he’d initially expected. Those tended to take much more time to grow than the lower rarity skills.

Speaking of lower rarity skills… Quintus glared at [Sure Footing]. As useful as the skill was, the fact that it still had yet to evolve rankled. That was despite all of his morning practice and efforts to stretch its use in unexpected directions. At this point, it was honestly a bit embarrassing.

He flicked over to the skill selection menu in hopes that this would finally be the day that changed. Yet once again, he found himself disappointed. At least it wasn’t all bad, though.

Available Skill Evolutions:

[Voice of Command] (Uncommon) -> [Lead from the Front] (Rare)

[Battlefield Intuition] (Uncommon) -> [Tactician’s Awareness] (Rare)

Evidently, levels weren’t the only thing he’d gotten from exercising those skills. As usual, they sounded like improvements that would fit right in with the direction his duties were going. [Lead from the Front] in particular sounded right up his alley, though he wondered if it truly was a strict upgrade over his current abilities.

Regardless, what exactly they did differently remained to be seen. He accepted both of the evolutions. They brought him one step closer to a full repertoire of rare skills. Now if only he could be rid of that last common rarity one…

There were a couple of other new skills he’d acquired since last visiting the class stone—[Horsemanship] and [Mounted Combat]. He equipped each one before unequipping it just as quickly. He had little interest in actually keeping either. The usefulness of such things would largely depend on how long Tiberius intended to keep him in charge of the Redcliffe cavalry forces. But he had a duty to add them to the Legion’s ever-expanding skill list.

Once that was done, he quickly skimmed through the enormous list for anything interesting. Nothing particularly stood out amongst the walls of skills, not until he looked through the higher rarity skills. A few more had been added to the list, making it quite impressive now. Someone had even managed to unlock an epic skill—something called [Suicidal Charge], a name that certainly raised his eyebrows. Something to inquire about later.

Nodding in satisfaction, Quintus finally removed his hand from the stone. The familiar rush of vitality and strength from his new stats washed away his exhaustion like a cleansing tide. Even the tender skin of his recently healed foot had faded back to a more natural color.

“Big changes all around. Aren't they?”

Quintus turned to see Gaius approaching, a pair of Legionnaires flanking him to either side. The young legatus waved off Quintus's attempt to salute. “Relax, uncle. No need to be so formal.”

“You are the legatus. It's only right that I show you proper respect,” Quintus pointed out.

“Funny. I don't feel much like the legatus.” Gaius’s smile took on an odd quality. But before Quintus could inquire further, the young man was already moving on. “The emperor mentioned that you have matters to speak with me about. Care to join?”

The older centurion nodded before falling into place beside the new legatus. Quintus had already spoken with Tiberius about many of the rewards and promotions to be distributed among the men. He summarized the conversation for Gaius, also taking the opportunity to highlight a few more minor outstanding individuals and acts that he hadn’t deemed worthy of the emperor’s direct attention.

Gaius nodded along as he spoke, accepting the need for promotions. Between their losses here and previous conflicts, there were more vacancies than Quintus would've liked to admit. Fortunately, there were just as many men stepping up to meet the challenges before them.

Their walk took them into a stone building that has been repurposed as a temporary command center. As they finished talking through the proposed recognitions, Gaius nodded.

“This all seems reasonable enough to me. We'll inform the men of the promotions immediately and plan a more formal ceremony to recognize those with accolades after this is all wrapped up. There's too much going on to squeeze something like that in right now.”

“Agreed,” Quintus replied. It would be good for morale, but immensely impractical.

The younger Legionnaire stretched before slumping back in his seat with a sigh. “Well. That's all taken care of. So… are you ready to storm the castle tomorrow?”

Quintus shrugged. “We had better be. Otherwise, our losses so far will seem like a pittance.”

Gaius snorted. “I think you underestimate our abilities. Do you realize just how impressive it is to have a class that offers this many stat points?”

“As you've mentioned,” the centurion said, having heard it before. “Yet I've heard the reports. The enemies we go to face are as high as level thirty.”

“Yes, yes,” Gaius waved the comment off as though it were irrelevant. “But think about it. We both get ten points per level. Ten! That's as much as an uncommon rarity class gets in five levels. So really, we're likely on par with a level twenty-five in that respect.”

Quintus considered that. He'd never gone through and done the math himself. Numbers and arithmetic were never his specialty. But put that way, it certainly did sound impressive. Only…

“... Except the majority of our men don't receive that many points,” he countered. “The rank-and-file only receive six. That's only as much as an epic class, correct?”

The legatus sighed. “‘Only,’ he says… While you're not wrong, you're also making a few massive oversights, uncle. Epic classes are exceedingly rare. In fact, based on my understanding, I'd be surprised if more than a few dozen people in the entire city have rare classes, much less epic ones. That's not even mentioning the astounding might of the centurions or our absurd skills.”

Quintus mulled over the information. Given that Gaius had become the Legion's premier expert on such things, there was little reason to doubt his words. Still, the rosy picture the young man painted felt a little at odds with the realities that Quintus saw in battle.

When he said as much, Gaius simply shook his head. “I disagree. Remember that these advantages are what allow us to contend with forces that we'd otherwise have no business challenging. Well, one of the things, at least. Stat totals like these are nothing to scoff at, especially given the sheer numbers we're fielding.”

“Numbers that dwindle with every fight,” Quintus muttered.

“That's something we can fix. Once we've established a foothold here, I'm sure that training up men to replenish our ranks will be high on the emperor’s priorities once this is all over.”

Gaius seemed unperturbed by the issue. Perhaps that made sense, given that they had both auxiliaries and elven forces that could prove worthwhile candidates in the best future. But though losing one's brethren was a cruel reality of war, it was still one that Quintus would never allow himself to simply overlook. 

Changing the subject, Quintus turned back toward the real matter at hand. “We should discuss your plans for the assault.”

“Should we?” Gaius cocked an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that the emperor would be taking command for it.”

“Even so, that does not mean that you should simply wait idly,” the elder centurion chastised. “This is a good opportunity to develop your thinking and consider what tactics you should use. For example, where would you attack from? The front gate is an obvious answer, but are there other options that might prove more advantageous…?”

The two men bent over a map conjured by one of Gaius's aides. They began to plan, slipping easily into their old roles of teacher and student despite their difference in rank. Of course, once they were on the battlefield, it would be Gaius calling the shots. But despite having been promoted to Legatus, neither of them held any illusions that the boy was suddenly infallible. Quintus was still the more experienced one when it came to battle.

They talked for as long as they were able before other duties pulled them away. After all, Gaius still had much to learn. And Quintus wanted to ensure that those lessons didn’t come at too high a cost.

B3 Chapter 27: Hail the Conquering Heroes

B3 Chapter 27: Hail the Conquering Heroes

Quintus rode into Novara’s capital on the back of a borrowed horse. He would have much preferred to march, of course. But his mangled foot made that prospect even less appealing than the current situation.

The fresh reinforcements had allowed them to relieve his men, but Quintus himself had insisted on continuing to lead from the front. Which made the fact that he’d even allowed himself to become injured to this extent… embarrassing, to say the least.

He blocked the memory out of his mind to avoid cringing at it. But two and a half days of near-constant skirmishes was enough to try even his stamina. Enough to make him slip up. 

Of course, that hadn't stopped him from fighting. He'd simply commandeered a horse. Not that he was a particularly fine horseman, as Devin was more than happy to point out. It also didn’t help that this supposedly “gentle” horse was still a warhorse capable of caving in a man’s skull with its hooves. But they were getting along. They’d reached a point of mutual tolerance of the other’s presence.

Still, Quintus was looking forward to being off the beast. The Legionnaire [Surgeon]s with his men had done what they could, but there were some wounds that they weren’t quite equipped to manage at the moment. And for this one, the damage was severe enough that it would need attention from a dedicated [Healer]. And in the meantime, he felt like a damned officer. Riding in on the back of this stallion, elevated in status and stature as his men marched on foot… It just felt wrong.

He didn't enjoy the sensation. Not at all. Although the fact that his own men still felt quite comfortable calling him “Hoppy” due to his injury did ease his discomfort slightly. Even a few of Devin’s men joined in with light jabs at his riding. Fighting alongside them for these days had done much to grow the bonds between the two groups of soldiers.

He led the columns of cavalry and infantry into the city, their pace relatively sedate compared to their usual speed. Some of his Legionnaires had been left behind to defend the pass—ones actually fit for fighting in the mountains rather than cavalrymen—though hopefully they would see no action for a little while. As fast as the orcs apparently reproduced, they would hopefully still need time to regroup. In the meantime, he would report to his emperor.

Immediately upon their entry, it was clear that the city had undergone quite a change. People were out in the streets, going about their business once more, although the signs of the orcs' assault were clear. The area nearest the gate had taken significant damage, though Legionnaire work crews were already working to patch it or rebuild from scratch. Groups of his brothers patrolled the streets, while the telltale green cloaks of elves were just visible atop the wall above.

To Quintus's utter shock, their approach was not met with hostility or even suspicion. Rather, it was met with celebration. The citizens pointed and even cheered as they made their way down the broad main streets. More emerged from buildings to watch them go, and soon a respectably sized crowd lined the streets.

Quintus couldn't help but frown. “This is unexpected. Was your king truly so hated that his people celebrate our arrival?”

“Personally? I’d say so.” Devin grunted. “Me and mine have no love for the man, but that should come as no surprise. When it comes to the common folk, though, I doubt that’s the case. Seems to me like there might be something else going on here.”

As they continued on, the cheers soon gave way to something else—the words of a song echoed across many throats.

Can you hear Novara cheer?

Cheering for Rome and all her men,

It is the anthem of the brave few

Who refused to flee and bend!

Stand and fight beside our own,

As we ride to save our home,

We shall not hide behind a throne

When the warbands come!

It was an unfamiliar tune, like most that Quintus had encountered in this world. Yet quite catchy in its own right.

“Looks like you've got admirers.” Devin jerked his chin towards a particular group of young women. As Quintus noticed them, the group began whispering excitedly to each other, their eyes never leaving him.

Quintus looked across the crowd. He spotted a few more groups of women, many of which had eyes for the Redcliffe heir. When he pointed them out, the man sighed.

“You'd think I'd be excited about the idea, after so long on campaign. But honestly? Right now, I just want a bed of my own. And maybe a drink, if I can stay awake that long.”

Of course, women weren't the only ones who had come out to see them. Plenty of other faces among the onlookers betrayed some level of suspicion at the red-plumed Legionnaires marching in their midst, though most made an effort to hide it. Even those individuals seemed set at ease somewhat by the presence of Devin and his men, however. The Redcliffe’s presence seemed to legitimize Quintus and his own men.

The grand procession delayed their return to the command center by several hours. But overall, Quintus judged the diversion worthwhile. It gave his men even more time to rest, and the boost in morale was certainly nothing to scoff at.

By the time Quintus awkwardly slid off his horse and knelt before his emperor, the sun was already high overhead. Its rays glinted off of Tiberius’s laurel crown as he nodded, bidding Quintus to rise.

The centurion did as he was bid, wincing as his weight shifted to his ruined foot. Tiberius raised one thick eyebrow as he took in the sight.

“You are injured.” It was a statement of fact. The emperor gestured to a nearby messenger. “Fetch the [Healer].”

The soldier was off on his mission before Quintus even had a chance to protest. Moments later, he returned with a young woman in tow—the same adventurer woman that had become a mainstay of the Legion’s medical staff.

“What’s this about? I already finished healing the worst of the Legion’s wounded, and the emperor said that I could spend the rest of the day tending to the Novarans. I’ve only got so much stamina to go around, you know—”

The woman’s prattling cut off as she lay eyes on Quintus. Or, to be more precise, his foot. The [Healer] sucked in a breath between her teeth. “Ah. That makes sense now.”

Without another word, she stepped forward and knelt before the centurion. Her hands glowed with golden light as she laid them on Quintus’s leg. The limb filled with a comforting warmth completely at odds with the sickening pops that immediately ensued.

When she lifted her hands, Quintus’s foot was mostly back to normal. It could take the majority of his weight without pain again, though the skin still looked red and tender. The woman stood, only looking a little more tired than before.

“Thank you.” Quintus nodded appreciatively as the woman stepped away.

“Good,” Tiberius addressed the [Healer]. “That is all. You may return to your other work.”

The woman sketched a brief curtsy before hurrying away once more. Once she was gone, Quintus began his report. Afterwards, Tiberius gave him an approving nod.

“The efforts of you and your men do the First Legion—and Rome itself—proud. I will see each of you amply rewarded."

“Thank you, emperor.” Quintus bowed his head. “If I may, I have a few men who I believe deserve particular recognition…”

He began to list off the promotions and rewards he had in mind for those who had distinguished themselves during the last few battles. A centurion promotion for a Legionnaire that had led a countercharge to prevent the collapse of their position after his own centurion had fallen. Another for a man who had managed to singlehandedly ward off a charge of orcs with an inhuman barrage of sling stones. Things like that.

They also spoke about several other bonuses and awards for valor and particularly impressive feats. Awarding such honors would naturally fall to the emperor, a role that Tiberius agreed to fulfill. They would also come with more material rewards, something that they would find themselves much more able to provide after the castle itself was taken.

As an aide finished taking down the last of the names, Tiberius sent the man off to make preparations and finalize things. Then, he spoke again. “Now… there is one more matter that must be tended to. That of the castle itself. You and your men should take the day to rest. For tomorrow, we have a kingdom to topple.”

***

King Gerald was having a rough morning.

It was bad enough that the castle gates still had an obvious hole through them, what few repairs his subjects had managed doing little more than preventing a child or blind man from stumbling through. Apparently, none of the people he'd so graciously allowed in were [Architect]s or [Builder]s or any manner of useful class for the situation.

It was all incredibly frustrating—not nearly as frustrating as the rest of the situation within the castle, however.

“What do you mean they're dissatisfied?” Gerald scowled. “They should be thanking me for saving them from those bloodthirsty barbarians out there—both the green and red ones.”

His chamberlain paled slightly. “It is as you say, my liege. However, there are quite a number of individuals currently residing within the castle—enough that quartering them all has become a challenge. And considering that this has turned into quite the lengthy affair… many of the adventurers are demanding additional compensation.”

Gerald’s eye twitched. The absolute gall of these people. Did they think they could take advantage of his charity? As Novara's king, it was only right that they should protect him. Everything he offered them in “compensation” was merely a token of his appreciation, not something to be expected.

“Absolutely not,” he shot the very notion down without hesitation. “As for quarters… tell anyone who's dissatisfied with their arrangements that there is plenty of room for them in the dungeon.

“Actually, my liege, the dungeon is also—”

Gerald sent the man a withering look that stopped him mid-sentence. The chamberlain gulped and bowed his head. “It shall be done.”

The man scurried away to do as he was bid, leaving Gerald to relax in his cellar. He bit down on another biscuit, only to grimace. How on earth had the cooks allowed something even slightly stale to reach his lips?

“My liege.”

He turned to see a hulking figure in ornate armor kneeling before him. His [Royal Guard Captain].

“What is it?” Gerald asked with irritation. At this rate, his tea would get cold.

“Marcus D’Angelo has been sighted within the city.”

The king reflexively crushed the biscuit in his fist. His vision went red at the mere mention of the name. He was on the verge of ordering the guard captain to be whipped before the rest of his words registered.

“He's here? That utter miscreant dares show his face in my city again?!”

“The spy master has confirmed it,” the captain said simply. “He appears to be allied with the Roman invaders.”

Gerald closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn't care less about the bard's affiliations. Even if he'd come as an emissary of the draconic kingdom itself, it wouldn't have stopped Gerald from visiting his wrath upon the man. He had turned his already disappointing daughters into the laughingstocks of the kingdom—and, by extension, him.

When he opened his eyes again, they were alight with a petty malice that no one in his life had ever dared call out. This was an opportunity. A chance to finally take care of that blight on his reputation.

"I want him dead.” Gerald demanded. “Ready an execution squad to hunt him down. I want his head by tomorrow morning, no excuses. It’s embarrassing enough that he’s evaded you for this long. I won’t tolerate any more failures. Oh, and be sure to make it painful.”

He leveled a look at the captain that made it abundantly clear what would happen if the bard escaped again. The man didn’t so much as flinch.

On one hand, it was nice to have such an intimidating man as the leader of the royal guards. On the other, it did backfire in times like this, where he wanted the man to feel cowed. Only the fact that the king could revoke his class at any time made him feel secure in the brute’s loyalty.

The [Royal Guard Captain] rose, giving one final bow before heading out of the wine cellar. Gerald sat back, satisfied. Finally, that waste of space would get what he deserved. It was enough to take his mind off of his other troubles. Such as the cold tea sitting before him.

Gerald sighed. Now, at least, things were finally looking up.

B3 Chapter 26: Turtling Up

B3 Chapter 26: Turtling Up

One of the Legion’s specialist units consisted of an entire century dedicated to one goal—defense.

They were the largest group of specialists that Tiberius had approved to date, and for good reason. Their greater numbers ensured that the formation benefitted from the natural scaling of [Coordinated Bulwark] alongside a dozen or more other defensively-based skills. All of them layered atop each other to form as ironclad a defense as Tiberius had ever seen.

One might argue that this was unnecessary, given how capable the Legionnaires' normal shield walls proved. But there were stronger forces out there, ones that would undoubtedly be able to contest even a wall composed of six thousand men. Besides, having the entire Legion form a single wall could be cumbersome and inconvenient in many cases.

At Gaius’s command, the men began to creep forward in a turtle formation that appeared nearly impregnable. Not even a tiny slit remained for the enemy to take advantage of, the men forgoing offense in favor of more resilience.

Just because the gate was no more didn’t mean that they had won. Tiberius wasn’t nearly that stupid. There were still the defenders atop the wall to contend with—and given the levels his scouts reported, they wouldn't be so simple to get through.

It was the ranged fighters that began first. Arrows imbued with a dizzying array of effects sizzled and streaked through the air, only to scatter before they came within a foot of the formation. Waterfalls of glowing rock and shimmering elemental orbs accomplished little more as they split and sputtered out before they could threaten the Legionnaires.

The onslaught thickened until the air was dense with attacks and skills. Tiberius looked to Gaius. “Status.”

The young legatus frowned. “The stamina drain is noticeable, but not catastrophic. They should be able to keep this up for a while yet, perhaps a few hours? Assuming this is all the Novarans have in store, that is.”

Tiberius nodded. Given his recent class change, he no longer personally felt the drain of the Legion’s skill usage. It meant he needed to rely on others to gauge how sustainable such extreme skill use as this would be.

The turtle of Legionnaires moved steadily toward the newly added hole in the castle gate. Just past the threshold, Tiberius could make out a line of melee fighters gathering there, all prepared to face the incoming attack—a combination of uniformly armored guardsmen, ornately dressed knights, and adventurers wearing everything from furs to thin silken robes that hardly covered any skin at all. All of them drew their weapons in expectation of a fight.

When they were about a hundred feet out, the ground in front of the Legionnaires’ formation exploded. Chunks of stone sprayed across the shields alongside the hail of attacks from above. The sheer force of the impact sent the men skittering back as one, their caligae sliding along the stones in unison.

Tiberius lowered his arm from where it had instinctively risen to cover his face. A crater not unlike the one they had left in the gate now smoked in the Legionnaires’ path. Hovering above it was a single robed figure, his long hair fluttering in a sourceless breeze. He looked down at the Legionnaires with an almost bored expression.

“Unfortunately for you,” the figure said, “I’m contractually obligated to ensure that you don’t step beyond this point. I’d much appreciate it if you didn’t make me expend more effort on doing my job than necessary.”

The Legionnaires hesitated, uncertain of whether or not to progress. An aide leaned over and spoke to Tiberius in a low voice.

“It’s a [Force Mage], sir,” the man reported. “Level 32. Others of similar level are making themselves known as well.”

The emperor nodded. He could see the others in question as they elbowed to the front of the defenders’ lines—an armored royal guard, a scowling and unarmed woman bedecked in furs, an old man in loose clothing with a long sword… them and many others. Both sides waited to see to what the other would do next 

He'd known to expect powerful individuals. This was, after all, the reasonable place for them to have fallen back to. The question was, were they prepared to face these powerhouses?

Tiberius took another look at the crater and turned to Gaius. “Order the men to fall back for now.”

The new legatus looked surprised. “Sir?”

“We are in no rush,” Tiberius explained. “Our forces are still spread thin. We will secure our position within the city and create better conditions for our attack. In the meantime, let them starve.”

True, individuals required far less food or sleep as they grew in level. But they still needed something. And with the number of people in that castle… Tiberius couldn't imagine their supplies would last long.

The turtle slowly retreated backward. In response, the Novaran defenders celebrated their apparent victory. They jeered at the Legionnaires as they moved, continuing to hurl spells, arrows, and insults—all of which were summarily ignored.

Though their initial assault had been rebuffed, it was not a defeat. Not in Tiberius's eyes. Rather, he considered the information they'd learned from this probing attack quite valuable. Many of the enemy forces had come out of hiding, giving them a better idea of what they were up against. And the list of classes his scouts had gathered was certain to be useful for formulating a plan.

“I have other matters to tend to,” Tiberius informed Gaius. “I will leave this situation in your hands. Remain vigilant and keep them contained.”

Gaius nodded. "Yes, sir. I will see it done."

With that, the emperor turned and headed back toward the city proper. Dealing with the noble houses, arranging sweeps of the interior, cataloging the resources and personnel available… There were any number of actions he'd need to take in order to see the city brought under control and utilized effectively. And there was no reason not to get ahead on such matters. 

A flash of purple cloth caught his attention. Turning toward a nearby street, he saw Marcus and a contubernium of Legionnaires heading his way. The bard looked distinctly disheveled, the man staggering forth as though drunk or on his last legs. 

Tiberius frowned. Such a lack of decorum was uncharacteristic of the bard. But he smelled no alcohol as the man approached. Between that and the occasional steadying hand the men reached out toward him, it seemed as though Marcus was simply exhausted.

Still, the bard seemed to pull himself together a bit as he approached. Tiberius motioned for his guards to allow the man through. Stepping before him, Marcus gave a flamboyant, if unsteady, bow.

“Emperor. I bring news from deeper within the city. It appears that a new… complication has arisen.”

“So I am told.” Tiberius had already been informed of the church's aggression by his messengers. “Speak.”

The bard straightened, then gladly did as he was bid. Too gladly. Rather than a concise report, the man launched into a full retelling of his encounter with the orcs and priests of Arashim, complete with dramatic flourishes and descriptions of the local Novarans’ near-fatal last stand.

Tiberius sighed inwardly but didn't let a hint of his annoyance touch his face. Occasionally, the Legionnaires that had accompanied Marcus would chime in to ground the daring tale back down in reality—something that Marcus clearly did not appreciate, even if Tiberius did. Though he had never known the bard to lie, he did have a way of molding the truth to fit whatever narrative or story he happened to be telling.

Yet despite all of the clear embellishments, Tiberius found himself sizing up the bard with a modicum more respect than before. The man was clever and adept at weaseling his way out of most any situation. So much so that it was easy to forget that he could sometimes have a backbone. Just like when he’d fought alongside Gaius and his men in the colosseum.

Tiberius didn’t allow his thoughts to show, however. Instead, he simply nodded as Marcus concluded his tale.

“I see. What do you make of this development?”

Marcus mused. “Personally? I’d be quite shocked if these priests were the only ones making such a move. From what I recall, there were at least a few other churches who fought alongside Arashim’s at Habersville, and he is certainly not starved for allies in the pantheon.”

“Hmmm.” Tiberius tapped his bicep. “Very well. We shall speak further about these ‘allies’ later.”

“With all due respect, emperor, I am more than willing to—”

“The men will be warned of the threat. I will have men locate and watch the local churches to see what they are up to as well,” Tiberius explained. “From your tale, the might they can bring to bear is not to be underestimated. But they are far from the only faction we need concern ourselves with. For now, you are dismissed.”

Marcus flashed him a smile and another bow, accepting the dismissal without protest. The bard’s eyes had begun to droop noticeably even as he stood there. In this state, Tiberius rather doubted whether such a conversation would be productive.

He watched the bard leave, heading toward the nearest concentration of Legionnaires—likely to ask for directions to camp. Between his efforts with the nobility and this matter of the churches, the man had proved quite useful once again. Perhaps it was time to reward him for his loyalty.

That was a matter for later. For now, he simply relayed a few orders to his aides and turned toward his other tasks.

A quick report on the reinforcements sent to aid Quintus revealed good news. The Primus Pilus and his cavalry had managed to thin the orc horde considerably and chase off the remainder. They had taken losses, but not catastrophic ones. In hindsight, he’d likely undermanned his first centurion’s infantry, an oversight that could have saved additional lives.

It was a reminder that even he was human—and capable of making mistakes. Something that he needed to remain vigilant of. As emperor, there were even fewer people willing to disagree with him and his orders. The ability to remain self-critical would be even more invaluable now.

He relayed an order for Quintus and his men to pursue the orcs and harry their retreat. Fighting the barbarians off, only to have them disperse across the countryside, wouldn’t do anyone any good.

He sent along additional men for good measure, well-rested ones that could help to relieve the toll of the previous battle. Judging by the route these orcs were taking, they would be heading back towards Corwyn’s gap. That meant Quintus and his men would be gone for a couple of days in their mission. Time that would allow Tiberius to shore things up within the city itself.

Arrangements were made to expand Rome’s influence throughout the city, secure it, and handle the noble families Marcus had marked. Some of the positive or neutrally-oriented ones he planned to visit himself in the coming days. The others… Their rubble would make a fine place to begin new constructions. After all, his men needed quarters, and he had yet to see a bathhouse in the city.

Tiberius continued on his way, moving deeper into the capital as he let the castle stew.

B3 Chapter 25: The Bigger Picture

B3 Chapter 25: The Bigger Picture

"Father! What are you doing?"

A young boy from the House Aridus crowd wriggled away from the group and darted toward the priests of Arashim. He grabbed at the robes of the eldest one, a bearded man who seemed to be the leader of the group.

"Out of the way, child," the priest's voice was stern yet not overly cruel as he brushed the boy aside. His hands began to glow as the other priests began to mutter soft prayers. Another column of divine energy rocketed forth, this one resembling an ornate column.

This time, the Legionnaires weren't so unprepared. They formed up, though their hasty wall proved too small to entirely shrug off the attack. It punched through their center, sending a whole group of men tumbling.

The boy interposed himself between the priests and the Legion, forcing them to halt their attacks. “They saved us!”

"They are heretics." This time, the lead priest's bark was harsh and reprimanding. "They not only deny the primacy of the gods, but actively work against them. They have torn down their temples, massacred their followers, desecrated their names! We cannot allow such heathens within our city!”

He shouted with all the passionate righteousness of, well, a priest delivering a sermon. One of the adventures stepped forward at his words—a lithe woman with a bow and two knives slung across her back. 

“Mate, are you daft? You really wanna do this right now? Cuz if you're looking for heretics, there’s a whole lotta greenskins around who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about your gods. We’ve got bigger problems, and pissing off the ones who are helping seems like a shit idea.”

The priest sneered. “You know nothing. These outsiders,” he gestured to the Legionnaires, “herald doom with their coming. If we allow them to gain a foothold, they will destroy our way of life more thoroughly than if the orcs razed every single home and ate all of our children. The gods have made that clear. They are the threat.”

As he spoke, one of the other priests moved the child out of the way, clearing the path for another attack. But the delay had been enough for the Legionnaires to regroup. Another column of light ricocheted off the phalanx, though it wavered slightly under the impact. The nearby Novarans shouted in protest and alarm as they were forced to throw themselves out of the way of the wayward attack.

Marcus saw a look pass between the House Aridus members. Then, one of the [Knight]s stepped forward. “[High Priest]. I must beseech you to cease your assault. The boy speaks truth. If not for these men, our entire house may have fallen to the orcs.”

But the priest's expression only darkened further. “You side with the heretics? You mean to make an enemy of the gods?!”

“No. Our builders have constructed many a home dedicated to Arashim and paid many a tithe. You know this,” the [Knight] tried. “Were our lord still with us, he would tell you of the many offerings he's made to the gods and their causes. Yet we also owe these men our lives.”

“You make excuses for a greater evil than you know. They must be stopped.”

The two men continued to argue with increasing intensity. Marcus saw the House Aridus forces move to stand with the [Knight], as though preparing for the worst. The adventurers seemed split on the matter, not entirely certain what to do other than stay out of the brewing conflict. Though some of them did seem to edge toward the Roman side.

The Legionnaires, on the other hand, had clearly already made up their minds and were reading their throwing spears behind the wall. Just as it seemed they might come to blows, Marcus decided to step in.

“Friends, friends!” He made placating gestures toward the priests. “I believe there must be some kind of misunderstanding.”

He instinctively flared his charm, only to wince as pain exploded in his skull. Skills were still off the table for now, then. That would certainly make things more complicated. He couldn't even use [Appraisal] to see the levels of the priests.

The [High Priest] whipped around to regard the newcomer. “I see no misunderstandings here, fool. Only those who know not their place beneath the gods!”

Marcus gestured to the Legionnaires behind him. “These men are humans. Ones from a different time and place, of course. One from which we all descend. But they are not so unfamiliar as you may believe. Not nearly so much as the orcs. So why would they be the targets of your ire above a threat that has plagued Novara for centuries?”

“You cast doubt on the will of the gods?!” The old priest bellowed. The other priest behind him looked angry, but the lack of further reactions told Marcus he was barking up the right tree. If they had known what their god said directly they would have reacted differently.

“Not at all. I merely question whether you truly do speak for them.” Marcus shrugged. “I wonder… Have any of you received such visions? Such divine commands?” Marcus addressed the other priests and spread his hands wide. “If this truly were a matter of such world-shattering import, then would not Arashim seek to spread the word to all of his followers?”

Arashim was a god with many followers. His attention was pulled many directions, and likely only bothered to very occasionally communicate with his high priest, and not at all with the lesser clergy.

However, Marcus’s words had less effect than he’d hoped. After all, churches did love their hierarchies and structure—especially Arashim’s. But he did see a flash of doubt cross a few faces of those with more ornate robes. He decided to double down. Without his skils it was going to be a lot harder to convince him with pure charisma. As a last ditch plea for help, Marcus gave a quick prayer to any gods that might be willing to listen.

“This man clearly bears a grudge against House Arashim’s saviors,” Marcus continued. “One that he intends to settle using the power of his god—a misuse of authority, to be certain. Whatever divine revelation he claims to have been blessed with has clearly been twisted, if not outright fabricated. That, or… well, based on his demeanor, he may simply be stark raving mad.”

“Such insolence!” The old priest turned on Marcus, his face red. “Be silent, heretic!”

The man’s palm began to glow, and Marcus internally swore. Evidently, he’d been relying on his skills a bit more than he’d realized to stay out of trouble like this. That, or he’d just picked his fight a little unwisely.

A beam of light shot towards him, its passage leaving geometric sigils in its wake. He prepared to throw himself out of the way, but a jovial voice echoed through his mind. “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Marcus recognized that voice. Apparently Apollo was paying more attention to what was happening here than Arashim.

He remained in place as a sphere of radiant white and gold appeared around him. The priest’s attack splattered off of the barrier with a musical sound, leaving him completely untouched. 

The entire crowd froze in shock. The head priest’s eyes widened as the others began to mutter. Marcus wasn’t entirely sure about what just happened. But he had a hunch. And he certainly wasn’t going to let this opportunity go to waste.

“Truly, it seems as though I’ve struck a nerve,” Marcus shook his head in mock disappointment. “After all, if the gods deem me worthy of withstanding your ‘judgement’, then I would say that doesn’t speak well of how yours supports your mission.”

“You are no priest!” The head priest was practically spitting now, nearly incoherent with outrage. “How dare you claim to be so?!”

“It seems that I am as much a holy man as you are.” Marcus gave his best shit-eating grin, specifically designed to enrage the head priest. “Or do you intend to claim that was not, in fact, a work of the divine? I’m certain that someone amongst you is capable of using [Sense Divinity].”

The man screamed, moving to fire off another bolt toward Marcus. But one of his companions grabbed his arm. “Enough, Rine.”

“You too, Orrin?” The [High Priest] hissed. “Has this miscreant deceived you, too?”

“I do not doubt your dedication to the gods. But there is at least a kernel of truth in the man’s claims, though small. That shield was divine in nature.” The other priest turned his gaze on Marcus, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “There is more to this situation. For us to continue down this path without additional preparation would be… unwise.”

Marcus couldn't help but agree. The priest's display had successfully turned the crowd against him. Even the undecided adventurers eyed them with hostility after the attack on Marcus. If they kept this up, the Legionnaires wouldn't be the church's only enemy in this fight.

The man called Orrin raised his voice to address the other priests. “We must pray for guidance on the events of this day. In the meantime… we shall pull back.”

The high priest vehemently protested, but his ravings fell on deaf ears. His brethren pulled him away, evidently deferring to Orrin’s directions. The other priest swept one final look across the crowd.

“Though we do not take to the front lines, know that the church has not been idle in addressing the orcish threat. As for heresy… know that we will not hesitate to seek retribution against those who attack the church and act against the gods. Of that, you can be certain.”

With that, he turned to follow the retreating flock of priests.

Marcus practically sagged with relief. That could have gone very badly, very quickly. If Arashim himself had decided to provide clarification or support in that moment, they would have been screwed. Even the Legion was not strong enough to stand up to the full might of a god.

But even a [High Priest] didn't have a direct line of communication to his patron. He would need specialized rituals and a lot of time before he'd receive any sort of “guidance”, or to be granted power past what he’d already shown. Time that would give the powderkeg of parties currently assembled time to disperse—and the Legion time to prepare a proper response.

Marcus heard the clatter of shifting armor behind him. Turning to look, he saw the Legion stepping forward, not quite giving chase but also not relaxing their guard for an instant. They’d apparently learned their lesson from that surprise attack.

One of the centurions met Marcus’s gaze and frowned. “That was a situation we could have handled ourselves.”

“Ah,” Marcus wagged a finger. “My dear Remus, you are mistaken. I did not intervene for your sake. I just did not wish for your valiant efforts to go to waste. After all, it seemed to me as though these people you rescued would have gladly laid down their lives to repay that debt.”

The centurion looked over at the House Aridus members, many still clutching their improvised weapons. Their determination had only redoubled in the face of this new aggressor. The boy who had attempted to stop the priests stood shell-shocked in the street, uncertainty written plain across his face.

“Besides,” Marcus continued, “making an overt enemy of such a large faction is something that should be run by the emperor, is it not?”

Remus grunted. “They attacked us. They are already enemies.”

“Fair, fair. But will the emperor wish for them to be engaged now, while there are still orcs to be slain? Or later, to limit the enemies you face at once?”

The man didn’t have an immediate answer. Marcus honestly suspected that Tiberius would have no problem with the Legionnaires running the priests down and killing them right there. But given the power the [High Priest] had displayed… perhaps it really would be better to have more reinforcements for such an attack.

“What’s this about ‘my dear Remus’?” One of the other centurions called over mockingly. “Do you have something to tell us, brother?”

“Only that your mother makes a fine lay,” the centurion shot back as he gestured another man over. “Report this to Tiberius. He needs to be aware that there are other hostile factions in the city.”

The Legionnaire nodded, closing his eyes to convey the message. Marcus let out a sigh. “Well, then. I suppose I should be making my way toward the emperor as well… I don’t suppose you could spare a few men to accompany me?”

He was entirely spent. Trying to visit any more noble houses while in this state was a recipe for disaster and simply asking for failure. The best he could do now was to go see Tiberius and offer whatever insight he could about this new situation.

The centurion nodded and assigned a contubernium to go with Marcus. Stretching, they set off at a brisk walk toward the castle. Not a run—he didn’t have the stamina for that.

The Legionnaires relentlessly poked fun at him for his slowness, but he gave as good as he got. Besides, with everything he’d done today, he’d earned himself a bit of a break.

***

As much as it surprised him to admit it, Tiberius actually found Castle Novara quite impressive. Not just because of its size, intricate construction, and bizarrely shiny facade that seemed to fly in the face of nature and the elements. It was actually one of the most easily defensible structures that he had yet to come across as well.

The walls were imposing, with not a single protrusion or exposed surface to claw at or climb in sight. A slight slope ensured that there was no shadow in which to hide from archers or the assortment of defenders that crowded its top.

The telltale blue sheen of enchantment made it clear that their thickness wasn't the only source of strength, either—and if Tiberius had to guess, he'd bet there were plenty more tricks and deterrents in store to dissuade attackers as well.

That guess proved true as a small cluster of orcs reached the castle's base. They fruitlessly attempted to scale and beat at the walls, only to be rebuffed but an explosion of force. The defenders didn't even have to do anything.

Tiberius frowned. He had hoped the orcs would whittle these defenses down before he made his move. At the very least they could have made the Novarans tip their hand. Yet that no longer seemed as though it would happen. Not with so many of the orcs having fallen to his own men within the city.

His frown deepened. The fact that his men had diverged from orders so greatly was… concerning. He would need to ensure they received an appropriate reprimand. Later, though. For now, he had other matters to deal with.

Tiberius relayed his orders. The first and second cohorts began to set up defenses in a ring around the castle, even turning a few inconveniently placed buildings into rubble. Their remains would be excellent sources of ammunition for the siege engines.

The artillery rumbled into position behind the Legion's lines, their teams rushing about to prepare. Once they were all ready, Tiberius gave the order. It was time to test out a weapon that had yet to see live combat. One that hadn't yet found a foe resilient enough to justify its use.

Something and vaguely resembled a ballista, except it was larger and much more complicated, rotated to face the castle's front gates. Its entire surface was inscribed with runes and enchantments that made the weapons practically glow with energy. The slug of lead loaded within bore similar marks, all with one purpose in mind—to punch through anything in its path.

Tiberius waited until the others were ready. He wanted to be certain everything was in place, however this ended up.

“Ready, sir!”

With that final call, Tiberius nodded. The machine let fly its payload towards the gates.

He didn't even see it move. It felt like he barely blinked, before a boom like that of several thunderbolts all striking at once deafened everyone within a mile.

All Tiberius saw was the sudden crater where the front of the castle had been moments before, its perfectly round edges smoking and sparking with blue energy.

Tiberius heard a muffled crack through the ringing in his ears. Looking over, the ballista was in pieces. Evidently, a full power shot was a bit stronger than his engineers had estimated. A shame. Those things were not cheap to make. But it had done its job.

Tiberius turned toward Gaius, who stood waiting by his side. “Order the men to advance.”

B3 Chapter 24: Heroism and Heresy

B3 Chapter 24: Heroism and Heresy

The ominous chords of Marcus’s voice floated out over the city, drawing attention despite himself. The telltale twitching of curtains and signs of movement in windows revealed the hiding civilians within, curiosity at the situation momentarily winning against their fear.

He put them to the back of his mind. They were not his audience. At least, not the one he was currently interested in. 

He landed on a high and sustained note, a dramatic musical climax just as the fighting began. The words had come to him as though in a dream, like the gods themselves sought to use him as a mouthpiece. Yet that couldn't be the case. Not when the extent of his worship was an occasional nod as he passed by a temple or agreement with another’s drunken toast.

No, he was no priest to be controlled by a deity so. This work was all his own. Even if he did regret not pulling out his lute for the accompanying instrumentation. Perhaps he'd be able to add that when he performed the piece elsewhere.

The combatants below appeared unphased by his efforts, but the effects were obvious all the same. The forces of House Aridus fought with strength and speed disproportionate to what their levels would suggest. The level thirteens and fourteens drove into the orc horde far deeper than they had any right too. Even the few higher leveled fighters standing with them exhibited power more on par with a talented adventurer.

The orcs were not so easily cowed, however. They pushed back, green mingling with gold as they took the initial charge and began to fight back.

Marcus continued to sing as the second wave of House Aridus’s fighters—those welding improvised weapons—rushed forth with a battle cry of their own. They bashed into the orcs as they attempted to keep the real combatants from being surrounded. Already the assault had left dozens of orcs trampled underfoot. But there were hundreds more, and Marcus was almost drowned out by the equine screams as the horses were clawed and hacked at.

One by one, the riders were slowly pulled out of their saddles. Marcus sang harder, willing his efforts to bolster the humans further. But there was only so much he could do, only so much they could do. Despite their efforts, the people of House Aridus began to fall.

Just as Marcus began to write this battle off as the doomed venture it had been destined to become, a new sound cut through the din of battle. It was faint at first, but quickly grew in volume. The sound of roman sandals on cobblestone.

His eyes widened in recognition. Marcus turned to see the Legionnaire forces sweep down the streets like a red tide. A small portion of their entire force, maybe only a few hundred at most. Yet rather than approach the ongoing battle, the men kept their distance, staying just out of sight.

Marcus’s heart sank. It was just as they’d done when attacking the city. The Romans didn’t see this as their fight. They would leave the two parties to their own devices, whittling each other down to weaken both without risking their own.

He glanced back toward the desperately struggling Novarans, then toward the impassive Legionnaires once more. His head was already beginning to ache with the telltale sign of skill overuse. But he made a decision. If the Legionnaires wouldn’t get involved of their own volition, then perhaps he could convince them. And Marcus was nothing if not persuasive.

Switching his focus to the newcomers, he began to sing a different tune. One that still spoke of heroism, of course. But rather than defiance of fate in the face of overwhelming odds, this was a tale of rescue. Of protectors swooping in at the last moment.

Perhaps it was a little more altruistic than the Romans would normally act. But who didn’t like to be a hero?

As Marcus’s voice carried across the buildings, he saw a few of the Legionnaires turn his way. Familiar faces. Ones that he’d sat beside at campfires, exchanged drinks and barbs with, graced with a few of his finer songs. Their faces lit up in recognition as he met the eyes of each and every one. He filled his song and look with conviction, doing his best to convey his plea across the distance.

The headache intensified until it felt like his very skull were splitting in half. Before long, Marcus was forced to stop. He fell silent, falling to his knees with gasping breaths. The golden armor that had surrounded the fighters and peasants below evaporated into thin air. The orcs hooted in celebration as Marcus continued to watch the Legionnaires.

They didn’t move.

For a long moment, he feared that all of his efforts had been in vain. Then, one of the centurions raised his shield. “Brothers! Forward!”

With a clatter of metal, the soldiers flashed along the street. A century of around a hundred men condensed into a double column as they advanced, flanking the orcs and pulling some of the attention from the Novarans. They quickly began to form their customary line, a formation which began to interpose itself between the two forces as it stretched across the main road.

The sudden blockade was more effective than a brick wall. It arrested the orcs’ forward advance, causing some of the more impatient ones to boil off into side streets. The small alleys were nowhere near large enough to fully redirect the orcs’ progress. Still, the maneuver had certainly done much to protect the less capable fighters. Though that was not to say that they gave up the fight entirely.

Bolstered by the sudden appearance of reinforcements, the House Aridus forces moved to defend against the orcs now spilling through the alleyways. Yet even there, they found more surprises in store. 

The twang of bowstrings thrummed through the air, followed by a veritable light show of skills and magical effects. Small groups of humans appeared at every junction to take the enemy by surprise. Orcs bellowed in pain and anger as spears of stone, hails of arrows, and enchanted blades ambushed them in tightly-coordinated maneuvers.

Marcus watched on in confusion, then understood. Adventurers. Evidently, at least some had stuck around to protect the city. And judging by the lack of aggression toward the Legion, perhaps Eleonora had been successful in her own mission. Or perhaps they'd just decided to face the bigger mutual threat first.

The sounds of the clash intensified as the green brutes hammered against the shield wall. The street wasn't quite large enough to leverage the entirety of the Legion's forces. Yet the number of centurions shouting buffs and bolstering their men certainly helped to make up for it. Yet the orcs were not about to go quietly.

A huge, lumbering brute elbowed his way forward through the melee. He casually backhanded another smaller orc out of the way until he stood merely a few paces back from the Legionnaires’ shield wall. He raised his club overhead and bellowed, the sound echoing across the city like a foghorn.

“Thak says CHARGE!”

The already oversized orc swelled, his muscles creaking as they doubled in size. He rushed forward like a battering ram, heedless of the allies that he bowled aside as his slightly more well-made club swung down.

The air seemed to ripple as the piece of wood made contact with the Legionnaires' shields. Marcus saw the men's eyes go wide as the impact sent them skittering back, blowing their formation in half like a pair of doors being kicked open. Their hobnailed sandals sparked as they slid backward from the force.

The orcs charged forward as the Legion struggled to reform. Only the front lines had been split, but the ranks further back had not been prepared for the front to give way so suddenly. They had to practically dive out of the way as they rushed to form two walls parallel to the road. The massive brute responsible for the chaos cackled, sweeping his club back and forth like a farmer scything wheat. Each swing shattered bones and crumpled the shields of men who hadn't yet rejoined the wall.

Yet what at first appeared to be a devolving situation quickly resolved into something else. The broken and initially shattered shield wall was reinforced and reformed as reinforcements continued to arrive. The wall snapped closed where it had originally broken, except with the orcs having pressed forward their loose formation was cut in half.The rest of the column had begun to come around through the alleyways and trapped the first half of the orcs in a rectangle of shield walls that began to slowly constrict.

Before the orcs knew it, they were surrounded. Those who hadn’t been caught in the encirclement were either fended off by more Legionnaires standing back to back with their brethren or harried by the adventurers that had begun to close in. Meanwhile, inside the box, the Legion began its slaughter.

Swords stabbed in rhythm as the shield wall slowly pressed in from all sides, squeezing the orcs like grapes in a winepress. The massive orc who had broken through the line charged forward again with a roar, He swung once again, undoubtedly expecting a repeat of his last exploit. Yet this time, the Romans were prepared.

As the club swung down again, one of the Legionnaires behind the front lines read from a scroll that had seemingly appeared in his hand. One of the Legion’s half-mages. The man finished the incantation quickly as the wall braced. But this time, their shields glowed with a strange purple energy.

The orc struck the wall, only for the energy to explode outwards. The sheer force sent the orc’s club rebounding harmlessly off the defenses as violently as it had descended. The Legionnaires wasted no time taking advantage of the opening as the backline stabbed forth with spears.

It howled in pain. Growling, the orc reached down to grab at the spears, only to be struck in the eyes with a barrage of tightly-clustered throwing knives and arrows. It flailed about blindly as the Legionnaires continued their butchery, not taking any chances.

“No!” The orc shouted. “Thak… is… strong! Thak will not die…!”

It roared in defiance as blood leaked from countless wounds. Its muscles seemed to deflate with every ounce of blood spilled, each blow growing weaker and weaker. The orc took wounds in the calf, the hamstring, the thigh. Then, as it fell to one knee, more wounds opened in its side, throat and head. Before long, the orc was nothing more than a pile of mangled meat.

The battle continued for a while longer as the Legionnaires and adventurers mopped up the stragglers. But soon enough, the last of the howling battlecries fell silent. The street went still as the final orcs either fell or disappeared deeper into the city.

Marcus groaned, heaving himself to his feet and making his way carefully to the street below. He had to drop the last few feet, and the landing made him grit his teeth in pain. But there was no helping it. Such were the consequences of his actions.

He looked around as he headed toward the Legionnaires where they had gathered. A few bodies were being excavated from beneath the others, showing that the Romans had not escaped the encounter completely unscathed. But the predominantly green carpet that covered the street made it clear what their sacrifice had bought. As did the collection of House Aridus’s forces, many of them alive and well.

The rescued members of the noble house had gathered to one side, tending to the wounded where they could. Many of them eyed the Legion with a mixture of gratefulness and confusion, unsure of what to make of their saviors. The same could be said of the adventuring parties that had begun to descend upon the area.

Marcus headed toward the Novarans, looking around for someone in charge. Marquis Aridus himself would be best, though he wasn’t sure if the man even lived, given that he hadn’t been at this battle. Perhaps one of the [Knights] would know. Either way, this was certainly a situation that would benefit from a diplomatic speaker to straighten things out and avoid any misunderstandings. Although he was not looking forward to doing it without any skills…

“Heretics! Begone from our fair city, invaders!”

Before Marcus had taken two steps, a rectangular prism of golden light struck a group of Legionnaires from behind, flinging them into a nearby wall. Everyone was on alert in a moment, forming up to face the new threat.

A group of individuals stood at the far end of the street, their hands glowing with holy light. Their white robes were embroidered with intricate geometric patterns wrought in gold thread.

Priests—and not just any priests. Priests of Arashim, god of wealth and architecture. The same god whose temple the Romans had demolished back in Habersville.

B3 Chapter 23: One Last Charge

B3 Chapter 23: One Last Charge

The orcs' newfound ability to “strategize” had rather clear limitations. Rather than acting and adapting like men, this foe could be more accurately likened to horses with blinders on. Once they chose a target and began running it down, there was no changing their course. Nor was there any consideration made for feints or repositioning or retreat. The orcs just barreled forward.

Why they were suddenly so determined when they'd been easier to lead astray before, Quintus was unsure. But he quickly found out that even this deceptively simple approach could accomplish much. 

The Legionnaires clustered more closely together as they braced for another wave. The pincer maneuver they suddenly found themselves subject to certainly pressed them harder. The cavalry were struggling to keep the Legionnaires from becoming completely surrounded. This focus though also limited their ability to make probing attacks, as Quintus was forced to turtle up in a static defense to avoid being overwhelmed.

The opposing commander even began to integrate “feints” into his strategy—accomplished via careful placement of the orcs sent out to draw Rome’s forces into a bad position. But since these forces didn't even know the meaning of “retreat”, Quintus didn't have the option of calling the feint for what it was. Failing to address the incoming troops would have put him in an even worse position.

He stabbed out again and again, activating [Rend] and [Tear] whenever he felt they were about to drown in orcs. The mass flowed together before him, bellowing with fury as the veins in their eyes threatened to burst.

“Grok is no coward! My clan honorable! Yours—”

He didn’t hear the rest as his blade tore through its face. That was another development he'd noticed. The orcs seemed angrier now. They hadn't been exactly friendly before, as they were obviously enemies. But now? Rather than just battle rage, Quintus couldn't help but see a deep hatred in their eyes as they threw themselves forward. As though Quintus had somehow personally offended them. 

Not that he particularly cared. But it did mean that the orcs tried even harder to break their line. They had to shrink their formation further as the things began leaping over the shield wall and into the center of the Legionnaires. The signs of exhaustion he'd noticed earlier all but disappeared as others kept fighting well past any reasonable limits. 

Still, Quintus and his men persevered. Every hour they spent fighting these things whittled down their numbers further—and it showed. The green mass at the capital’s walls had shrunk visibly. Part of that might have been due to the number that poured over its top and into the city, but the bodies scattered around the field proved it wasn’t the only contributor. Though not all of them were green.

“Reposition!” Quintus ordered as another gaggle of charging orcs slipped by the cavalry. If men had fought like this, they would have broken and run hours ago. And unlike the newly invigorated orcs, his own men were beginning to show their exhaustion.

The horsemen were slowing down as their horses tired. Their riders had long ago started rationing their skill use as the battle dragged on. Worse, that carpet of bodies made for quite the cluttered terrain for the cavalry to navigate. While most of them had a skill for that, not all did. Worse, not all of the bodies were actually dead. Occasionally, a green hand would dart up unexpectedly to catch a horse by the leg or tail, forcing the rider to react quickly or be dragged down with his mount.

Whenever they could, Quintus had the infantry march backwards, pulling the orcs farther and farther from the city and give Devin’s forces some breathing room. But that would only do so much. All of them would need to rest at some point, while the orcs seemed to have gotten their second wind.

Quintus looked up between the rhythmic stabbing of his gladius to see Devin lead his group in another sweep across the field. The man took point in the formation as it hammered into another group of incoming orcs as they pursued another cavalry unit. At the same time, another mob pursued him. It was a chaotic dance as the horsemen simultaneously tried to outrun foes and suppress others, all the while doing their best not to draw pursuers into the path of their allies.

That was when he saw it. Another group of cavaliers on the verge of being overwhelmed, their last few riders just keeping ahead of the orcs. They desperately weaved back and forth, trying fruitlessly to shake the enemies to no avail.

Devin and his group wheeled to assist. But as they turned, they failed to notice another pair of orc assault groups making a beeline for them. In moments, Devin would be surrounded.

Quintus swore under his breath. “Rotate! Everyone with ranged weapon skills, spears out!”

He and others ducked back behind the line as fresher men moved to replace them. Drawing out his throwing spear, Quintus shifted to give himself as much room as possible. It wasn’t as much as he would have liked, but it would have to do.

On his orders, the group hurled the spears toward the nearest group or orcs The long weapons stabbed through the group of orcs, felling a few. But it wasn’t enough. Worse, the group was too close to risk detonating the spears.

“Again!”

The spear reappeared in Quintus’s hand as he readied for another volley. This was too slow. Devin and his group would be overwhelmed before they managed to actually open a hole. They needed to do more damage. Which gave Quintus an idea.

“[Tear]!” He bellowed before the next round was loosed. He didn’t need to explain further. His brothers activated the skill right alongside him before hurling the spears forward again.

He hadn’t really experimented with the skill’s use on other weapons. But in theory, it shouldn’t be limited to just swords. Right?

An invisible force whipped the air around the spears. They rocketed forward, shredding the orcs before they even made impact. Rather than a few individual targets, the resulting spear volley managed to tear a gash through the enemy’s forces.

Devin recognized what was happening and shouted an order to his men. They crashed into their targets before turning and darting through the opening with a sudden burst of speed, just managing to escape the assault. The men met each other’s eyes and exchanged a brief nod of acknowledgement.

A horn blast from the city wall drew Quintus’s attention. He glanced up just in time to see a hailstorm of arrows descend onto the orcs below like a waterfall. The top of the wall had been rendered an entirely different shade of green—that of the forest. The elven legion had been successful.

“To me! Make for the wall!” Quintus shouted. In moments, his forces were reversing course and looping back to push toward the city and a relatively uncontested section of wall. They soon came within range of the elven archers, who added their own efforts to take the pressure off of the cavalry. Waves of orcs went down as limp pincushions.

Rearranging his men, Quintus formed a small break against the pursuers. The horsemen continued to retreat further, their horses foaming as they pulled into the shadow of the wall. The orcs that entered arrow range were quickly cut down by the hundreds of archers on the walls.

Finally, the attacks ceased. The orcish commander seemed to recognize the futility of their mission and stopped sending groups after them. Instead, they did something that Quintus had truly never expected. 

They began to retreat.

The remaining mob of enemies pulled away from the wall suddenly, rushing back toward Corwyn Pass. Only, there was something odd about this retreat. The orcs didn’t appear demoralized or even tired. Instead, they rushed away with the same bloodthirsty bellows that they’d shouted when pursuing Quintus and his forces.

He shook his head. There was no sense in dwelling on it right now. Once they were certain that the enemy had left, Quintus and the others relaxed their shields and shook out their arms. Finally, after hours of fighting, he had a break.

“Status report,” he called to his centurions and the approaching Devin. The young Redcliffe heir looked haggard and bedraggled, though less out of sorts than his men.

“Lost a few,” Devin growled. “Not as many as I feared, though. Will need to count for exact numbers.”

Quintus nodded. It was the same for him. “You seemed surprised by the orcs’ tactics.

“Because I was. That’s a bit more strategy than even I’ve seen them use. Makes me uneasy.” Devin shuddered. “Well, it’s done now. Let’s hope they don’t decide to change their minds and come back…”

Both men began to walk up and down their lines, taking stock of their forces.

***

Marcus continued hurrying through the city’s empty streets. The sounds of bellowing orcs and smashing wood echoed between the buildings, distant yet seemingly everywhere at once.

The noise made it easy to avoid them, thankfully. Every once in a while he’d see evidence of their passing—shattered doors, blood splatters, and glimpses of building interiors that had been carelessly turned over for valuables. He’d also stumbled across the path of one abnormally quiet orc as well—and subsequently been forced to burn a rather potent spell from his book to kill it. But for the most part, his passage went unremarked.

His mission had been progressing more quickly than he’d hoped, albeit a bit less successfully. He’d made his way down the list much faster than expected, but his attempts to persuade the nobles had often fallen on deaf ears. Three had gone so far as to laugh in his face without letting him inside.

Perhaps it shouldn’t have been too surprising. He did have a reputation, especially among these circles, and his claims were admittedly a little outlandish. Even worse was the fact that nobles tended to specialize in charisma and persuasion skills, making his own [Silver Tongue] and [Charm] far less effective than they would have been otherwise. Given all of that, Count Rollo’s response was the more unexpected one by far.

He didn’t have particularly high hopes for his next destination, either. House Aridus was known for being rather stubborn and bullheaded, fervent supporters of Novara and its king. However, political thinking was not exactly their strong suit. A perceived series of slights against the king’s favored wines and artisans had evidently found him on the outs from his inner circle only recently.

Aridus held one of the last major keeps in the city. And while Marcus truly did not expect them to take kindly to his warning, he decided to make an attempt anyway. Though perhaps he’d keep his disguise this time.

However, there was a problem—one that made itself increasingly clear as Marcus continued forward. As he drew nearer to his destination, the grunts and shouts of the invading orcs also grew louder. Before long, he had to dodge between buildings to avoid detection, slowing his progress and making generous use of his [Glamour]s to remain hidden. The main mass of orcs was close enough now that he considered turning back and abandoning this house entirely. Until he turned a final corner and the Aridus estate came into sight.

The front gates to the keep had been thrown wide open. Before it, a line of the noble house’s inhabitants stood ready to defend, their faces set with grim determination. Rows of men and women, some on foot and others astride horses. But these were not all soldiers. The hammers, iron pokers, and rolling pins that many carried made that abundantly clear. These were servants, cooks, and other residents of the estate. A whole assortment of non-combatant classes that had nevertheless gathered to protect their home.

He found himself enraptured by the sight. It was one thing to see those with combat classes fighting off a threat. But the others? It was suicide. They didn’t stand a chance. Why else would most of the city have holed up and hidden away?

Yet [Critical Reception] made it abundantly clear that this was not something they’d been coerced into. Each and every person standing there burned with determination and was ready to give their life in what may well be their last stand.

Marcus quickly dashed into a nearby building and scrambled up to the roof for a better view, just in time to see the main mass of the orc horde round the bend. The path of the invading army took them right toward the assembled Aridus defenders. The knights, fighters, and guards of the house were ready. As soon as the green barbarians came into view, a shouted order spurred the mounted fighters forward in a thunderous charge down the street. Behind them, the infantry readied themselves beside blacksmiths and carpenters. He even spotted a few maids sporting brooms and mops with sharpened handles who held their heads as high as the rest.

Emotion swelled in his breast. Now this was a sight worthy of a ballad. It was stupid, impossible, destined to fail. Yet heroic. The last stand of a loyal noble house against insurmountable odds. And he was fortunate enough to bear witness.

Of course, it would be much better if this wasn't as doomed a mission as it seemed. And so, Marcus decided to try and tip the scales a bit. 

As soon as the orcs spotted the incoming humans, they roared with enthusiasm and charged headlong into the incoming line of horsemen, heedless of their lances. As the two groups rushed to meet each other, Marcus cleared his throat. Then, he began to sing.

Fate stands evermore against us,
Health and virtue swept aside.
Brought low, loyal servants,
Crushed beneath its cruel tide.
So at this, the final hour,
Draw your blades and let them sing—
Fate shall strike the strongest tower,
Let all weep, yet let us ride!

It was a bit of an improvisation—not his preferred method of storytelling. But one that he was adept at nonetheless. He let his [Silver Tongue] flow as he raised his voice, sending an [Inspirational Song] across the battlefield. He already had a firm grasp of what motivated the defenders and where their hearts lay. So tailoring the song to them was a simple matter. The [Glamour] that wrapped this story’s heroes in illusory armor of light was a bit extra, perhaps. But feeling how it bolstered their confidence made the little bit of effort so much more worth it. 

Marcus felt the drain on his stamina at the simultaneous activation of so many skills. But he didn’t let up. It was the least he could do, really. And it wasn't like the orcs particularly cared about him. 

The sound of thundering hooves rang across the city like church bells as the two forces clashed.

B3 Chapter 22: Paratroopers

B3 Chapter 22: Paratroopers

Thak howled with glee as he sailed through the air, flying down toward the city below. He braced as his feet smashed through a thatched roof and a wooden table. He heard his knees crack at the impact. But he hardly cared. They'd probably be fine.

Stretching, Thak grinned broadly and stood. The house was small and disappointingly dull. There was no shiny loot for him to collect. But it wasn't a complete loss. After all, he wasn't alone.

Hardly a minute later, he exited the house, leaving four fresh corpses in his wake. They'd barely put up a flight. Thak would have been disappointed if he hadn't come to expect such cowardice from the cowardly humans. But that was fine. This was just the beginning. 

As he looked up, Thak saw many, many more of his brethren following his example. Green forms dove toward the ground and smashed through buildings just as he had. Some of them splattered against the stony ground in shrieking piles of broken limbs. Thak just grunted at those. If they couldn't survive getting into the city, then they were obviously too weak. And dumb. Thak was smart and aimed for a soft pile of straw atop a house. Though he’d crack the skull of anyone who suggested he wouldn’t have survived otherwise.

A warcry rapidly increased in volume as another orc hurtled to the ground near him. But rather than the ground or a house, this one got unlucky. The orc landed right on a street lamp, impaling himself from stem to stern.

Thak laughed at the dying orc’s flailing. It was truly embarrassing. He wanted to cut down the lamp and bring him to show all of the other lieutenants. But he decided not to. Then he wouldn’t be leading the attack anymore. And he didn’t want some other orc to get his glory.

“To me!” Thak bellowed. His words echoed against the walls of the city with a volume loud enough to cut through even the battle lust. Well, somewhat.

Green figures ran and hobbled towards him, their eyes alight with excitement. The blood splatters across many faces made it clear that he wasn’t the only one who had found humans already. Yet Thak frowned. This was far fewer than he’d expected. Why were they so slow?

His confusion grew as he realized that his brethren were no longer leaping down, either. From this angle, it was hard to see the top, so he couldn’t tell if they were even up there. But he didn’t even see any heads popping over the edge to look down. 

Thak snorted. Cowards. But that was fine. It meant that he and the brothers with him would take more glory for themselves. The strongest warriors had been at the front of the pack, anyway.

Thak bellowed and pointed with his axe, indicating the tall shining castle in the distance. "The puny humans have retreated into their shells! Like… turtles!"

The orcs around him jeered at the blatant cowardice as he continued. “We will crack their shell open and eat their insides!”

“Yes, warchief!”

“Eat the turtles!”

“No, eat the humans!”

“I don’t see any turtles!”

His grand speech was well received as the orcs roared. Thak felt rather proud of himself. Maybe Grund was onto something with his fancy words. Though some part of him was sorry at leaving his brother behind to command the cowards still outside the city.

They began to charge down the broad streets, smashing anything in their way. Horses, abandoned carts, storefronts… None of it was safe. A few orcs peeled off to invade homes or seek the easy prey that filled their nostrils. Even Thak found himself veering off for an occasional snack. They had worked tirelessly over the last few days, after all, and they were hungry.

But overall, Thak worked to keep them moving forward. There would be more humans and more shinies at their destination. At least, that was what Grund had told him. 

***

Once his forces set up an acceptable perimeter, Tiberius finally ventured down into the city. He stepped through the gate with his retinue behind him, only for it to be quickly shut afterwards. There was no sense in leaving a vulnerability like that open. Not when they already had most of the forces they needed inside.

As much as he wanted to do a thorough sweep and clear of the city, such an approach would be ill-advised at the moment. His priority was to move through quickly and stem the flow of orcs, rooting out whatever ones had managed to get inside. Which, between the size of the city and his lack of confidence in the barbarians’ coordination… that might prove more difficult than expected. At the very least, he didn’t expect them to be hard to find.

The men were already working to accomplish their goal. They speared forward through the streets, scouting and securing the area around just enough to ensure their routes and supply lines were clear. It was a rush job, to be sure, but moving any more quickly would simply be foolhardy.

Luckily, they had yet to encounter any real opposition. The populace had already retreated into their homes due to the orc horde and the few scattered individuals who stood guard near estates or homes simply glared at the Legion as they swept through. It seemed that they, too, had no desire to fight unless it was to protect their own. Which was good. It meant that Tiberius didn’t need to waste time with them yet.

He suspected that would not last forever—especially not once the main threat had been dealt with. But who knows? Maybe Marcus and that [Healer] girl would surprise him. He didn’t truly believe that their efforts would result in the capital’s more powerful factions simply rolling over to submit, especially not once the orcs were gone and that initial thrill of fear had left them. After all, compared to that enemy, Rome would surely seem a far more reasonable foe—and one that might be swayed by negotiation. He just needed to make sure that any misconceptions about Novara’s position were set straight.

Still, he wished the pair luck. The less fighting his men had to do, the better.

Tiberius stayed well within the area his men had secured as he made his way toward their other target—the castle. Barricades of wood and stone lined his path on each side, the barriers hastily erected by their engineers and building specialists. Men left at the intersections would ensure that, even if someone were to try and catch them unawares and cut off supply lines, they would not go unopposed. Especially once those men sent word to their brethren.

He glanced up toward the walls. Flashes of forest green were just visible along its top as Sylendor’s men worked to clear them. Having the archers clear the walls was by no means the most optimal setup, not by most conventional thinking. Yet with the incredible accuracy of the elves, they were able to sweep through with astonishing speed. And that was even considering the resilience of the orcs.

The few Novarans willing to challenge the Legion directly were being dealt with as they came. Soon, the elves would hold the entire wall, and Tiberius had no doubt that they would be better suited toward repelling the orcs below than their predecessors. Not that they would be alone. He was rather confident that Quintus and his newly assigned men were already working to make that task even easier. But routing them entirely would take time.

“Sir. Men have begun to report sigils marked outside of certain noble residences,” Lucius relayed.

“Oh?” Tiberius asked curiously.

“Indeed. A few golden eagles, and one red X.”

The emperor nodded. It was just as the bard had promised. Knowing who would be resolutely against them and who could be convinced to surrender would be more of a help than Marcus seemed to realize. Having at least some of Novara’s old infrastructure in place would certainly help to ease the transition and help Tiberius to better bring the populace under their rule. Putting down rebellions could be so tiresome.

But for now, all the nobles would have to wait.

Tiberius stopped to inspect the map of the city being unfurled before him. A few Legionnaires held their hands over it, translating Lucius’s reports to visual representations as he rattled them off. New areas steadily unveiled themselves as the Legion pushed further inwards, their own cartographers and scouts adding information to their own versions of the map. 

A few areas glowed red to indicate conflict, only to flicker out moments later. Likely isolated incidents of rebellion that were quickly dissuaded by a show of force. Tiberius did not let his men pursue beyond a quick chase, as they had other priorities to deal with right now. Best not to thin their forces with unnecessary city fighting yet. The policing work would come later.

It was nearly an hour later that the first men made contact with an orc in the city. The encounter was marked by a sustained red glow until the Legionnaires finally put it down with prejudice.

On one hand, Tiberius would have preferred to take one prisoner for questioning. On the other… the green skinned warriors didn't seem much for talking.

Even though it had only been a single orc, however, the contubernium that had encountered it still didn't emerge unscathed. Two of the men were reported as injured enough to require healing. But following the orcs' none too subtle trail of destruction led them towards more of the things—and made it clear where they were heading.

Tiberius drummed his fingers against his bicep in thought. Could he repeat the tactic they'd already used, allowing the orcs to hurl themselves against the castle and its defenses to test them? Or would it be better to deal with the threat now? 

He grimaced. On paper, it was a good idea. But in reality… The reports made it clear that these orcish forces were loosely organized at best. The further they advanced, the more of their number split off from the main mob to carve their own unpredictable paths through the city. It would mean fewer to fight at once, but would also undoubtedly draw out the task of clearing the city afterwards. Not to mention damage it. And considering that this city actually seemed to have facilities and buildings worth keeping… Tiberius was not particularly fond of that idea.

After another moment of thought, he made a decision. His forces would work to corral the orcs toward the castle as well as they could, surrounding them in a net and erecting obstacles to keep any stragglers from venturing too far. Then, after the invaders had dashed themselves against Novara’s last line of defense, Rome would follow along behind to mop up the remnants.

Turning to Lucius, he gave the orders. Lucius’s gaze went distant as he disseminated the information to Gaius, his officers, and a few of the higher-ranked centurions. After he’d finished, Tiberius spoke again.

“Warn the centurions to ready themselves for a full battle. I expect that the orcs are unlikely to follow our plans as well as we’d like. We will have additional men prepare at select locations in the event that the others need to fall back.”

Returning his attention to the map, he and his aides began to plan, pointing out locations where they could use their numbers to their advantage.

B3 Chapter 21: Door-to-Door Salesman of the End Times

B3 Chapter 21: Door-to-Door Salesman of the End Times

Unfortunately for Marcus, the front gate of Count Rollo’s estate was locked. But unfortunately for Rollo, Marcus had learned quite a few tricks during his exile.

He flicked through his spell book to find one of the many unlocking spells stashed away in the middle. Whispering the incantation aloud, Marcus heard the lock click as the gate slowly swung open.

The noble would surely object to someone breaking into his estate. But the way Marcus saw it, he’d object even more to dying. So he’d call it even.

Marcus hurried toward the main building of the estate and dispelled his [Glamour]. A handful of [Guards] stood watch at the door—mere level 13’s that tensed at his approach.

“Halt!” One shouted, his hand going to the sword at his belt. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

Marcus swept into one of his signature bows, but kept it shallow enough to keep his eyes on the men. “Greetings, friends! I come to speak with Count Rollo about matters of the utmost importance. Would you kindly inform him of my arrival?”

His words were accompanied by a flare of his social skills. Unlike with Bernard, he had absolutely no compunctions against using them in these circumstances. But even then, the men still retained a healthy dose of suspicion.

“And who, exactly, are you?” One eyed him up and down, his brow furrowing as he presumably appraised Marcus.

“My name is Marcus Silvanus D’Angelo,” he readily supplied. “He will recognize the name.”

The guards glanced at each other uncertainly. Then, one jerked his head toward the door. “Inform the count.”

His comrade nodded, hurrying inside as Marcus waited with the rest. Only a few minutes later, he found himself standing before the count in his study.

The rather exhausted-looking noble straightened as he looked Marcus over. “It really is you,” Count Rollo remarked. “I didn't expect to see your face again.”

The Count was a brutish man with a scar pulling at his lip and another crossing his opposite eyebrow. He wore a heavy suit of armor with a blade buckled at his side, evidently prepared for the worst to come. But rather than the decorative pieces that adorned most of the nobility’s estates, these had already seen its share of battles. Of that, Marcus was certain.

The man was a warrior through and through. It was one of the reasons he disliked Marcus so, seeing him as a weak and pompous man—not unlike the Legionnaires, in fact. But despite their mutual distaste for each other, Marcus could not help but have a kind of grudging respect for Rollo. Of all the lords in the city, he was said to be one of the fairest, never imposing such harsh taxes that his peasants could not feed themselves throughout the winter. He also was resolutely single since his wife’s passing and refused to engage in any form of womanizing. Which, now that Marcus thought about it, might have also been a reason that the man didn’t like him.

"Count Rollo,” Marcus affected an open and friendly demeanor, yet injected some seriousness to ensure the man understood the severity of this situation. “It’s good to see you again, as well.”

“Not what I said,” the count replied gruffly. “So? What’s your message? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got bigger things to deal with than exchanging pleasantries with a dead man.”

Marcus sighed inwardly. Always so impatient. It was a wonder the man even tolerated the rest of the capital’s nobility with an attitude like that. Perhaps it was just another symptom of his stubbornness.

“It is less of a message and more of a warning,” Marcus began. As he sensed the count tense and shift toward hostility, he raised his hands placatingly. “I assure you, however, this is no threat or ultimatum. Nor do the ones I deliver this warning on behalf of desire to be your enemies. Rather, it is my attempt to ensure that you are afforded the opportunity to sail upon the rising tides of history rather than have your vessel dashed upon its rocky shores.”

The count rolled his eyes in obvious impatience. “Speak plainly, Marcus, or we’ll be here all day.”

“Very well.” He cleared his throat. “A new Empire with a military that might as well be counted as a cataclysm is taking over Novara as we speak. Once they drive the orcs back and slay the King, they will continue to expand and execute any who try to actively oppose them. Oh, and both Duke Redcliffe and the elves have already subjugated themselves to this country’s ruler.”

Rollo stared at him, his eyes narrowing as though the count were searching for evidence of deceit. When he could find none, he spoke again. “...I’m going to need more elaboration than that.”

Marcus grinned.

And so, he explained. He told the count an abbreviated and slightly embellished version of the Legion’s story so far, excluding his own role in their arrival of course. He dove into their history and their gods, the elves, and even some of the strange evidence of their empire’s previous existence in these lands.

He emphasized the parts that Rollo would likely find the most compelling. Namely, their strong sense of responsibility, competence, and, of course, battle strength. The man seemed particularly impressed by the honor and rewards granted to the first over the wall during battle.

He did try to keep it somewhat brief though. After all, this wasn’t the only stop on Marcus’s list.

“Hm.” Count Rollo frowned in thought as Marcus concluded his tale. “And you claim their military is strong? How strong?”

Marcus did not want to give away too much. So rather than explaining the underlying mechanisms of the Legion’s strength, he took a different approach.

“Allow me to put it this way. These are the titles of a single one of their common footsoldiers…”

He began listing off the titles one by one. Tiberius had asked about many of them during their talks, and Gaius had filled in the gaps. Count Rollo’s eyes widened with each successive title, and by the eighth, he had gone pale.

“Impossible. Multiple Bane titles at such high ranks? Even a single one of those would be the culmination of a dedicated man's entire life. And yet you claim their least soldier has all of them?” Rollo shook his head. “This is no time to spin tales, bard.”

Marcus raised a hand. “I all the gods to confirm my statement—the titles I have listed are, to the best of my knowledge, all possessed or exceeded by the youngest and freshest Legionnaire of the First Legion of the Roman Empire.”

Of course, he didn’t mention the fact that the titles themselves were earned via the Legion’s pooled efforts. Though he suspected even that caveat wouldn’t do much to minimize the impressiveness of it all.

Rollo tapped a finger on the pommel of his sword. “And their strongest?”

“They have even more accolades besides,” Marcus confirmed. “Why, I hear that one of their top leaders has [Born to Fight], if that’s any indication of their abilities in a battle.”

The man swore as Marcus simply smirked. Count Rollo would’ve been counted as impressive if he had half a dozen basic titles or a handful of high-rank ones. So this was simply unheard of.

“And they’ve been here for less than a year. So imagine what they will look like in a decade,” Marcus prodded.

"And there are six thousand of them?" Count Rollo asked.

Marcus nodded. The noble sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I understand your point. But,” Rollo held up a hand to forestall and further words from Marcus. “I will not simply roll over and submit in the face of overwhelming odds. Not if it means placing my people under the heel of a tyrant.”

“Like the current king?” Marcus raised a questioning eyebrow. Rollo’s eyes narrowed.

“As much as I may… disagree… with some of my lord’s choices, the fact remains that Novara is one of the few countries in the land where humans are able to live in peace. Regardless of its current state, it remains better than the alternative.”

That sounded like coping to Marcus, but who was he to judge? Instead, he continued. “Well, luckily for you, the Romans seem to me to be far more reasonable. They have their own brand of fairness and readily extend it to any who readily take their side. Which is quite a good idea, considering the alternative.” He visibly shuddered to emphasize the point. “And I am quite interested in seeing how this novel system of governance of theirs plays out. Though considering that it does not seem to involve any recognizable sort of nobility… I don’t entirely know what will happen to Novara’s current court once they take over. Hence why I am here.”

“If they take over.” The count corrected. He then crossed his arms. “But very well. What do they want from me?"

"Unconditional surrender," Marcus said. "Such that your oath of fealty will be transferred to them. If you do that, then you and yours will not be harmed. They seem to prefer assimilating their conquered lands rather than massacring them. But, and this is very important, you must surrender before anything else. If you attempt to fight them off or engage in battle, then your surrender will only buy indentured servitude, death, or worse.”

“Strange custom,” Rollo muttered. “But I understand. It’s not as though I have men to fight them off, anyway. Most of mine are busy on the wall.”

“Which is quite fortunate, considering that there’s likely nothing we could do to stop them anyway.” Marcus delivered the last line with a cheerful smile, as though he weren’t admitting that they were all screwed.

A moment later, Rollo nodded. "Very well. I will speak with the representative when they come. I suspect that you do not have the authority to negotiate on their behalf.”

The assumption rankled slightly, but Marcus was too much of a professional to let it show. “Correct. I would expect a visit sooner rather than later.”

“Understood. I make no promises either way. I would rather see these men in action for myself before making any true commitments. But… I appreciate the warning. Thank you.”

The man stood, offering a hand for Marcus to shake. The gesture caught him a little off guard. Rollo well knew that Marcus was of common birth. For him to make overtures as though they were equals…

Marcus clasped the hand and met the man's eyes. A more genuine smile leaked through his expression. "Very well. Then, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave. I have many more to visit on my list.”

The guards saw Marcus out. As the front gate closed behind him, he turned to see the men heading back to their own posts at the count’s manor. Once Marcus was certain that he was out of sight, he turned toward one of the gateposts.

A piece of yellow chalk appeared from his sleeve. Deftly, he drew on the post to indicate the count’s disposition toward the Legion. A signal to The Legionnaires that the man would be open to negotiations.

He stepped back and eyed his work. It looked… vaguely birdlike. If one squinted a bit.

Frowning, Marcus scrubbed the marking away and tried again. He'd never been much for drawing. His artistic abilities lay in other areas. But he was all but certain that the Legionnaires would never let him live down such a poor illustration.

Tilting his head, he tried again. This time, he activated [Performance] as he drew. He focused on drawing as though it were an act meant for an audience, its result the climax of a dazzling display of artistry more akin to dancing.

This time, when he stepped back, the results were far more recognizable. A small golden eagle, its wings spread wide as it proudly puffed out its chest. Distinct, but subtle enough to not draw undue attention.

Nodding with satisfaction, Marcus moved on to the next estate.

B3 Chapter 20: A Lite Drink

B3 Chapter 20: A Lite Drink

Marcus had never in his life seen the streets of the capital so empty. Not in all his years. Even when there were major events taking place elsewhere, there always remained a steady stream of those who opted not to attend in favor of getting ahead on their work. But now? The city was practically a ghost town. If not for the lack of carnage, he would have thought that the orcs had already come through and slaughtered everyone.

Despite being physically nearby, the orcs had always been a rather distant threat to these people. Out of sight, out of mind, as the saying went. The idea that they could possibly make it this far was unfathomable to the point that it hardly warranted consideration.

At least, until it suddenly did.

His steps sounded far too loud as he hurried down the paved roads, the dull roar of battle echoing through the air. Occasionally, he'd see a flicker of movement in a window or hear the distant clatter of marching footfalls as the Legionnaires spread out to secure the city. But for the most part, his passage through the city went unremarked and uncontested.

That didn’t mean that Marcus was taking any chances, however. He’d adopted a disguise for this little mission, as well as obscured a few of his more distinct features with a [Glamour]. Just to avoid tempting any opportunistic types from trying to claim the bounty on his head. Here in the epicenter of the country, it would be stupid to do anything less.

He quickly weaved through alleys and streets, keeping to the shadows and out of sight where he could. Eleonora had already split off and made for the Adventurer's Guild headquarters. She hoped to explain the situation to them and head off any attempts to send parties after the Legion. Well, assuming they would. It was entirely possible that every adventurer in the city had either fled or was already occupied with the orc problem.

How successful she would be remained to be seen. She was only a bronze rank adventurer, yet she’d also gained quite a few levels in her time with the Romans. That strength would likely be worth something at least.

Marcus, though? He had other priorities.

After a few minutes of hurrying, he slipped onto another broad thoroughfare and stopped in front of a tavern. A metal sign hanging above identified the place as The Gilded Lily. It was a relatively fine establishment—nice enough that drunkards only seeking cheap ale would venture elsewhere, yet catered to the common folk enough to attract higher-class nobles that felt like slumming it for a night. At least, it had been when Marcus was last here.

Finding the front door boarded up, he slipped soundlessly around to the back. A hidden latch revealed a false bottom in one of the barrels stacked there, and Marcus quickly slipped inside. In moments, he was inside one of the place’s rooms and stepping into the common area of the establishment.

It was just as he recalled. Only the faintest bit of light streamed in from between the boarded windows, but it was enough to make out the clean wooden tables and their unmarred surfaces. Rows of bottles ranging from the finest crystal to the cheapest of spirits lined the shelves behind the bar. Overhead, hanging chandeliers of extinguished candles swung slowly and ponderously in the gloom. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

His eyes were still adjusting to the dimness when he felt a sharp point press firmly against his back. “We’re closed. Or didn’t you see the front?”

Marcus slowly raised his hands. “Easy. I mean neither you nor the Lily any harm. I’m just looking to enjoy a drink with an old friend.”

There was a pause. “That voice…”

Reaching up, Marcus slowly lowered his hood and dropped his [Glamour]. He smiled over his shoulder. “Good to see you, Bernard. Have you been well?”

The pressure on Marcus’s back eased, then disappeared altogether as Bernard stepped back. “Marcus? The fuck are you doing back? You got a death wish, mate?”

“Oh, far from it.” The bard chuckled and turned as his old friend slipped the dagger back into his belt. “I’m just looking to catch up. You know, hear the latest news.”

“Odd time for that…” Bernard muttered.

“Some would argue it’s the best time,” Marcus quipped.

The willowy man shook his head with a sigh. “Might as well. Not like I’m doin’ much else but waiting for the damn greenskins to sweep on through…”

Bernard led Marcus to the bar, plucking a pair of glasses from beneath it. The glass frosted over in his grip as Bernard deftly swiped a bottle of rather expensive spirits from one of the shelves and began to pour. “So. Aside from the obvious news… what do you wanna hear about?”

Marcus grinned. “What else? I've gone far too long without my fix of courtly intrigue. Surely there have been some rather interesting developments in my absence.”

The man gave him a flat look. “Really, Marcus? Don't even try to tell me you came all this way just to get your fix of gossip.*

“Unfortunately, no.” The bard’s jovial smile fell as he adopted a more serious expression. “Far from it.”

When he refused to elaborate, Bernard eventually relented. The man sighed again. “Fine, fine. Well, you got one thing right—there have been a lot of changes…”

Over the next few minutes, the tavern keeper gave him a summary of what Marcus had missed. Quite a lot, as it turned out—and not much of it any surprise. Businesses closing and others finding themselves flush with opportunities, depending on how openly they pandered to the king. Some nobles executed and others that had expanded their territory for the same reasons.

Bernard had always been Marcus’s premier source on such matters. Unbeknownst to most, the man had deep ties to Novara and its spy network. But the changing winds of politics that accompanied the king’s ascension had seen him step down from that role—rather forcefully. The tavern had always been his retirement plan, though he did like to keep abreast of things even now. Especially given that information dealing made for quite a lucrative side business.

“And what of Count Rollo?” Marcus asked. “Is he still around?”

Bernard scoffed as he swirled his glass. “Barely. His son was in here complaining just a few days before those bloody orcs showed up. Apparently the king was trying to demand another levy. Mind you, that’s nothing unusual at this point, but when they already don't have enough peasants to farm the land?  The harvest will be short this year simply because they don't have the hands to pull it out of the ground. I would say the king is trying to intentionally bring the family to ruin, but at this point? I honestly think he’s just put all the smart advisers in the dungeon to rot. Not like he’s ever been much for coming up with his own plans.”

Marcus nodded, letting the casual insults of the king pass without comment. If there was anyone who Bernard could afford to speak so freely with, it was him.

After their conversation, he felt as though he had a much better understanding of Novara’s current landscape. In general, people seemed relatively unhappy. Which was, in Marcus’s eyes, actually a good thing. It was something he could take advantage of.

“But enough about all that,” Bernard began to change the subject. “I’m more curious about you. When did you get back? And why? Even without the orcs looking to sweep on through, this place isn’t safe for you. I thought you valued your head more than that.”

Marcus made his expression unreadable. He had to choose his words carefully. Anything he said here would spread—for good or for ill. Which was why he had to make a strong case to the man.

Marcus set down his drink with a sigh. “My friend. Of all my concerns, that one is the least of them—and even it will cease to be soon enough. We are on the cusp of a new era’s dawn. Novara is not long for this world, I fear. Yet its fall will not be due to the orcs.”

“Ah. You mean the other army on our doorstep?” Bernard asked. At Marcus's nod, the man snorted. “Huh. As bad a turn as the king did you, armed rebellion is quite the escalation. I never took you for the type.”

“I’m not,” Marcus answered honestly. “But certain… circumstances… have swept me up in the changing tides of history. I’ll admit, while I make my coin from the telling of legends and epic tales, I truly never thought to witness one myself—much less be a part of it.”

“Dramatic as always…” Bernard grumbled and refilled their drinks. “Who are they, anyways? It’s no faction that I’m familiar with, and their gear is too professional to be some ragtag group of rebels.”

“They are Roman Legionnaires. Citizens of the Roman Empire and beholden to Emperor Tiberius Rufius Maro.”

He snorted. “A new country? What, did they just pop up out of thin air?”

“Essentially, yes. It’s… a long story.” One Marcus wasn’t particularly keen on sharing his part in. “But don’t be fooled by their levels. They intend to carve out land for their budding empire. And based on what they’ve managed so far? I’m not entirely certain they can be stopped.”

“You really think those opportunists can take the capital? I’ll give you that the place is in rough shape right now, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy. Especially when it comes to taking the castle. And that’s not even considering that they’ll have to deal with the orcs, too.”

“I’m certain of it.” Marcus replied without hesitation. “I’ve seen them accomplish things I thought to be impossible. I don’t see why this should be any different. Besides, they're already inside the city and taking it over as we speak. Though I'm certain you already know that.”

“And the king? What do you suppose they’ll do with him, should they be successful?”

Marcus schooled his expression. “As I said, that problem will likely cease to be soon enough.”

Bernard studied Marcus for a long moment as he continued to sip his drink. As much as the bard would have liked to crank [Charm] to the max for this conversation, he knew better. Bernard had a skill that allowed him to detect such influences, and he certainly wouldn’t take kindly to the manipulation. Luckily, [Silver Tongue] didn’t seem to have the same drawback in his experience. Between it and the rapport they had, Marcus could only hope that it was enough.

“The timing seems quite convenient,” Bernard mused. “These soldiers appearing just as the orcs did. Almost like it was planned.”

Marcus met his eyes evenly. “Friend, believe me when I say that such subterfuge would be unnecessary. They do not ally themselves with the orcs. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if they turn their attention to conquering their lands next.”

A sound like an avalanche of thunderbolts rang out as though to punctuate Marcus's words. The noise made both men jump in their seats.

“The hells was that?” Bernard hissed.

Marcus chuckled. “Proof.”

The tavern keeper gave him a sidelong glance as the distant artillery barrage continued. His demeanor turned serious. “Fine. Let's say I believe your story, crazy as it may be… What do you want from me?”

Marcus smiled. “Aside from the information you've already shared? I need your network. When the Romans take over, I'd much prefer to reduce the bloodshed that ensues. Making sure that people are prepared, warning them and convincing them not to do anything rash… Though persuasion is my specialty, I am but one man.”

“How magnanimous.” Bernard said flatly. “I see that levels aren't the only thing you gained in your time away. Who'd have expected you to grew a heart?”

The bard adopted a wounded expression. “I’ve always had a heart, my friend! Why, it’s the very reason I found myself fleeing this fine town to begin with!”

“Right, because fucking the king’s daughters was clearly what your heart demanded, not your dick.” The man rolled his eyes, not buying Marcus’s explanation for a second.

Marcus just shook his head with a smile. His motives for his present endeavor were considerably less altruistic than Bernard suggested. But he didn't want to correct the man's assumption.

"All I ask is that you spread the word. And quickly. As I said, they are already inside the city. It won't be long until their presence is more keenly felt. And though their current focus will undoubtedly be to repel the orcs and uproot the king, I would not presume that such efforts will take long. Who knows? There might be opportunities for those who ingratiate themselves to the new empire.”

“Right, right,” Bernard waved dismissively. “You can stop with the whole sales pitch. I'll see what I can do.”

Inwardly, Marcus couldn't help but feel a bit of relief. Having Bernard’s support would make this venture many times easier. The man’s connections were nothing to scoff at, reaching from the high court all the way down to gangs of street rats. At least, assuming he hadn’t lost his touch.

“...Before you go, there’s one more thing you might find interesting.” The tavern keeper paused. “A few days back, the king ‘wisely’ decided to pull back the city’s strongest fighters to the castle. The place was lost anyway, so he chose to make a last stand and protect the castle. That’s the charitable explanation, anyway.”

That caught Marcus’s attention. The Legionnaires had mentioned a sudden disappearance of some of the defenders on the wall. This would certainly explain it.

Bernard continued. “...But not everyone was invited to the party. Plenty of nobles got left out in the cold when the gates closed. Most are hunkering down just like the rest of us, but the good ones are sending their men to fight off the orcs. I wouldn’t be surprised if some find themselves happy to see the man get what he deserves. Might even have a personal interest in the matter.”

Marcus smiled. “That, my friend, is exactly the kind of insight I come to you for.”

***

After quickly finishing his drink—it would have been a crime to waste it—Marcus bid Bernard farewell and headed for his next stop. The man had given him a list of names and noble houses that might be sympathetic to the Roman occupation efforts. The list was not a particularly long one, as any noble family that wasn’t at least somewhat loyal to the king had been chased out of the city long ago. Still, it would take Marcus time to cover them all.

Before long, he found himself standing before a grand estate near the city’s center. Count Rollo’s estate.

He grimaced. He’d never been a big fan of the family. Their patriarch in particular always rubbed him the wrong way. Not to mention that he wasn’t exactly a patron of the arts, as one look at his austere estate made clear.

But tempting as it was to skip over the place entirely, Marcus couldn’t bring himself to do so. He disliked the man, true, but not enough to wish death upon him. And he held no illusions that the Novaran nobles would be quite high on the Romans’ own list for execution once all this was over. Assuming, of course, that Marcus didn’t make quite the strong case against it.

He suppressed a sigh. This would not be an enjoyable visit. But perhaps Bernard was right. Maybe Marcus had grown a heart, or at least a sense of duty, over the past few months.

Stepping forward, he began walking toward the estate’s front gate.

B3 Chapter 19: Send in the Cavalry

B3 Chapter 19: Send in the Cavalry

Despite being designated as the ostensible leader of the Redcliffe cavalry, Quintus quickly realized there was a problem. He didn’t actually have a horse. Nor did any of the Legionnaires, for that matter.

Luckily, he apparently didn’t need one.

The thunder of hoofbeats cantered next to Quintus as marched alongside them, his feet blurring with supernatural speed. The century he’d brought as backup followed close behind. Most of the Legionnaires with him were support staff of scouts, communications specialists, and more utility-based Legionnaires. However, they were all still Legionnaires. Marching in formation with Quintus, they showed no hesitation as they bore down upon the horde of orcs.

More problematic than his lack of a horse was the matter of actually winning his new subordinates over. They’d developed a bit of grudging respect in the wake of the spars Quintus had insisted on, which certainly helped. But a lifetime’s worth of looking down upon infantrymen—literally and figuratively—was not so easily overcome. Although being able to keep pace with their mounts also seemed to silence some of their more obvious grumblings.

But as much as Quintus hated to admit it, they did have a bit of a point. He was an expert centurion, able to make the best use of his infantry, archers, and even their skills in combat. Even his understanding of the shield wall, positioning, and the proper timing with which to rotate troops out was up there with the best of them. Yet commanding a cavalry unit, much less one of this size? That was something he had never learned.

Of course, he knew the general basics of how to use cavalry in tactics. But that was mostly borne from fighting against them. Forming heavy square phalanxes to defend against charges, how to harry cavalry once they had lost their momentum, how to avoid light cavalry harrying them, and how to mob horses and bring them down as a group. But using the land to screen their approach and hide three hundred horses amongst the hills and forests, all while not alerting the enemy? It was one thing to do that with men, another with animals of this size.

As they made for the battlefield, Quintus got a better view of the orcs’ progress. There were still thousands of the barbarians pressed up against the walls or trying to fight for a spot on the now dozen or so ladders. Those nearest to the wall beat at it with crude clubs and hammers, growing the honestly impressive spiderweb of cracks along its surface even further.

Quintus’s forces made their way to the top of the nearest hill and readied themselves. He turned to Devin and gave a single sharp nod. The man returned it, then shouted.

“Lances ready!”

The cavalry set their lances, shifting in their saddles as they focused on the task before them. Devin looked to Quintus and waited for the order. The man was incredibly competent and knew not just cavalry tactics, but how to command his men. And they loved him for it. It was clear that they saw Devin as more than a man they were obligated to listen to. This was their beloved leader, who had seen them through countless victories and rallied them after the rare defeat. In a way, the man reminded him of a younger, more brash Tiberius.

Though Quintus was officially in command, he saw no reason to waste the abilities of a skilled leader like that. Yet he was well aware of the risks in keeping the man in a position of authority. He would be careful not to let discontent or rebellion grow on his watch. And proving to them his own worth as a commander was part of that.

Quintus maneuvered his century aside as they split off from the cavalry. They would not be charging in, but would act as a screening force. They’d herd the orcs as they retreated—or, more likely, charged toward the Legionnaires with unrestrained hostility—and allow the cavalry to make a clean break to wheel around the orcs again from a different direction. After all, they’d all seen what the orcs were capable of. Some of them could move far more quickly than they had any right to, especially over short distances. They would need to be careful about disengaging properly.

The Legionnaires organized into a double-layered L shape, ready to move into position as the cavalry charged. Then, they heard the signal. The firing of the siege weapons.

A storm of wooden and metal spears screamed through the air, carving a swath in their wake. Their force was enough to pierce through multiple lines of orcs and carry them along like pieces of meat on a skewer. An entire section of the orcs’ line was pushed back from the impacts. And that was before the comparatively slower-moving boulders and trap balls landed amongst their number, exploding into pointed and barbed pieces of shrapnel.

Quintus blinked at the display. He’d seen the tests of these weapons before. In fact, it was his encouragement that spurred much of the innovation on display. But seeing them used against targets was one thing. In battle, against actual enemies, and in dense volleys like this? It was something else.

He also noted the not insignificant amount of specialty and enchanted ammunition being used. It seemed that Tiberius was taking no chances with the orcs’ resilience.

Despite the damage inflicted, the orcs hardly seemed to notice the first round of artillery fire, nor the second that came right on its heel. By the third, however, they’d managed to shift their focus away from the city and toward their new aggressors. A mass of green broke off to charge toward the siege weapons that continued to hammer their brethren.

“On your mark,” Quintus ordered Devin. The man smiled grimly. With a rallying shout that rippled across his men, a living tide of horses rushed down the hill and toward the running orcs. A burst of speed sent them hurtling forward like shooting stars at a speed that even Quintus couldn’t hope to match.

The centurion couldn’t help but appreciate the sight. For a moment, just before impact, the horsemen seemed to float above their saddles, their lances couched and their knees bent to absorb the shock. Some of the orcs had turned to face the cavalry, drawn out of their bloodlust enough to recognize the threat and shout warnings to their comrades. But even as they raised their weapons, the sounds of hoofbeats seemed to fade into silence as first of the lances struck.

They made impact just after the fourth volley. A thunderous crash like that of a catapult bringing down a wall sounded across the battlefield, audible in the pause between artillery volleys. Lightning arced through the green mass and the horses continued through the first rank of stunned orcs as if they were naught but paper. In fact, rather than slowing down, the horses accelerated, spurred forward through the mass by skills.

But the cavalry didn’t stop there.  They were already wheeling off in two directions as the second wave of cavalry followed close behind, slamming into the orcs and preventing them from getting any hits on the first wave. The result was a continuous motion like a snake uncurling.

The heavy cavalry was a breathtaking sight.  In their old world, the Legion primarily used horsemen such as these in an auxiliary role. But now? Quintus could understand why one might choose to make the units their focus.

As the cavalry began to peel away and toward Quintus, the final line of horses left a trail of flames in their wake—along with hundreds of orc bodies. But Quintus was not naive enough to think that they were done.

Many of the bodies that he’d assumed were dead began to stumble to their feet, wounds closing before their eyes. The orcs surged forward suddenly as one, howling in rage. Their eyes were bloodshot and unfocused from the battle lust that Devin had warned him of. They leapt after the wheeling cavalry, heedless of the flames as they grabbed for Devin’s men. Ephemeral barriers briefly sprang into place, though a few were still pulled from their horses and disappeared into the braying mob.

Quintus yelled, and his men repositioned slightly. The horses hurtled straight toward the wall of shields, showing no intention of stopping. At the very last moment, they leaped high into the air, landing behind the Legionnaires and leaving them to welcome the orcs. Blades sprouted between the black and gold rectangles of their [Coordinated Bulwark] as the men stabbed at their foes, leaving stripes of red along green skin that weren’t nearly as deep as Quintus would have expected. They felt the vibrations of the orcs’ blows as the lead cavalry wheeled around for another charge.

The ground shook as the heavy cavalry slammed into the orcs only a couple of paces away from the shield wall, shearing off a mass like a glacier falling into the ocean. Only those intimately engaged with the Legionnaires remained behind. The charge gave Quintus and his Legionnaires an opening to disengage and pull back.

But this was only half of the cavalry. The other half had split into their smaller groups of ten and were doing light raids at the edge of the horde, distracting them and keeping their attention while the others maneuvered. Given the tendency of orcs to string themselves out across the battlefield, these smaller groups were able to take advantage of that vulnerability and punch through, thinning out the numbers further.

Throughout it all, the siege weapons had continued to fire on the orcs massed near the wall. A few of the more accurate crews aimed volleys at the approaching orcs as well, surgical strikes that weaved between allies with incredible precision. Quintus saw a group of orcs crumple to the ground as their heads exploded into gory mush. Yet short of that, a disheartening number of their attacks either had little effect or healed within minutes.

Nevertheless, they continued fighting. The cavalry continuously punched through the enemy over and over, like a needle pushing through fabric, leaving a pattern of churned earth and wounded in their wake.

“Reposition!” Quintus shouted. The Legionnaires disengaged and moved into a new formation, a square three men deep. He was quickly beginning to realize that the orcs may as well be treated like cavalry in their own right, considering their size and how they hurled themselves at their opponents. Disorganized cavalry, but cavalry nonetheless. He could feel the sheer force whenever they hit the shield wall and decided to shore up their defenses before it was too late.

Another scattering of orcs bashed themselves against the Legionnaires like boulders hurled against a wall. Fewer of them this time. Quintus could hear Devin shouting orders over the din, orchestrating the small units of cavalry as they continued to lead the orcs around by the nose. They worked to ensure that the Legionnaires were never surrounded or overwhelmed.

“Hey! Nice teeth there, friend. They’ll look great on my belt!” One of Quintus’s men called out a [Taunt] to redirect a group of orcs that were on a collision course with a cavalry unit. Yet the green barbarians remained entirely unphased. They continued forward as though he hadn’t even spoken.

Quintus frowned, then hurled a spear at them. It struck true, taking one orc in the side. That did the trick. He and his nearby brethren snapped their heads toward their newest aggressor and began to charge the shield wall. Evidently, actions spoke louder than words in this case. Before they reached the wall they were scattered by the same group of horses, making their impact more than manageable.

The constant back and forth slowly began to whittle down the enemy and spread them out across the battlefield. Alone and in small groups, the orcs proved far easier to manage. It was like defending against thrown stones rather than an avalanche.

As the orcs drew closer to where the siege weapons were stationed, they scattered even further to seek out targets. And after a few more rounds of fire, the Legionnaires manning the weapons fell back. The wooden siege engines burst into flames as the men retreated.

The precaution was perhaps a bit overkill. No one expected the orcs to actually use the weapons against Rome. Still, it was better to be paranoid than have a veritable hailstorm of ballista bolts aimed at their own backs.

Besides, it wasn't much of a loss. Quintus knew that these engines were designed such that building them in the field was simple. Replicating them would be easy enough. Especially given that this area actually had trees.

He sank his gladius into a weak spot on an orc’s neck, twisting the blade and smoothly beheading it with a quick activation of [Tear], then glanced briefly toward Devin. The younger Redcliffe darted about and remained just as involved in the battle as Quintus himself did. 

He and his men were no strangers to fighting the orcs—although to his understanding, much of their fighting had been atop walls rather than up close like this. Still, the Novarans’ understanding of their longtime enemies clearly showed through. The small units were perfect for assisting each other, oftentimes luring a large band of orcs to give chase while another unit came from the side, smashing in and grinding the pursuing orcs into paste.

Quintus directed his men, moving about the field in tandem with the cavalry to mop up the orcs as they scrambled like angry ants. They made good progress, too. As the battle dragged on, Quintus began to see the first signs of exhaustion finally set in for the orcs. Their eyes lost some of their red haze as the effects of their frenzy wore off. Cuts that would have barely registered before now bled freely, healing more slowly as well. With clever placement of his attacks, Quintus found that he could actually disable the enemies more easily than before.

But then something changed.

Groups of orcs began splitting off from the forces attacking the wall. Yet these weren’t just aimless groups looking for another fight. They made a beeline towards the Legion’s position. 

If they were anyone else, Quintus would have assumed the commander was aiming to isolate the infantry. Footsoldiers generally had more difficulty retreating, after all, and removing them as a safe haven for the cavalry to regroup behind meant they were the perfect target. It was a surprisingly competent decision.

Devin’s cavalry harried their edges to dissuade them. Yet the orcs refused to turn aside, as though they actually had a mission in mind—one that they wouldn’t give up on so easily.

Soon after, Quintus noticed more of these groups splitting off as well. Each one followed a similar pattern, yet a different trajectory. And when put together… Those trajectories resembled an honest-to-gods flanking maneuver.

It was enough to make Quintus's hair stand on end.

B3 Chapter 18: Into the Breach

B3 Chapter 18: Into the Breach

The commanders of the Roman forces gathered to watch the ongoing assault, keeping close tabs on the orcs' progress. The officers of both legions waited with anticipation, ready to act on their Legatus’ orders and begin their own attack. The few former Novarans with them wore tight expressions as their own anticipation built for different reasons. 

Soon enough, Tiberius saw it. An orc reached the top of the wall, then another. Slowly, the defenders found themselves losing ground to the attacking horde.

It was hardly the first time the orcs had gained a foothold. However, this time was different. The defenders were tired, weakened, and without reinforcements. Which meant that this time, the incursion would not be so easily repelled.

“It’s time,” Tiberius said simply. At his words, the commanders saluted 

There was no horn blast or roar of men to accompany their assault. Rather, they moved quietly and efficiently toward the city walls. Considering the orcs’ appetite for battle, Tiberius suspected that they may well divert their attention away from their current goals if they saw Rome’s forces. Just one more benefit to attacking the opposite end of the city, out of their sight.

Not that his men were being particularly stealthy. They simply utilized the massive wall and the surrounding terrain to their advantage. Though whatever noise was produced by moving thousands of troops likely went unnoticed beneath the bellows, hollers, and sounds of active battle coming from across the way. 

Unlike the orcs, the Novarans were able to see the Legion’s approach clear as day. A few fighters near the fringes diverted to address the new incoming force, only to be summarily dealt with by the elven archers from afar. The rest of the Novarans had bigger problems.

Siege towers sped toward the walls, their movement aided by the skills of their engineers and the stats of the Legionnaires themselves. Dozens upon dozens of ballistae, trebuchets, catapults, and other weaponry stood ready to attack, just in case something went wrong. But they weren’t needed yet. Nor did it seem that they would be.

Of course, they could have used some of the heavier artillery to punch a hole right through the wall. But on top of being unnecessary, it would open up an easy path for the orcs to swarm through as well. They would be easier to manage so long as their approach remained bottlenecked like it was.

Tiberius’s attention alternated between watching the men maneuver into place and the progress of the orcs. The green-skinned barbarians were making quite admirable time. They’d noticed some time ago that the smaller orcs, the ones who were consistently muscled away from the ladders by their brethren, had been corralled enough to build more ladders at a different location along the wall. It split the defenders, just as Tiberius would have—though those ladders had been quickly commandeered by the larger orcs as well.

It was quite a revealing move. The fact that the smaller orcs seemingly hadn’t considered this possibility was a testament to their shortsightedness. But the fact that they could be maneuvered to do such a thing in the first place… It seemed that their commander not only understood the stupidity of his own forces, but knew how to exploit it. 

Of course, the Legion had managed to locate the orcish commander with relative ease. It was not difficult to pick out the largest, burliest orc of them all. But Tiberius suspected that there was something else at play here. The “commander” showed no signs of the intelligence he expected, most of his orders seeming to consist of emphatic and largely useless commands to charge forth and attack. So who was truly pulling the strings?

He had men working to answer that very question. But the fact remained that it was a losing battle for Novara. In fact, the only reason the city hadn’t fallen sooner was the dogged determination of the defenders atop the wall. It was easy to underestimate the abilities of a man who fought to protect his home.Especially when that man sported several skills dedicated to doing just that.

Considering their current pace, the Roman forces should be able to sweep through the city just in time to staunch the flow of incoming orcs. Assuming neither side had any additional surprises to pull out, of course.

In the meantime, Tiberius watched as the defenders started to pull back to the towers in the wall, ceding an entire section to the orcs for the first time. They doubtless intended to hold them against the enemy and keep the invasion from descending into the city.

Most of the orcs pursued the humans with howls of pure bloodlust. But not all of them. Many of them decided to take a shortcut.

“Sir!” One of the officers pointed. “The orcs…”

Tiberius swore. Clusters of the muscled idiots began to leap over the wall, disappearing down the other side and into the city. He would have rejoiced at their obviously suicidal intentions if he hadn’t watched them survive worse up until this point.

“That is… certainly a tactic,” Gaius muttered. “I don’t suppose the Novarans have a spike pit at the base of their wall, do they?”

Duke Redcliffe shook his head, face pale. “Not as far as I’m aware.”

The distant sound of terrified screams confirmed his words. Evidently, at least some of the borderline suicidal orcs had survived the drop. Which did not bode well for anyone. It seemed that their timetables had been moved up.

“Have the men rush their advance,” Tiberius ordered. “Sweep through the city quickly before the orcs are able to spread out. Gaius, prepare the artillery to thin their numbers, then take field command of the first legion. Take an aide with you to receive further orders as necessary. Quintus, prepare the cavalry to intercept the enemy outside the city where their numbers are thinnest. Sylendor, have your men take the top of the wall. Coordinate with the first legion to  contain them. Move!”

The orders went out in a rush as the commanders hurried to obey. They dispersed toward their men, the orders already moving ahead of them courtesy of messaging skills, as the emperor frowned. He had expected the orcs to go for the stairs or even pull the ladders before using them to descend. But they’d seen the orcs’ resilience. All of them had. He should have expected them to utilize a tactic like this.

The siege weaponry swung around to aim at the orcs as a cohort moved to protect their position. But they didn’t fire yet. Once they began, the orcs were certain to begin rushing headlong at their new aggressors. Which was why Tiberius wanted to wait until everyone was in the best position they could be.

Legionnaires swarmed up the towers and onto the walls in a stream of red and forest green. But this was no chaotic sprawl as the orcish assault had been. Rome’s forces moved with speed and efficiency that had them up and in position in a flash. Sylendor’s forces split off as they reached the top, moving quickly to secure its circumference and move toward the breach.

It wasn’t a moment too soon. A veritable flood of orcs now waterfalled over the edge and down into the towers. As soon as the elves were within range, they began raining volleys of arrows upon the orcs. As the attacks drew attention, the elves focused their efforts, those in front kneeling to allow a solid wall of empowered projectiles to tear through the oncoming attackers.

Tiberius watched for a moment longer before repositioning as well. Remaining anywhere near the siege engines when they fired was simply asking for trouble. Besides, if he wanted to maintain a good vantage, then he’d need to move inside the city. As soon as an area was secured, of course. Though judging by the men’s speed and the lack of Novaran resistance, they should have a base established by the time he arrived.

The fact that the orcs were already inside the city put a wrinkle in things. But it was merely an inconvenience. If anything, this would simply cull the Novaran defenders further. And even though the orcs could clearly survive a fall from a great height, that was not to say all of them would. Even the ones that did surely would emerge with some injuries to speak of.

“Sir.” Lucius spoke. “The Novarans are pulling back. What few remain are retreating to the castle, pursued by orcs.”

Tiberius nodded. Whoever led them had some sense, at least. Though whether or not they’d be successful remained to be seen.

“Leave them,” Tiberius commanded. “Have men keep tabs on the orcs pursuing them. I want them hunted if they go off course and become distracted.”

Lucius nodded silently and conveyed the orders. Then, Tiberius took in the state of the battlefield. The elves were making progress toward the orc’s section of wall, though they were having trouble making progress against their sheer numbers. He couldn’t see the progress of the human Legionnaires within the city, but he had not yet received word of anything amiss on that front. And it appeared that the cavalry were in position.

He turned once more to his aide. Everything seemed to be in order. And that meant it was time to thin out the horde. And given their resilience… The engineers’ latest innovations would finally get their chance to truly shine.

“Fire.”

B3 Chapter 17: The Waiting Game

B3 Chapter 17: The Waiting Game

Marcus had developed a bad habit. At least, he was starting to. He'd begun to nibble at the corner of his nails. 

It was unsightly—both the act itself and its results. In fact, he'd always experienced the slightest revulsion when someone else did it. As such, he'd never been particularly prone to the vice, which he counted as quite the positive. A performer such as himself had to take great care of their appearance, after all. Especially his fingers.

But now? He was starting to understand how people were driven to such behaviors.

He ran his finger along the ragged edge of his nail, trying to refrain from biting at it once again. Almost three days of watching the orcs assault Novara's capital were taking their toll—not just on the defenders, but his own nerves. Both were being ground down, slowly but inexorably, by the seemingly endless tide of invaders.

The rest of the Legion didn't seem particularly perturbed. In fact, they had begun treating the whole thing as though it were some manner of sport.

“Look, Ox Skull is about to overtake Tattoos,” one of the Legionnaires pointed out.

Another one of his companions grunted. “Five copper on Tattoos.”

“You're mad, Remus. Have you even been watching Ox Skull’s run? The thing is unstoppable!”

“I have. Closer than you, apparently,” the one called Remus said, pointing. “The original Ox Skull got brained by a chunk of ice a few minutes back. That one just took his helmet. He doesn't even look the same.”

“Friend, I hate to tell you this, but they all look the same. And I think you're blind. One silver on Ox Skull.”

Marcus found the pair of orcs in question just in time to see the tattooed one kick an overeager “Ox Skull” in the head, sending him back down into the mass of bodies below. He winced as the orc landed hard, but he just got right back up to climb again. The race was nothing if not resilient.

A round of cheers and groans arose from the Legionnaires as coin changed hands. There were small side bets like this happening all throughout the Roman forces—whether a particular orc would get up the wall, how far they’d get, and whether they’d manage to outpace another on the ladders. Most of the wagers focused on singular orcs, though occasionally there would be bigger ones on more general battle outcomes.

For their parts, the elves seemed to refrain from such betting, though Marcus did note a few select individuals sidling over to take part. Redcliffe’s forces understandably abstained.

On some level, Marcus understood the Legionnaires’ motives. It wasn’t as though there was much else to do. Until such time as Tiberius ordered the attack, they were playing the waiting game. One made even more drawn out by the general lack of progress on either side.

There were a few developments that threatened to shift the tide, however. The first was the disappearance of some of Novara’s strongest forces. The day before, they’d simply left the wall behind, not being replaced by fresh defenders like usual. They just left the remaining forces to fend for themselves. As a result, the barrage of magic and skills that the orcs had to contend with had been considerably thinned out—a weakness that the orcs seemed all too happy to exploit.

The second was a rather surprising development on the orc’s side. Evidently, someone had managed to pull enough of them away from fighting to build more ladders, opening up a second front two hundred yards down the wall.

Gaius pointed out that they would have been better off placing it further away, just to spread out Novara’s defenses more and make it difficult to reinforce each other. But based on Marcus’s observations… it seemed as though the orcs preferred to stay nearer to each other. That way, they could jeer at their brethren as they jostled toward the wall.

Despite that brief show of astonishing intelligence, the orcs as a whole remained as thickheaded as ever. But they were making progress. Not just in claiming the top of the wall, either. The base of Novara's wall had begun to sport a rather worrying array of cracks and missing pieces. Not nearly enough to break through or threaten its integrity. But if things kept up like this?

Well, most Legionnaires bet that the wall itself would outlast its defenders. But Marcus had seen worse odds.

Still, it almost seemed that the orcs were fighting themselves more than the enemy—likely the only reason they hadn’t made more progress by this point. The number of times that Marcus saw an impatient orc toss one of his own off the ladder to get ahead was frankly ridiculous.

The Legionnaires always seemed to get a chuckle out of that, whereas Marcus felt a slight bit of relief. He didn’t hold any particular loyalty to his country. His exile was certainly part of it, and throwing in his lot with the Legion had only solidified that. But he’d spent enough time in the capital to make friends and connections that he cared about. He didn’t particularly want to see the orcs trample them—and their homes—underfoot and reduce everything to rubble.

Either way, he trusted the Legion far more than the orcs when it came to taking care of captives. Though that was quite a low bar to clear.

“They have to help them. They have to.”

Marcus glanced up at the voice. Eleonora took a seat beside him, her eyes trained on the besieged city as though fearing it would crumble to dust at any moment. She’d already done what healing she could for the moment. Now, she found herself simply watching and waiting alongside everyone else. Though considering the tightness of her expression, she was taking it about as well as Marcus was.

He gave a dry chuckle. “It does not appear that Rome shares that sentiment.”

“But look at this,” Eleonora hissed, her voice low. “Every hour we wait, more people die defending their city. You know as well as I do that these guys could wipe the orcs out if they wanted to. If they would just act—”

“And then what?” Marcus interrupted. “Do you honestly think that Novara would surrender after that? Hardly. The king wouldn’t see the saviors of his fine city or even potential allies. All he would see is another army of invaders at his doorstep—one to protect himself from.”

“You’re a [Royal Bard], right?” Eleonora insisted. “Isn’t there something you can do? Can’t you persuade the king?”

Marcus almost burst out laughing. His eyebrows rose in amusement. “I promise you, I am the single least qualified man to convince the king of anything. Aside from the necessity of taking my own head, of course.”

He hadn’t exactly lied when he told Tiberius that diplomacy might be an option. There was a chance that the Legion defending Novara would position Rome well for peace talks. If the king was willing to come to the table.

But there were a few wrinkles. The fact that Novara and Rome were at war was the main one. And that simple fact turned a small possibility into a practically nonexistent one. Meaning that if they wanted to protect these people, they needed to find another way of doing it.

“There has to be a way,” Eleonora’s whispers echoed his own thoughts. “What about the people? If we get them to surrender…”

“You make it sound so simple,” Marcus muttered. Though the idea wasn't the worst. He'd made plenty of connections around the city during his time there, both high and low. And even as long as he'd been gone, he was certain that at least some of them would still be around…

Marcus hummed thoughtfully. He had no idea if the Romans would show leniency if individual members or groups of the populace surrendered, especially after they’d already begun to take the city. Then again, it was already under attack, so it wasn’t as though Novara really had a chance to surrender ahead of time.

Eleonora winced as an orc managed to just get on the wall, only to be blasted back by a mage. But not before he grabbed a hold of another guard’s leg. The orc and the man both sailed down toward the ground. The guard splatted into an unmoving heap, but the orc got up and hurried back toward the ladders. The only sign of damage he showed was a slight limp.

Little observations like that made Marcus wonder. Tiberius intended for the two forces to grind each other down. But so far, it didn't seem like the orcs were taking many losses at all.

“We're supposed to be protecting people,” the [Healer] hissed as quietly as she could manage. “We can't just sit here and do nothing.”

Marcus saw another orc gain a foothold at the top of the wall, then another. The defenders rallied to push them back, but days of constant fighting had clearly worn them down. And now that they’d lost some of their most capable forces, it was clear that the Novarans were demoralized and drained.

For the first time in days, the situation began to shift. Slowly, the green tide began to make more progress than before and establish a foothold atop the wall.

“Well… it seems as though you might get your wish.” Marcus began to stand.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured toward the wall. “I get the feeling that the orcs may get inside sooner rather than later. Which means the Legion should make their move soon. And if you really want to convince the Novarans to rebel against their king… we’ll have to be right there with them.”

B3 Chapter 16: A Rock and a Hard Place

B3 Chapter 16: A Rock and a Hard Place

Marcus blinked in surprise at Tiberius's words. “Come again?”

Tiberius gestured to the scene before them, the orcish tide continuing to rise against the humans’ wall. “My two enemies are fighting. They weaken each other as we speak. Why would I interrupt that?”

Marcus was silent for a moment—a reaction more telling to Tiberius than if he had sputtered with indignation. "Well… what if they get into the city? Would such an outcome not damage the settlement you hope to claim?”

Tiberius lifted one shoulder. “The settlements we have already conquered required significant overhaul in their construction. I expect this one to be no different.”

“A settlement is not composed of buildings alone,” Duke Redcliffe pointed out. “What of the people? Do you intend to let them die? You see the level of ‘organization’ these orcs have. They won’t simply ignore the rest of the city as they march to the castle. If they get inside, they’ll fill the streets like an overflowing river and kill whoever they wish.”

“These are Rome’s future citizens—soon to be your people.” Marcus added. “Doesn’t your empire need more workers? More merchants, farmers, tradesmen? Would it not be best to—”

Tiberius held up a hand. Instantly, the other men fell silent.

“First,” he began. “These people will not be citizens. Not unless they prove themselves. I will not devalue that title so easily.”

He saw Sylendor nod in agreement at the sentiment. Just because the elves had been granted that title did not mean it was freely given. Nor did it mean Tiberius had forgotten what it entailed.

“Second. Regardless of what these people may become, the fact remains that they are, as of now, Novarans. They stand with their king. Until they prove otherwise, I claim no responsibility for them. And I will not spend the lives of my men so carelessly to purchase theirs.”

The faces of the Novarans around him darkened—save for Marcus’s, who became unreadable. His words were harsh. He knew as much. But a leader could not afford to be taken in by soft sentiments like senseless compassion and misplaced mercy. He would put his own first.

“Then you see the inhabitants of the city as your enemies?” The duke asked quietly.

“I would be a fool to see them as anything else.” He gestured toward the orcish assault. “Were our places switched, they would rain down death upon our heads as easily as they do the orcs. I see no reason to pretend otherwise.”

Quiet settled over the group once more. Interestingly enough, Tiberius noted that the duke's son appeared considerably less bothered by Tiberius's words than his father. Perhaps he harbored some resentment towards them, given his treatment during his long stint defending the pass.

“That being said, I do not intend to let the city burn, its inhabitants be slaughtered to a man,” the emperor clarified. “Nor do I intend to wrest control of the city from a separate occupying force. But their defenders will earn their keep before the battle is done.”

Tiberius gauged the progress of the orcs against the state of the defenders. "We have plenty of time to garrison before they break through. We will take advantage of Novara's distraction and exhaustion to break through from behind.”

The fact that the orcs had focused their attacks at one point was honestly a boon for Tiberius. Not only did it slow their potential ability to break through, but it meant that all of the city’s defenses were also in once place. Novara effectively had their backs turned. And Tiberius intended to reward that oversight with a dagger.

“Once we have taken the city, we will push through and repel the orcs ourselves from a fortified position—assuming the Novarans have not succeeded in doing so themselves,” Tiberius continued. “Understood?”

His commanders nodded, some more readily than others. Quintus, Gaius, and Sylendor seemed to take absolutely no issue with the tactics, as expected. It was a reasonable approach, after all, one that would ensure the greatest chance of success and the fewest losses for Rome.

The duke, his son, and Marcus still seemed dissatisfied with the answer. However, the fact that he did intend to repel the orcs seemed to mollify them somewhat. Something that amused Tiberius.

Despite his earlier words, letting the city be overrun was a bad idea for a number of reasons. Close quarters fighting in the streets was a generally bad idea, even more so now that [Coordinated Bulwark] strengthened their defenses based on the length of a shield wall. Getting one of any size set up would be a nightmare in the narrow paths. Not to mention he had no desire to put his men into melee with battle maniacs of this strength without any sense of self preservation. It would be like fighting the ghouls at Stonester all over again.

Tiberius spent a bit more time speaking with his commanders and his scouts, ensuring that their timetables were correct. They wanted to attack before the orcs broke through, but not so early that the green-skinned barbarians were unable to properly weaken the city. Given the relatively slow rate of their progress, they decided it may take as much as a day or two.

In the meantime, the men would never object to some rest. And now that they were out of the eastern marches, it seemed that trees were once again able to grow. Perhaps they could avail themselves of the resources. After all, they could always use more siege weaponry.

He began issuing orders. This time, they would have time to properly prepare. And Tiberius intended to take full advantage.

***

The throne room was silent. Eerily so. No because it was empty, though. Quite a number of nobles, advisers, and other authority figures gathered amongst the resplendent pillars and beneath its crystalline chandeliers. Yet not a single one of them dared to so much as whisper.

Gerald brooded on his throne as he chewed nervously on a rind of brie. The cheese was all right. Brie wasn't his favorite kind of cheese, but with the right kind of cracker and wine, it was tolerable. The rind was honestly his favorite part of this batch. But he hardly even tasted it with the weight of the stress he currently found himself under.

One of the nobles shifted a little too loudly, drawing a venomous glare from the king. The man shrank back with a grimace.

Gerald harrumphed and returned to his musings. The orcs were attacking the city. Damn Redcliffe allowing his men to abandon their post had let them through. If Gerald hadn’t already suspected the man of treason, then the speed at which the orcs waltzed through Corwyn pass certainly convinced him. It was as though the man had laid out a red carpet for the barbarians. Worse, Marquis Morozov had yet to provide an update on his arrest of the rebellious Duke.

He’d thought that the marquis, at least, was slightly competent. Apparently he’d been mistaken. He was surrounded by idiots.

Now, the king found himself in a rather unenviable position. He’d already had the advisers that had allowed this to happen thrown in the dungeons. But that didn’t change the reality of things. The orcs were still attacking their walls. Worse, they'd even brought ladders. Fucking ladders!

An orc building a ladder was like a dog baking a pie. It was guaranteed to taste like shit. Yet somehow, by some miracle, these ladders were not only functional but holding out. Apparently, his men were too incompetent to just set the things on fire or blow them up or something.

The news had understandably angered Gerald. But even after lashings and throwing those messengers in the dungeon as well, they hadn’t changed their story. More kept coming with the same bad news, all through that day and into the next. It was to the point that Gerald could no longer ignore it, try as he might.

The doors to the throne room slammed open. The king glared at the grim-faced man who marched purposefully toward him. Despite the obvious breach of decorum, his approach went uncontested by his royal guards. 

By the time the man came before him, Gerald was seething and ready to order this upstart arrested himself. But before he could swallow his bite of cheese, the man dropped to one knee, finally showing a bit of respect.

"Your Majesty. The watch commander beseeches you for reinforcements. We need more elites on the wall, or we will be pushed back and lose it."

The king felt his nostrils flare and his eyes bulge. He nearly spat out the last bit of his cheese before he was able to wash it down with a swig of his wine. Even then, he barely managed to avoid sputtering.

“What?!”

The shout cracked through the throne room, its volume causing many of the assembled figures to jump in fright. A few courtiers rushed from the room at the news, but Gerald ignored them. His attention was fully trained on this man.

"We request more elite troops to help us push back the orcs from the top of the wall,” he reiterated. “We are able to hold them back for now, but no man's stamina lasts forever. If they advance much farther, the wall will fall."

"Th-they've reached the top of the wall?" The king stammered.

"Yes, Your Majesty," the messenger said in an exasperated tone that the king did not appreciate. "We request reinforcements.”

Gerald fell silent, his glass trembling in his hand. This was worse than he'd feared. The thought that they even could lose the wall… Suddenly, he realized just how serious the situation truly was.

His gaze darted to either side until he found his [Royal Guard Captain]. He pointed at the hulking suit of armor.

"Pull back all elite troops from the city and the wall immediately! Anyone over level fifteen, I want them guarding the castle!”

There was a moment of astonished silence as everyone processed the words. Then, the room devolved into a complete uproar. Everyone started talking all at once, shouting over each other to be heard.

The [Royal Guard Captain] ignored them all, simply saluting before stepping away to ensure the king’s commands were followed. At least he did as he was told.

“Your majesty!” The messenger shouted, his voice barely audible above the din. “But the city…! There’s no need for this! We can hold the wall if only they receive some reinforcements!”

But Gerald was already rising from his throne. A vague gesture in his direction sent more [Royal Guards] toward him. They seized the man and dragged him away to the dungeons as he struggled and shouted with increasing panic.

He issued a few more commands as he left the throne room. “Bar the gates and activate the castle’s defenses after all the strongest fighters have assembled here. I don’t want anyone coming in unless I explicitly allow it. Understood? Also…” A thought occurred to him. “I will give you a list of nobles to invite in as well. Allow them to bring their retinue as well, but only if they’re above level fifteen. Anything less will just clutter things up.”

More guards and aides sprang into action, rushing to act on their king’s orders. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for his decisive action. It had to be done. After all, the defenders had already proven incompetent enough to leg the orcs on the wall. Who was to say that they hadn’t misjudged their ability to defend it?

No, this was a far safer course of action. A kingdom was nothing without its king. He needed to protect himself at all costs.

Gerald left the shouting crowd behind him. He needed to get somewhere safe. Luckily, he knew just the place. The most secure location in the entire castle… His wine cellar.

B3 Chapter 15: Eye on the Prize

I made a slight update to the end of chapter 14. Just to make the orc plan make a little more sense in context (or maybe less? its hard to tell with orcs)

B3 Chapter 15: Eye on the Prize

It wasn't long before Rome's forces were on the move once more. The very next day after their battle with Marquis Morozov’s forces, their newly reinforced army crossed the invisible threshold into the center of Novara. The day after, its capital came into view.

Tiberius stood on a hill a couple of miles from the shining city. Its tall spires glimmered in the sunlight, drawing the eye up and away from whatever lesser constructions doubtless clustered around their feet like common beggars around a rich man.

Of course, such things were hidden from sight by the city’s wall. But it was no stretch to imagine.

But it was not the impressive sight of the spires or even the wall itself that held Tiberius's interest. No, they honor beloved to the swarm of green humanoids flooding in from the west. 

Tiberius focused to get a better look. An army of monstrous men decked out in furs, bones, and hides rushed forth, yellowed tusks protruding from prominent jaws. They howled and shouted as they moved, the cacophony loud enough to even reach his ears as a dull roar.

“So these are orcs…” Tiberius mused.

“Indeed, emperor!” Marcus stepped forward. He still wore his usual political smile, but Tiberius could sense a difference. The expression seemed a bit more forced than usual. “And that is Novara, the country’s eponymous capital.”

“Does it trouble you, to see the city in such danger?”

Marcus was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Is it any surprise? I’ve no stomach for seeing the innocent be threatened so.”

Tiberius raised an eyebrow. “You speak as though this city holds no special meaning to you.”

“Well… while it is true that I spent much time there before my more, well, nomadic phase, some of those memories are more fond than others.” Marcus’s smile was a mix of nostalgia and bitterness. “Of course, even the lowest of my lows don’t mean I wish ill upon the people here. Well, not most of them, at least. But an attack like this… I’ve heard enough stories of corrupt kings and the falls of empires to know that it was only a matter of time.”

They both fell silent as they watched the assault before them. Despite the sheer numbers of orcs on display, their discipline and coordination left much to be desired. In fact, Tiberius hesitated to even call them an army. It was more like a rabid mass held together by a general intention rather than any real battle plans.

Yet despite that, Tiberius was surprised to see glimmers of tactical thinking make themselves apparent. The green barbarians laid what could generously be called crude ladders against the wall and hurled themselves upward, spreading up its surface like an infection.

Of course, the defenders atop the wall were sending them back down almost as fast as they came. Arrows, gouts of flame, ephemeral blades of wind and everything else besides rained down upon the invaders’ heads. Between that and the occasional tumble of bodies as ladder rungs broke, Novara’s capital was managing to hold its own. For now.

For his part, Tiberius couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Even though the scouts had reported such a development, and the duke had suggested the orcs might rush the capital like this… He found himself no less astonished.

Never in his life had Tiberius been this lucky.

He saw a bolt of lightning arc between a dozen orcs, frying them. Another took an arrow in the shoulder  that sent him tumbling down the ladder, taking a half dozen of his comrades with him. Yet the whole lot of them simply merged back into the innumerable whole and rushed back up with shocking speed.

Reports indicated that they averaged around level fifteen or twenty, yet they were far stronger and faster than the average human they’d seen of a similar level. Combined with their apparent lack of regard for their own safety and their size? It was no wonder that they were seeing some success, even despite their “tactics”.

But it was clear that whatever preparations they’d made still left much to be desired. They had less than half as many ladders as would be optimal. Not because they needed more on the wall necessarily. But because the ladders they had were taking damage.

The Novaran defenders had identified them as a weak spot and were trying to destroy them. The orcs were doing a good job of getting in the way of those efforts, largely by throwing themselves between the attacks and their intended targets, but a couple were already on the verge of collapse. And it didn't seem as the orcs had enough replacements to continue this strategy indefinitely.

Additionally, their forces had focused their attention at a singular point, rather than attempting to split the defenders on the wall by hitting two or three points at once as he might. With their numbers, such an approach would be difficult to counter.

Still, the strategy was not a bad one. It was surprisingly good compared to what he’d expected. It was enough to surprise the Novarans, by the looks of things.

Tiberius turned to where his commanders stood watching alongside him. The duke joined them as well. Though Tiberius had stripped the man of command, he still wanted him nearby in case he needed him. Perhaps he would be knowledgeable about the capital itself or circumstances surrounding the current conflict.

He locked eyes with Devin Redcliffe. “Is this behavior in line with what you experienced while fighting these barbarians?”

The man’s armor clanked as he crossed his arms and sighed. “Somewhat. Depends on the day. The bum rushing is nothing new. Most days they’d just run up the pass or climb up to the walls and beat at it until we got rid of them. But sometimes they’d switch it up and surprise us.”

“Explain.”

The man looked at Tiberius, then Quintus. The man was understandably still unaccustomed to taking orders from his new leadership. However, he was adapting quickly. Doubtless Quintus had something to do with that. Tales of the two men’s “sparring bouts” between their forces had reached Tiberius’s desk rather quickly. Not that he objected to the centurion’s approach.

Slowly, Devin nodded. “There were times they’d get clever. Set ambushes when we’d reset our traps. Try and set up some big war ritual nearby, just far enough away that we had to come off the wall to deal with it. When we did…” Devin’s look turned distant. “We learned not to take the battle down to their level real quick. Not without plenty of backup.”

The younger Redcliffe seemed to snap out of it. Shaking his head slightly, he returned his attention to Tiberius. “At least, that’s how it’s been the last year or so. Before that they were as dumb as you’d expect. I’ve never seen them use ladders, though.”

Tiberius frowned. The implications of that were a bit troubling. Still, whatever force had herded these orcs certainly hadn’t seen complete success. That much was obvious, given how the ones unable to reach a ladder did, in fact, try and beat at the walls with clubs. An effort that Tiberius would have called fruitless if not for the small cracks that slowly began to spiderweb across its surface.

It was nearly sixty feet high and must have been several feet thick. There was no possible way they were going to batter it down anytime soon. But the fact that they were making progress at all was honestly impressive.

Well, perhaps impressive was the wrong word. Although it did make him wonder. Considering the power of a mage like Claude, was he witnessing the other end of the spectrum? The result of someone who specialized in strength, and strength alone? Would someone like that actually be able to break through such a wall? Perhaps. It was a sobering thought.

Tiberus once more took in the fortifications before him. This city was the first that actually impressed him. Although even that reaction was only true in the context of original Rome. Given what he knew now, as well as his Legionnaires’ skills, he was fairly certain that they could build a wall ten times the strength of this one. Perhaps even ten times the size as well.

Would it take time and resources? Of course. But it was certainly within the realm of possibility. And that was only with their current capabilities.

But something bothered Tiberius. “The orcish forces… How are they so numerous? Have they been biding their time and gathering for this assault?”

Devin barked a laugh. “Hardly. If that was the case, Corwyn pass really would’ve been a cakewalk.”

“Orcs have… different biology than humans, emperor,” the duke began to explain. “They grow, mature, and level far, far more quickly than humans. They also live far shorter lifespans, a couple of years at most. They also seem to reproduce more quickly in times of war. I’m no expert on the, erm, mechanisms, but… It is one of the reasons why their culture is the way it is.”

“I see.” Tiberius frowned at the green mass. “Then even if they were to lose this entire force…”

“They’ll be back in a week,” Devin grunted. “Though this many? It might take them two.”

“They are a race born and bred for battle in more ways than one.” The duke nodded. “Though there are tradeoffs. As I’m sure you can see. The near-constant wars Novara has had with their people certainly haven’t worked to quell their populations, either.”

“As numerous as they are, why do they not starve to death?” Tiberius asked. The orcs clearly weren’t intelligent. And feeding an army of this size, even for a week, would take logistics that he rather doubted they’d be capable of.

The duke’s face turned a color green similar to that of the orcs. His son merely scowled. “They don’t have to worry about that.”

Tiberius didn’t ask for an explanation on that one.

Of course, his own men weren't idle during this time. Already the first Legion were approaching the city from the opposite direction of the current assault. He could just make them out from his current position, a hill orthogonal to both forces for optimal viewing.

The defenders were so engaged with the orcs’ attack that they had barely reacted to the Legion's approach. Not that the Legion was anywhere close to the walls yet. But he had yet to observe a single scout or harrying force emerge and head their way. The gates remained firmly closed.

He wouldn't have been surprised if they hadn't even registered it yet. After all, the orcs were a straightforward sort. Who would expect them to attempt something sneaky like this? Much less a second army arriving at the worst possible moment for Novara.

After a long moment, Gaius spoke up. The young man had remained strangely silent up until this point. “Emperor. What precisely is the plan?”

“Indeed!” Marcus chimed in. His tone was light and full of cheer. “Are we to swoop in and crush the orcs against the wall like a hammer strikes down a nail? I'm certain that aiding the city in its time of crisis would position you quite well in the eyes of the populace, emperor. Even if you should decide against diplomacy, I may be able to spin the tale such that Rome is regarded as the saviors of a besieged and downtrodden people…”

Tiberius turned to stare at the man, but saw no guile in his expression. Well, no more than usual. Instead there was a shocking amount of hope, as though saving the Novarans was obviously Tiberius's chief concern.

He truly seemed to misunderstand the situation.

“Now why would I do that?”

B3 Chapter 14: Thak’ugund of Clan Gormash

B3 Chapter 14: Thak’ugund of Clan Gormash

Thak’ugund—Thak to his kinsmen—stared out over the pitiful human city. It's shiny towers stood tall, taller than the tallest trees of his homeland. The humans spent so much time making pretty things. Pretty things that Thak would take for himself.

He and his brothers had made a few stops on their way here. Small ones, snacks on the way to the true meal. It was the best way they knew to celebrate. They had finally beaten the pesky tricksters of the pass, after all.

They had annoyed them for years. The cowards had hidden atop their walls, using their traps and weakling tactics to take out Thak’s men because they were too afraid to face them in battle.

But it was fine. He had won in the end. The humans could not compete with Thak's stubbornness and the numbers of his brethren willing to fight and die in battle.

This victory proved he was the strongest of the orcs. And no one would dare stand in his way again.

He had fought many challenges to his leadership, and he had crushed all their skulls beneath his feet. But now, they had arrived. The human city—and everything inside it—would be his.

As cowardly and weak as they were, he had to admit that humans made the best treats. It was one of the many reasons why raiding them proved so satisfying.

Thak licked his lips, a string of saliva slipping off one of his magnificent tusks. He resisted the urge to reach up and feel them in public. As impressive as they were, he didn't want to appear vain.

“I cannot wait for the attack, warchief," one of the clan leaders beside him said. The Yurok clan was a strange one, wearing skulls as helmets rather than crushing them underfoot as the Gormash clan did. Thak couldn't imagine that the trinkets brought them more joy than that satisfying crunch did. But his better judgement was one of the many reasons why Thak was the one in charge.

Regardless of their different preferences for skulls, they both anticipated the coming fight. Even now, they could see the tiny figures of humans running toward their walls, like ants fleeing toward their hill. As though they would save them.

“Why should we wait?” Another put forth the question with a savage smile. “Let us attack at once. Let us charge!”

Thak returned the orc’s grin. A charge was a good plan. A satisfying one.

But as much as his blood sang to rush forth immediately, he managed to hold himself back. He loved the heat of battle, the charge, the feeling of flesh parting before his blade and bones crushing beneath his mighty blows. But his love of battle meant that he always wanted more of it. And what better way to fight more than to win his fights?

"Charging is good. Do you not agree, brother?" Thak turned to look down at the figure beside him. His brother Grund was an unfortunate runt of his litter—only six feet tall when he stood perfectly straight. He was a weakling, his muscles lacking the size and firmness of Thak’s own. It took him at least three swings of a war axe to fell a mighty oak.

Yet despite that weakness, his brother had lived. All his life, their tribemates had seized on the orc’s obvious weakness to challenge him, to beat the warchief’s second in command. They always failed. Grund won every time, even when he should have been easily crushed underfoot.

Of course, Thak had never challenged him. Why would he? Grund was beneath him—in strength, in fighting ability, and in their tribe’s hierarchy. But while Thak fought with strength, bravery, and the ferocity of a lion tearing into its prey, Grund was different. When he fought, it was cold and calculating. He used his head for more than just bashing it into his opponents.

He never went so far as to be called honorless. And while Thak held no doubts that he would still be able to beat his little brother… He still couldn’t help but feel a little glad that he’d never had to fight the whelp.

Grund nodded in reply to Thak’s question. “Yes, brother. Charges are indeed good…"

The orc trailed off unsatisfyingly, as though he had more to say. Thak prodded him. “...But?”

Grund smiled. “But… there is a wall. Can you charge through that wall, brother?"

“Of course we can!” The Yurok clan leader snarled derisively. “No wall can stand between us and our prize. Or do you insult my people, calling us weak?”

Thak frowned. His first instinct was to agree. After all, no obstacle could resist an orc forever. But he had also learned to listen to his brother. And so, he listened.

Grund shook his head. “I have no doubts that we could use our strength to break through. But every minute we spend throwing ourselves against a wall is a moment not spent fighting our foes. Besides can you charge through a mountain? If we are forced to stop and break down the wall… and the wall is very thik. It would no longer be a charge, would it?”

Thak nodded insightfully. Grund always used many words to say what Thak could explain in few.

“...No.” Thak realized. “It is not that the wall is too strong. But destroying the wall would take time. Time not spent charging.”

The other clan leaders had ranged from skeptical to offended at Grund’s words. But once Thak spoke, they nodded and grunted in agreement.

Grund’s smile widened. “Precisely, brother. The cowardly humans will hide obsequiously behind their stone walls and their metal shells. And as dishonorable as such tactics are, the fact remains that it makes them more difficult to kill." His voice started to rise as the thrill of battle lit his eyes. "But we shall root them out! And pry their shells open to get at them.”

His brother shook his head hard for a second, barely overcoming the [Battle Lust] that welled within him—one of the defining features of each and every orc. It seemed like Grund fought it more than his enemies sometimes. But Grund was strange like that.

The younger orc breathed deeply before turning to Thak once more. “Still. We must deal with the wall, brother, if we are to make the humans come out… and make our own way in.”

“We will destroy the wall!” One of the clan leaders shouted, earning a roar of approval from his brethren. Yet Thak frowned.

“But… that will take time.”

“Yes. It will.” Grund agreed. “But there are ways to handle this problem that are more efficient than others. Tell me, brother. How does one crack an egg?”

“An egg?” He asked with confusion.

“Yes.”

“Hmmm…” He only had to think for a moment before clenching his hand into a fist. “Simple. You crush it within your grip!”

“Smash it with a hammer!” Another hollered.

“Throw it on the ground!” Yelled a third.

Grund seemed to sigh as the suggestions rolled in. "While those methods will work, they are flawed. How will you cook and eat the delicious insides if they are splattered against the ground or dripping down your hand?”

“We are no cooks. We are warriors.” Thak growled.

“Of course. But the metaphor—er, the example—is a useful one.” Grund backpedaled slightly. “Rather than try and destroy the entire shell, all you need is one spot. To focus your efforts on a single point. Like that, it takes only a few gentle taps to crack the egg. Then everything will come spilling out.

"The walls must be cracked, brother. Like cracking an egg. Once we break them, we can take what is inside."

The prospect once again filled the surrounding orcs with excitement. Even Thak found himself grinning. “Yes. The very delicious insides.”

Grund gestured toward the city in the distance. “We must focus our attack at one point and break it. That will be the most effective—and fastest—-way to break through. Then, we will be able to battle to our hearts’ content.”

Thak nodded sagely. His brother spoke good sense. As strange as his way of thinking was, it had not failed them yet. His tricks had even allowed them to drag those pesky humans in the pass down for true battles. So why would they not work here?

Though Thak was a little worried at his words. Why did he know how to crack an egg? Surely he hadn't been cooking. That was women's work.

“Although…” Grund continued, his expression thoughtful. “There may be an even faster way into the city. Into battle.”

“What is it?” Thak couldn’t help but ask.”

“Even if we are to focus on a singular point, breaking through the wall will still take time. But… there are ways to get around it entirely. For example, if we used ladders…”

"Ladders?" One clan leader scoffed. "We don't have no stupid ladders."

"It will take only a day to make several. Or less, if we are quick about it. And doing so will make sure we can fight even faster." Grund said.

The orcs grumbled about having to delay. Why could they not simply charge now? But Thak nodded. “All right. If you think it will be faster…”

“I do,” his brother confirmed. “Or, if you wanted to be even faster, we could strike at two or three points, all around the city. That way—”

“That's dumb!” One of the orcs shouted. “That way weak. Attack together strong!”

There was a chorus of grunts in agreement. Thak nodded too. That was just common sense.

Grund seemed to disagree. “You are not wrong. But only if everyone can attack at the same time. With our numbers, the best way to leverage them would be to—”

“No. We will do it this way.” Thak decided. He had had enough of talking and planning. As the strongest and the leader of their forces, he had decided what they would do. And though he was sure that the others would not normally have patience to build ladders, Thak would make sure it happened. Even if he had to fight a few of his brethren to let off some steam.

"Over the wall is better. One spot is faster. We shall crush our enemies." Thak stated confidently.

Grund smiled. Not a smile of [Battle Lust], but a strange one. One he recognized as slightly strained. He likely had other things he’d wanted to say, other ideas for the battle. But neither Thak or the others would hear of it. They had a path forward, and they would pursue it until their enemies had fallen.

Liking to talk was one of his brother’s many weaknesses. It truly was a shame that he wasn’t stronger.

B3 Chapter 13: Getting Ahead of the Problem

B3 Chapter 13: Getting Ahead of the Problem

Marcus was on his way back to the command post when Marquis Morozov lost his head. Literally.

The resulting flurry of activity saw the surrounding Legionnaires spring into action like a nest of hornets had been kicked. Duke Redcliffe was surrounded by several Legionnaires and pulled away from the headless corpse before it had even slumped to the ground. No one tried to heal the wound. Not even the Legion and their impressive abilities could heal death. 

The duke’s sword was seized as the men bound and held him. The man struggled at first before enduring the treatment in grim silence. His complexion remained flush with fresh rage, the color evident even through his thinning hair.

Marcus arrived at the scene just as Tiberius and his personal guard did. The man looked… displeased. Not outright angry. It was more the look of a frustrated parent who realized too late that they'd expected too much from their child. 

It was honestly understandable. Redcliffe's actions were… problematic, to say the least. At best one could consider it a costly lapse in judgement that robbed the Romans of a potential resource. But on top of that… it directly undermined the power and authority of the emperor.

Might Tiberius have decided to execute the leader of the opposition regardless? Maybe. Marcus would have actually put money on it, given everything he'd seen so far. But the opportunity to make an example of Morozov—and therefore more firmly establish his leadership—had been taken from him.

He had no doubts that Tiberius understood the same thing. They were still technically in Redcliffe, which was the duke’s only defense. There was an argument to be made there that justice was his to carry out. But it was a weak one. Especially since the emperor was standing right there.

Everyone held their breath as they waited for the emperor to speak. More people arrived, including Legatus Sylendor and a grizzled man who bore a striking resemblance to the duke himself. Considering the crest on his armor and the confidence with which he held himself, Marcus guessed this was his son Devin Redcliffe, the commander of the forces that had just arrived.

Tiberius stood silently, looking over the situation as Marquis Morozov’s headless corpse continued to bleed onto the battlefield. But the one to break the silence was not him.

“My apologies, emperor.” Duke Redcliffe said through gritted teeth. “It appears I lost my temper.”

That seemed to Marcus to be the understatement of the century. Even now, each word came strained as though it were a rabid dog on a taut leash. Which perhaps only made sense. Marcus well knew the history between house Morozov and Redcliffe had been… unfriendly, to say the least. And given the late marquis’s ability to get under people’s skin as though he had a skill specifically meant for it? This outcome wasn’t particularly surprising.

Tiberius said nothing, simply staring down at the duke until the man was forced to blink. Then, Tiberius let out a weary sigh.

“This displeases me.”

The duke’s demeanor shifted. His back stiffened and the red flush of rage receded just the slightest bit. [Critical Reception] informed Marcus that the man was coming to his senses, albeit slowly. Which meant he doubtless realized what would come next. He would have to be made an example of. What form that example took… Well, it depended on how merciful the emperor was feeling today.

Marcus almost stepped forward to interject, to act as a mediator in the situation. Perhaps he could prevent things from becoming too extreme. But he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Looking back, he saw Gaius’s uncharacteristically serious face looking back at him.

The new Legatus gave a subtle shake of his head. Marcus frowned, but relented, remaining in place as Gaius released his shoulder. He supposed the man was right. Stepping in now would risk undermining the emperor as well, albeit less than the duke’s actions had. He just had to trust that the Roman saw the value in keeping his allied leader alive.

“I will think of a suitable punishment for your insubordination.” The emperor declared. “Until then… you are relieved of field command until such time as I see fit to reinstate you.”

Marcus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Obviously, Tiberius wouldn’t have killed the man. That would be a surefire way to lose the support of his forces, not to mention putting himself at odds with the young Redcliffe heir.

The duke visibly winced. “My men—”

“—My men,” Tiberius interrupted, “Will not be ordered by one who has proven unable to control his impulses. A commander led by his emotions is liable to get people killed.”

The duke’s frown deepened, his fists tightening. Likely he’d been banking on his usefulness and necessity for the assault on Novara to shield him from any real repercussions. But relieving him of his soldiers? Such a thing was unheard of. They were the duke’s and belonged to the dutchy, not to his liege. 

Unfortunately for him, things worked differently in the eyes and minds of the Romans. Their loyalty was not to any lord or lady or lesser noble. Their loyalty ultimately was to the emperor. And if any objected or saw it differently… then Marcus had seen what happened to those whose loyalty to Rome was called into question. Though Tiberius was not so naive as to think that viewpoint would be so quickly adopted by all.

Besides, Marcus suspected the duke’s support was seen as more of a bonus than a central keystone of his strategy. Given how little time this coalition had been together for, he wouldn’t put it past the man to trust only in the abilities of his own original Legionnaires—although those were certainly nothing to scoff at.

“As you say, emperor.” The duke forced out, clearly unhappy with the result. “If I may suggest that my son be placed in command in my stead.”

Tiberius glanced over at the younger Redcliffe, then back at the duke. “No. I have need of a commander I can trust to follow orders. Primus Quintus!”

At the emperor’s call, Quintus stepped forward and saluted. Tiberius spoke to the centurion loudly enough for all to hear. “You are to take command of Redcliffe’s forces, effective immediately. The main force’s current commander shall serve as your aide and advise you on their capabilities. I expect you to lead them well.”

“Sir!” Quintus saluted again with an affirmative nod.

Marcus saw a range of reactions to the proclamation. Redcliffe’s forces seemed disquieted by the change in command, as did Devin himself. The duke’s lips pressed into a thin line and he remained silent as though he would object. He shot a look over to his eldest son, exchanging a silent conversation through looks alone. Eventually, he bowed his head.

"I understand, emperor," he said. “It will be done.”

***

Quintus couldn’t help but feel like Tiberius had it out for him.

Well, not entirely. In a vacuum, the old man’s actions made sense. The duke had committed insubordination, and thus command of his forces needed to be transferred to another. It was only reasonable.

But though the act was ostensibly a punishment for the duke, it also had the secondary effect of forcing Quintus into just the kind of leadership position Tiberius had reprimanded him for “evading” earlier in the battle. Really, he’d felt like a good amount of the words directed toward Duke Redcliffe could have been aimed at him as well. Though perhaps he was overthinking things.

Either way, Quintus found himself in a rather unenviable position rather quickly. He’d been placed in charge of men he’d never met or worked alongside, nor whose capabilities he fully understood. Technically one could say he’d fought alongside them during this latest battle, but their units had been physically distanced enough that they may well have been fighting a different one entirely.

It was that understanding that immediately led him to call a meeting with Devin Redcliffe. Quintus needed to not only understand what he was dealing with, but also gauge the other man’s disposition toward this new arrangement. If he was as wary as Quintus was, then perhaps they could put some of those concerns to bed. Perhaps he could identify a way to win the men’s respect. If he was outright adversarial… Well, it was better to know such things rather than go into this assignment blind.

Devin stepped into the command tent shortly after Quintus. The man had the appearance of a raider more than a soldier, with callused hands and a rough, unshaven face. Scarcely an inch of his armor was without a dent or nick of some kind, whatever decorations or ornamentations it might have borne faded and eroded by harsh and continual punishment. Only the sword strapped across his back appeared undamaged, its blade miraculously shining and free of nicks. Enchanted, if Quintus had to guess.

Quintus might have judged the man for the failure to keep his armor and equipment in better condition. However, he’d heard the conditions that Redcliffe’s forces had been enduring at Corwyn pass. And given that Devin was these men’s commander… The clear evidence of so many battles upon his person honestly reflected well on him.

The two men sat across from each other. Quintus took a moment to size Devin up as the other man did the same. It wasn’t just the noble’s armor that bore marks of battle. A few whitened scars crisscrossed his face as well. Given what healing magic in this world was capable of, Quintus wondered at why the man hadn’t erased them completely.

“I am Quintus Carius Libo.” Quintus began, extending his hand. “Primus Pilus of our first Roman Legion.”

“Devin Redcliffe.” The other man eyed his hand before reaching out to shake. “Heir to the Redcliffe duchy and leader of Redcliffe’s Ruffians.”

Quintus raised an eyebrow. “Redcliffe’s Ruffians?”

“The men I brought from the pass.” The man jerked his head in the pass’s general direction. “Spent long enough together in that godsforsaken ice pit that we gave ourselves a name. Still Redcliffe’s men at our cores, but gotten down and dirty a bit too much to feel like the fancy knights we once were. Too much improvising, too.”

The centurion nodded, but internally he frowned. It was good that the men worked together and had this level of cohesion. Yet that might make it even harder for Quintus to establish himself as any sort of actual leader. If he could earn this man’s respect, though…

A thought occurred to him. "Why was a cavalry unit holding a mountain pass? Is uneven terrain a specialty of yours?”

“Hardly.” Devin snorted derisively. “Back around the duchy, most of our battles are fought in large open plains, where a good heavy charge is hard to beat. But our former king decided in his infinite wisdom that we were a perfect fit for the place. Whether that level of incompetence was intentional or not, who knows. I’d say it's fifty-fifty either way.”

“I see.” Quintus frowned. That certainly aligned with what he'd heard so far of the Novaran king. Though perhaps using the post as a way to whittle down Redcliffe's forces was too conniving a motive to ascribe to the man.

"Either way, though, doesn't matter now.” There was a note of satisfaction in Devin's voice. “We held that cold bitch longer than anyone could have imagined. I'm almost sad to see her go. Though it's nice to feel my fingers again.”

Quintus could empathize. He well remembered the time they'd campaigned through Gaul during the winter. The cold had seeped so deeply into his bones that he hadn't felt warm for a week afterwards.

“Anyway. Have you commanded cavalry before?” Devin asked bluntly.

“Not directly,” Quintus replied. “I have fought in the Legion for almost thirty years, and I have worked alongside them often enough to be familiar with their tactics. But never as a direct commander.”

The duke’s son grunted. “That’s a problem. Even if you know what a cavalry can do, seeing it and putting it into action are two separate things. And that’s not to say you know what my cavalry can do.”

It was a clear test, with a bit of a challenge mixed in. Quintus honestly appreciated how the man didn’t beat around the bush. And so, he decided that he wouldn’t either.

“Well.” Quintus stood. “Then I suppose you’ll have to show me yourself.”

The centurion stepped toward the tent’s entrance, beckoning for a confused Devin to follow. “Where are you going?”

“Where else?” Quintus grinned. “We’re going to hold a bit of a mock battle.”

B3 Chapter 12: Plan B

B3 Chapter 12: Plan B

When Quintus finally made it through the lines and back towards the command post, he managed to find Gaius relatively quickly. But it seemed he wasn’t the only one aiming to have words with the young leader.

Tiberius stood beside the new Legatus, his bearing as regal and confident as Gaius was tense. Despite being a similar height to Quintus, the emperor seemed almost taller than before as his stony gaze fell upon the centurion. Though perhaps Quintus was just imagining it.

Immediately upon arriving at the hub of activity, one thing was clear. Tiberius was not pleased. To be fair, the man wasn’t exactly prone to smiling even on the best of occasions. Almost anyone else would have just found his expression to be its usual grim façade.

But they had worked together long enough that Quintus could read him a little bit better. There was a certain tightness in his eyes and a slight aggressiveness in his stance that made it clear. They were subtle clues, but present all the same.

Quintus came to a halt, offering a bow to the emperor and a salute to his new Legatus. “Sir. We have identified and eliminated all [Mana Batteries] in the vanguard, as ordered.”

Gaius nodded. “Good work, Primus.”

“A risky manuever.” Tiberius spoke in a deep rumble as he met Quintus’s eyes. “Did you perhaps wish to distance yourself as much as possible from the responsibilities of command?”

Gaius’s grimace tightened slightly as Tiberius continued to stare levelly at Quintus. He internally winced. It seemed that the Legatus was not the only one that the emperor was unhappy with.

On some level, he realized that staying beside Gaius would have been a smarter move than joining the ranks. But his decision hadn’t been an impulsive one borne of battle lust and boiling blood alone. Standing beside his men, Quintus could be a beacon of stability, an example that inspired confidence and rallied the troops around him—something they needed even more in the wake of the leadership changes. Besides, he’d always led better from the front. He often found himself better able to grasp the tides of battle when he was submerged within them rather than looking on from afar.

He considered explaining that he simply did as he was ordered, but that was no excuse. With his experience, Tiberius was right to expect Quintus to exercise more discretion. Indeed, he should have been the one to offer other suggestions of how to deal with the problem.

Responsibility fell squarely on Quintus’s shoulders. Not to mention he didn’t wish to throw the lad to the wolves entirely.

He didn’t argue with the emperor, nor offer a defense for his actions. He suspected that Tiberius had already considered any rebuttal he might pose. Luckily, he was spared from a further dressing-down by the arrival of the duke on horseback. The noble dismounted and offered a bow of his own, the elven Legatus joining them soon after.

Seeing that all of the commanders had gathered, Quintus stepped back. He knew perfectly well that this was not his place. Despite his experience, his authority was no match for that of the men around him. Yet Tiberius had made it clear that assisting Gaius should have been his highest priority this entire time. So rather than assuming he’d be dismissed, Quintus simply took up a position behind the young Legatus and waited.

Tiberius gave all of the commanders nods of acknowledgement. Then, to his surprise, the emperor turned to address him directly. “Quintus. How long before the main force arrives?”

He was taken aback, but recovered quickly. “Twenty-five minutes, sir. That's what scouts estimate considering their speed, positioning, and the fact that they'll need to reabsorb their vanguard. Seventeen if they push past them, or more if they decide to be cautious.”

"Very good," Tiberius nodded before turning to the others. "We will review the effectiveness of your tactics after the battle. For now, I will be taking command.”

No one protested the declaration.

Immediately, Tiberius began issuing orders. The cohorts of each legion were divided and placed in strategic positions around the battlefield. Several teams were split off to assist the men already setting fortifications and traps, with some hurrying out to build new ones. They would be quick and dirty, given the amount of time they had. But in this world? Quick and dirty was nothing to scoff at.

“Duke Redcliffe.” Tiberius addressed the graying noble beside him. “I saw your cavalry move quickly to run down the vanguard. Is that their maximum speed?”

The man shook his head. “No, emperor. Most of the men have additional skills to hasten their movement. Some make them move more quickly the longer they remain in motion, others simply provide a simple burst of speed.”

“I see.” Tiberius nodded. “Group them according to the type of movement skills they possess. I want units that are specialized in short, medium, and long range engagements.” He turned. “Legatus Sylendor. How many of your men still specialize in movement and stealth…?”

Several times, Tiberius pressed his commanders for information on their men’s capabilities. He would then adjust plans accordingly, sending out orders to fine-tune positioning and adjust fortifications to more exacting types. He even asked Gaius and Quintus for their input, though the man knew what the first Legion could do better than anyone. Still, Quintus got the impression that these questions may have been more teaching opportunities than actual inquiries.

Quintus worked on translating the Legatus’s broad directives into actionable orders and getting them to the proper channels. Gaius did much the same, though the lad tended to listen more than he spoke. On one hand, it was a good thing. Perhaps it meant he was taking in Tiberius’s example and would learn something from it. On the other, it was hard to miss the lad’s growing tension as he realized just how much more he could have done to prepare.

The battlefield quickly transformed, faster than Quintus had thought possible. In no time at all, towers rose into the air, with elven archers stationed at points of interest. More of their pointy-eared allies took up positions behind the first Legion’s lines to reinforce them from a range. The duke's cavalry was hidden behind a [Galmor] and split into a dozen smaller different parts for a larger impact at critical moments. Better fortifications for repelling a charge, providing better vantage points, and giving soldiers a place to cycle out and rest sprang up around them.

It no longer looked as though the Legion were being ambushed at their camp. Now, the marquis’s troops would be assaulting a well-fortified position, one that might as well have been prepared weeks ahead of time.

Quintus was eventually sent back out into position to take control of his cohort. Despite Tiberius’s earlier words, the man knew how valuable his first centurion was on the field. And now that Tiberius had taken charge, Gaius had a better advisor to watch over his shoulder. Quintus and his men were placed front and center as the keystone of the battle line, as the first cohort should be.

The sight of the fortifications around him filled Quintus with newfound confidence. With the ability to erect them as quickly and easily as this, he may never have to face a completely open field battle again. He’d seen too many men die as a result of stacking up on their enemy’s flank in an attempt to roll them. Thrilling as it may have been, he would take an advantageous position behind a solid line any day.

Finally, twenty minutes later, the enemy drew near. He and his brethren watched as the enemy approached and they waited for Tiberius's plans to take shape.

***

Tiberius watched with grim satisfaction as the battle raged before him. Things were going quite well indeed. Now that he’d organized things and coordinated their forces, the marquis’s forces were out of their depth.

The Legion had managed to draw everyone in and pin them in place with proper flanking forces. Their only avenue of retreat was up a steep hill that proved much more costly than the enemy expected. The first couple of times they had tried it, they found themselves faced with a different wall—one of fire and death raining down from above.

Traditionally, siege weapons were made for taking down large, stationary targets like walls or defenses. Troops themselves were far too mobile to be practical targets. Even aiming at large formations could be difficult, as erecting and aiming the weapons took time.

That issue had been remedied beautifully. Hundreds of fist–sized rocks and stones rained upon the men’s heads, guided toward targets through the magic of skills and enchantments. Lengths of metal and wood that might have been called spears tore through the soldiers like upscaled versions of the elves’ arrow rain. Through a mixture of enchantments and skills, the weapons proved more effective and versatile than ever.

The speed and frequency of the assault was relentless. Quintus had been right—their engineers’ newest innovations were proving quite effective in the field. Even better, they were holding back. Most of the more costly ammunition made from in-demand materials or bearing particularly complex enchantments stayed in reserve for now. There was no sense in wasting it before it was needed. Against a retreating force of massed soldiers forced to run up a hill slowly, this was devastating enough.

It only helped that the the soldiers of the main army proved significantly weaker than those of the vanguard. Evidently, the advance force had been comprised of the elites, the best of the best, outfitted to deal with any problem that the army would encounter while the main force was left to mop up the remains. Given what he knew about this world’s combat, it made some amount of sense. But when that vanguard failed… It left the rank and file scrambling a bit more than one would normally expect.

That wasn't to say they were going to win so easily, of course. As satisfying as it would be to completely wipe out the enemy, there was a tradeoff to be made. His own men had begun to tire as well. And while they could certainly chase down their foes as they began to retreat, the odds of eliminating them down to the last man were vanishingly low.

He wasn’t stupid enough to believe that they would come out of this battle without any reports back to Novara. Nor was he entirely certain that chasing down the enemy wouldn’t lead them out of their advantageous position and into some other trap. They would certainly crush every last one of the foes that they could. But if a few got away, as they always did… it would not be the end of the world. They had grown enough that information leaks were practically unavoidable.

As long as they could keep the majority from retreating to Novara’s capital, he would be satisfied. But that certainly didn’t mean he would let them off easy.

Interestingly enough though, it seemed that the retreating force wasn’t trying to head in the direction they expected. They fled further to the north, possibly toward the marquis’s own lands if he had to guess. It meant that any remnants of the routed force wouldn’t get in the way of their march. Perhaps whatever dregs remained might try and sneak up behind Rome’s forces later, but judging by the terrified faces Tiberius saw? He rather doubted it.

Tiberius watched as his men slowly closed in on the panicking army like a tightening noose. Every once in a while, a Legionnaire would fall or be hobbled by a lucky strike or a particularly empowered attack borne of desperation. Yet even when they fell, Tiberius felt nothing. He no longer experienced the visceral thrill of dread that accompanied the deaths of his own Legionnaires.

It was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it would allow him to avoid distractions amid the fighting and focus on victory. Yet at the same time… that feeling had reinforced their bond. It had made him keenly aware of each man's sacrifice as they gave everything for Rome. It made the battle feel so much more impersonal than before.

It was just one more way that he'd been alienated from his men. It had been no different before all this, back in the original Rome, but now… He would have to ensure that they were properly honored in some other way.

The marquis’s forces rallied again, their dwindling numbers spurring them to make one last push to escape. They spread out, running up the hill once more as the siege weapons and archers rained down death upon their heads. A few drew ahead, looking as though they might actually escape.

Then another group appeared over the top of the hill.

Tiberius could see the momentary flicker of hope in the enemy's eyes, only to be replaced by despair. These men were no allies. Their armor, battered and worn as it was, still displayed a familiar insignia upon it. That of the Duke of Redcliffe. His son and the remainder of his cavalry had finally arrived.

Tiberius smiled as the horsemen split into small wedge formations and plowed through the retreating men, completely blindsiding them. The scouts had reported the approach of these men, of course. It had been one of the many things Tiberius had factored into his plans. Though he hadn’t considered just how effective they would be.

There was nothing but chaos as the horses trampled men underfoot, their riders hunching low with their lances. They wheeled and spun, emerging from the crowd of the marquis’s men only to turn and make another pass through. Three times, the horses charged through the retreating men, decimating their numbers.

When all was said and done, they’d come much closer to completely eliminating the enemy than Tiberius had expected. The grasses of the fields around them lay flat beneath fallen bodies, hoofprints, and the stamping of armored feet. The groans of injured and exhausted men replaced battlecries and the clatter of weapons as they finally were granted a moment of rest.

He looked out at what remained of the marquis’s forces. There wasn’t much. Only a few of the more important-looking generals had been rounded up and left on their knees, bound and disarmed. At their center was a man in exceptionally expensive-looking armor that would have been more at home on a display stand than in actual battle. Considering its pristine condition and the completely impractical ornamentations that littered its surface, Tiberius guessed that was exactly where it had been until recently.

It didn’t take much to guess who it might be.

Looking on the situation from afar, Tiberius watched as the first Legion prepared their new prisoners to be brought before him. Perhaps they would be ransomed like the duke’s daughter had been. Perhaps they would be executed outright or interrogated for information. He hadn’t yet decided what the best course of action would be.

Yet as he mulled the matter over, he saw a figure riding purposefully out to the battlefield. The duke and an escort. A glance to the side revealed that the man had indeed left Tiberius’s side, which was understandable. Perhaps he meant to reunite with his son and his men.

But as the riders turned aside, it became clear that was not at all the case. They turned toward the prisoners, coming to a halt before them as the duke dismounted. He stood over the marquis, his face as black as a midnight storm. The two men exchanged some rather heated words that Tiberius couldn’t hear from this distance as his Legionnaires looked on.

Before Tiberius could send a messenger that way, it was too late. The marquis spat in the face of the duke and snarled something. In response, the duke drew his sword from its scabbard and beheaded the man in a single stroke.

B3 Chapter 11: Battering Ram

B3 Chapter 11: Battering Ram

Quintus frowned as the vanguard began to retreat, their rear harried by the duke’s cavalry. Though they’d managed to weaken the enemy significantly, he still didn’t feel satisfied with how the battle had gone.

A quick survey of the battlefield showed that they would have a moment’s reprieve before the next wave of the assault came. The men were already busy fortifying their position and regrouping in preparation. In that time, he needed to find Gaius.

He stepped back from the line, another man seamlessly slotting into his place, and cast his gaze across the Legion’s formations. It took only a moment for him to find the golden eagle standard, its wings spread wide atop its perch. If there was anywhere he’d find the lad, that would be it.

Setting off at a jog revealed just how much of a drain the battle had been on Quintus—on all the men, really. A deep tiredness had begun to seep into his muscles, not localizing in a single area but spread throughout. He felt as though he hadn’t slept for a day or two at least. It wasn’t a good sign, considering how much more battle was left.

It wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar feeling. Battle tended to leave a man exhausted, after all. But given how their fights in this world had gone so far, it still felt strange and foreign.

On his way, Quintus passed a few of the communications specialists that had been studded at key positions along the line. They stood muttering with their eyes closed, messengers rushing toward and away from them as they carried messages the last bit of distance to their intended recipients. It was a hybrid system, one that made use of a small number of such specialists to great effect. Especially considering the abilities of the messengers themselves.

He could have sent a message through the relay, of course. But there were some things that were not fit for one’s subordinates to hear. Criticizing a commander in front of his men was one of those things. Besides, this would be a conversation, not a one-way message.

One of those messengers turned in Quintus’s direction with unnerving precision before making a beeline for him. The centurion barely had time to stop and wait for the man before he was standing before him and saluting.

“Primus Pilus.” The man spoke quickly as he was acknowledged. “Orders for you from Legatus Gaius. You are to take a small force and neutralize the group of unarmed and unarmored individuals retreating among the vanguard.”

Quintus’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t noticed any such individuals. Had he missed them?

“Civilians?” Quintus asked for clarification.

“No, sir. They’re called [Mana Batteries]. We’ve received word that they are empowering their mages. Taking them out will cripple their capabilities. Failing to do so will allow them to aid any mages that are part of the incoming forces similarly.” The messenger explained. “They have abilities that allow them to slip by unnoticed. A pair of scouts that are able to detect them will join you.”

Quintus looked at the retreating vanguard and frowned. That would explain how they’d managed to evade his detection. Given the distance between the vanguard and the approaching army, an assault right now would be cutting it close. Fortunately, the enemy had lost many more horses than men, slowing them down significantly.

Not that he was worried about catching up. He was confident in that area.

Quintus nodded. "Tell him it will be done."

He turned around and sprinted back to his men, calling out orders as he ran. In moments, he’d assembled his century. It would be relatively small, and they'd be outnumbered if it came to a full engagement. But they needed to be fast and light. Besides, he planned to be in and out well before that.

He left orders with other centurions to advance and be ready to assist if needed as the two scouts arrived. Turning to them, Quintus gestured to the retreating vanguard. “You can see our targets?”

“Yes, sir.” One of them replied. He focused intently before pointing at a specific spot. “There.”

Quintus peered in the direction the man was pointing and frowned. “I see nothing.”

“To the left. Next to the piebald. There’s a horse with two men draped over a saddle. They’re grouped near the near edge of the vanguard, trying to evade notice as they escape.”

Quintus focused harder. He saw something, but it was hazy and indistinct. His attention kept slipping away from it as though he were trying to grasp a patch of oil floating on water.

An idea struck him. The foes were practically invisible to Quintus's eyes. But what if he could see through the scout’s?

He placed his hand on the scout's shoulder and focused on his [Unity] skill. His vision flickered uncomfortably and he experienced a brief moment of vertigo as the world seemed to appear in double. When he was able to see normally again, he saw it. A small group of limp, white-robed figures with unseeing eyes, thrown across the backs of horses like sacks of grain. If Quintus didn’t know better he would have thought they were already dead.

He swore. There wasn’t just one group. There were four, all trying to flee the Legion as fast as their overburdened horses would take them. 

“Split into four groups!” He shouted to the Legionnaires around him. “Focus on seeing through the scouts’ eyes to spot them. Move!”

The men hurried to comply. The figures were still blurry and threatened to disappear if he didn’t actively focus on them. But he could see them. Even when he removed his hand from the scout and everything else suddenly became far more distracting, Quintus locked onto them like an eagle eyeing its prey.

As soon as the men were ready, they bolted for the [Mana Batteries]. Organizing everyone had taken longer than he would have liked, shrinking their margin for error even further. But the Legion had speed on their side.

Quintus led his men toward the farthest group. He felt [Warpath] activate and hasten his march. The urgency of the battle seemed to spur him along even faster, and the terrain itself seemed to blur in his peripherals as the enemy grew to fill his vision. 

Cries of surprise and alarm went up from the vanguard at the Legionnaires’ sudden appearance. The enemy splintered, indecisive about how to respond. Some continued to flee, while others slowed as they looked back to evaluate the threat or prepared to fight. One such group interposed itself between Quintus’s men and the [Mana Batteries] with grim-faced determination.

Quintus formed his men into a wedge with him at the point. They crashed through the vanguard’s hastily-constructed line like a stone through fine pottery.

His men engaged the fighters as Quintus kept his attention on their real target. The horses loaded down with these strange individuals were spurred on even faster by their riders, trying to escape. If he so much as turned aside, perhaps they would. But Quintus didn’t intend to let that happen.

He immediately drew his pilum, hurling it forward. It somehow went wide and missed the glassy-eyed individual he’d been aiming at. With a quietly spoken word, Quintus detonated the pilum while it was still in midair. The blast sent one of the horses down screaming, its passengers tumbling limply through the air.

They wouldn’t be moving anytime soon, if their vacant gazes were anything to go by. He just had to stop them from getting any further. Then they could mop up afterwards.

Quintus didn’t stop his advance. He drew his sword and felt a calmness roll over him as the leather grip felt perfectly in his hand. Leaping forward, he flashed his blade through the neck of the rearmost horse and its rider. He felt [Swordsmastery] aid his wrist placement and brought the full weight of his stats to bear as he planted his foot on the collapsing horse’s back. [Sure Footing] made the unstable surface feel as though it were solid ground. Then he twisted, propelling himself toward the next target.

Another horse appeared out of seemingly nowhere beneath him. Its rider’s eyes widened as Quintus landed feet-first on his shoulders and plunged his sword into his mouth. With a kick and a twist, Quintus tossed the dead man off the horse and dropped into the saddle himself to view the battlefield from a higher vantage point.

The small gap he had made in the largely disorganized group of wounded and retreating foes was enough to break them. Behind him, his men sent them running once more, despite the Legionnaires being outnumbered. They were organized, prepared, and uninjured, whereas most of the men they were fighting were hurt or otherwise spent.

It didn't help that the marquis's man had already been in the process of fleeing. But whatever semblance of order they’d gained after the duke’s charge had fallen completely apart. Now, their retreat turned into a rout.

Quintus couldn’t spare any more of his attention, however. Even that brief instant had almost been enough for the remaining [Mana Batteries] to slip out of his view. He forced himself to focus on the patch of terrain he’d last seen them in until a vague hint of movement caught his eye. Without hesitation, he launched himself forward, lashing out with [Rend] and [Tear] simultaneously in a wide arc.

His blade cut a supernaturally wide swath in front of him. The air itself seemed to rip as violent swirls of wind churned in the wake of his strike, sending sprays of red mist skyward. He felt the flecks of blood and viscera pepper his face as whatever skills had obscured the [Mana Batteries] failed and revealed their eviscerated forms. They crumpled to the ground, their eyes even more glassy and lifeless than they had been moments before.

He expected his men to catch up by this point. But it quickly became clear that his men were doing more than simply clearing up behind him. Whatever skills made it difficult to focus on these individuals seemed to be insidiously distracting his men, convincing them that they had other targets.

“To me!” Quintus shouted over his shoulder, infusing his orders with [Voice of Command]. His eyes didn’t let his opponents out of sight. “Focus!”

The men seemed to come to themselves for a moment, but still continued to veer off target when he or the scout who could see their foes wasn’t actively yelling at them. He could feel as they were constantly distracted and pulled away from their true goal by something else. Scowling, Quintus shouted again.

“[Coordinated Offense]!” He bellowed to his contubernium. “Activate it! Now!”

The group nodded, and Quintus felt a connection between them snap into place. He focused on the group of fleeing enemies before him, willing for his singleminded determination to be conveyed to his men. It was.

The Legionnaires behind him suddenly rushed forward, finally free of the malign influence. His contubernium shepherded the others of his group along with shouts and physical pushes where needed. In the meantime, Quintus didn’t plan to wait. He just needed them to be nearby so he’d have a place to retreat to.

He grabbed a spear from one of his fallen opponents and flung it towards the group of men ahead. It landed amongst them, yet somehow managed to miss every single one.

Quintus swore. Avoiding detection was one thing, but deflecting projectiles as well? These people were becoming more annoying by the minute.

Once again, he rushed forward, propelling himself into the center of the group. His sword flashed in a spinning arc, cleaving ragged gouges in two of the white-robed figures even as the others stumbled back from the impact. None of them seemed to react or even express surprise. He found himself briefly sickened by the complete lack of understanding in their eyes. Who would choose a fate like this?

[Battlefield Intuition] screamed. Quintus twisted and just managed to interpose his sword between him and the coming threat. But rather than a blade or arrow, a bolt of lightning slammed into his gladius.

He gritted his teeth, feeling the electricity crackle and arc across his armor. Even with its protective enchantments, he still felt a tingling static sensation course through his body. But it didn’t kill him outright. He dimly made a note to thank Gareth for that.

His eyes immediately picked out the mage responsible for the attack. Quintus plucked a dagger from his belt and flung it toward him. The blade whistled through the air as he dove towards the last [Mana Battery], cutting his throat and rolling out of the way of a follow-up bolt.

The mage screamed. Evidently, he’d managed to catch the knife—by its blade. It pierced through his palm, its tip halted only half an inch from his eye. His other hand stretched out, and Quintus saw the glow of another spell being formed as he quickly slung his shield off his back.

For the first time since his offense began, he ducked behind it. Once again, he felt the tingle of electricity course through him and smelled burnt hair. As a solo fighter, he didn’t gain the benefits of [Coordinated Bulwark], meaning he couldn’t afford to take many more hits like that—blocked or not.

Quintus lunged forward, the chaos of battle raging around him. As the mage stumbled back, his sword lanced forward, halting in midair as a shimmering barrier blocked it. Quintus felt his arm shaking with the effort of piercing through. The mage gasped with exertion and screamed, flinging another spell at Quintus. He ducked behind his shield, blocking it again and rearing back for another strike—only to find the mage fleeing for his life.

He did not pursue. As nice as it would have been to kill that bastard, the mage wasn’t his target. Instead, he turned and ran, sprinting back towards his men.

“Any more around here?” He panted at the scout that had accompanied them.

“No, sir.” The man confirmed. “They’ve all been neutralized. We finished off the fallen back there.”

“Good.” He turned to the others. “We reinforce the others. Move!”

Together, they hurried toward the next group. They charged alongside the retreating vanguard, striking only as a way to hurry their advance, before meeting up with another one of their strike forces. Funnily enough, it was the same direction that the cowardly mage had been headed. He screamed for help, desperately pulling on the power of those around him to hurl spell after spell at the wall of advancing Legionnaires.

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Mostly. Those that did listen didn’t last long.

By the time they were done, the battlefield was littered with white robes spattered red with blood. A quick check in with the other groups revealed that they’d succeeded in their task. But not without loss. He winced as he noticed that several of his own men also lay among the slain. He’d felt their passing in the midst of battle, but still…

“This better have been worth it…” He muttered to himself out of earshot of the others. Then, louder, he issued his orders. “We’re done here. Fall back!”

They pulled back before the advancing army could come within archery distance, picking up several of the reinforcement groups he had set up as they went back to the line. He’d done what he needed to. After this, though… he really needed to talk with Gaius.

B3 Chapter 10: Performance Review

B3 Chapter 10: Performance Review

Tiberius watched the approach of the enemy’s main force on horizon, his expression stony and implacable. They'd known to expect them, of course. But their arrival was ill-timed nonetheless.

The dark cloud hanging above began to disperse. Blue skies above appeared once more as the hailstorm slowed, then ceased entirely, the last of its daggers falling upon the retreating vanguard.

Focusing only confirmed Tiberius's suspicions. Tapping into one’s state with the crown revealed the beginnings of a headache afflicting him, a consequence of overtaxing one's mana pool.The unit of the Legion's half-mages were spent. 

He'd been warned about this. Given the men's inexperience with magic, their efficiency in using it apparently left much to be desired and resulted in a lot of waste for the moment. As they trained and improved, their control and capabilities would only grow.

This display had been impressive, to be sure. But not nearly as impressive as they would be given a bit more time.

But for now, considering the fact that the men's mana pool was shared? They were right to stop when they did. Continuing to push things ran the risk of afflicting the whole Legion with debilitating pain.

Turning his attention back to the battle at large, Tiberius frowned. As impressive as the spell had been, it was also a single use resource, and its timing left much to be desired. Its barrage of innumerable and comparatively weak attacks had pinned the enemy down, but been rendered largely ineffective by their armor, shields, and protective magic. As was to be expected of an elite unit. The hail may have found more success against the more numerous and presumably weaker main force.

It was one of many missteps and questionable decisions that Tiberius took note of. Using [Keen Eye], he picked out the new Legatus from amidst the battlefield, safely behind the Legion’s fortifications. He looked up and down between a projected map and the battlefield itself. A flurry of messengers sprinted about him, some standing perfectly still as they relayed orders telepathically to others. Tension was written plain across his face.

Tiberius understood. It was the boy’s first battle leading the Legion, after all. His first real opportunity to earn the men’s trust—or lose it by displaying incompetence. He had reason to be tense.

Perhaps Gaius was so wrapped up in ensuring a victory here that he’d failed to account for the long term. The young were brash and always felt the need to prove themselves, after all. It would explain his premature use of the magic and sending the Legion to pursue the vanguard rather than just allowing the duke’s cavalry to mop up.

But his eagerness led to missteps. The incoming forces accelerated as they made to join the battle, and now the Legion was out of position. Though they still could rely on the unreasonable durability of [Coordinated Bulwark], an enemy charge wouldn’t have their numbers lessened by the field of traps and fortifications that the vanguard had needed to overcome.

Of course, they had other options. But it was a matter of winning the battle at risk of losing the war. They’d shown their hand and left fewer tools in reserve than Tiberius would have.

Overall… he was disappointed.

Tiberius shook his head. The situation was not irredeemable. After all, they still clearly had the upper hand. The vanguard had been routed successfully. But this could have been a rout of the entire enemy army instead.

One thing he did notice was Gaius’s support staff—or rather, a notable absence from it. Quintus. The Primus Pilus was fighting on the front lines, putting his efforts toward maintaining the shield wall alongside his brethren.

While that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary—he was doing a damn good job of it, as always—this was another decision that raised Tiberius’s eyebrows. Why hadn’t Gaius pulled the man back? He was the most seasoned Legionnaire they had, and his tactical knowledge and command experience were invaluable. Yet Gaius chose not to have the man at his side, giving him advice?

He wasn't sure who he was going to reprimand about that decision. Had Gaius decided to send the centurion away, deciding that the battle was his to command on his own? Had he been so hot-headed as to think he didn’t need advice? Or had Quintus been the hot-headed one, rushing into battle without thinking about where else he might better serve the Legion?

Perhaps it was a matter of politics. He knew that Quintus had called the general muster and issued orders, exactly as he should have. Yet if the new Legatus had taken offense to that, seeing it as his place to do so…

Tiberius wanted to believe that Gaius was not so shortsighted. Yet at the same time, he could not deny the boy had pride appropriate for his young age. Quintus’s reactions would have been deemed perfectly appropriate had Tiberius been in charge, but with a new leader, it would take time for them both to adjust to their new dynamic. A decade’s worth of rapport was not so easily replicated, after all.

Still, if Gaius continued to let his sharpest sword be used for chopping wood rather than keep it at his side, Tiberius would have to speak up. Unlike Gaius, Quintus already had experience commanding a force in the field. Not just a century or a single cohort, either. He’d proven his ability to command everything from a contubernium to half the legion.

It was a skill that not many could boast of. Even plenty of centurions found themselves faltering when their promotions saw them overseeing too many men. And while the man was considerably less talented when it came to the organization and logistics of the Legion, he understood that and had the humility to delegate such tasks.

Gaius would need to do the same—at least until he learned enough to take on such responsibilities himself. For while logistics were the life and breath of an army, living and breathing didn’t automatically make one a capable fighter. Staying alive was not enough to win a battle. Well, most of them.

Tiberius looked over the camp. Even there, signs of Gaius’s inexperience showed. The fortifications and preparations they’d made had been rushed, started far too late to properly overlap them and create a truly unassailable position. There had been time for it. But Gaius had hesitated, taken too long to decide on a battle plan and react to the threat. He'd sought more information before committing rather than being proactive.

At least he’d recognized his mistake. Only, he’d overcompensated by being too decisive and aggressive shortly after. It was understandable, a fair reaction to being pressed hard, as hard as they'd ever been since arriving in this world. But understandable didn’t mean optimal.

The emperor watched as a few of the faster members of the vanguard hurried toward their advancing allies. Scouts, no doubt, or at least men with enough speed to take information back to the others. Information about their defenses, their weather magic, the elves' archery, the [Osteomancy] specialists… All the capabilities they'd shown during this fight.

At least they hadn't shown everything. They still held a number of specialist cohorts in reserve, and the siege weapons had yet to come into play. Something that would likely change soon, considering how the weaponry had been quietly repositioned behind hills and whatever cover was available.

That, he did approve of. Though the fact remained that utilizing the less flexible bombardments of the siege machines would have been a better choice before showing off any of their actual secrets.

All in all, despite Tiberius's misgivings, things could have gone much worse. They had forced the enemy to retreat, made them take heavy losses without taking many of their own, and protected their allies successfully. Those victories, at least, he could grant Gaius.

His attention skimmed over the formation of elves and the duke's cavalry as they regrouped, preparing for the next phase of the battle. He paid particular attention to the first group. This had been Tiberius’s first opportunity to truly see their forest dwelling brethren in action. True, some of their envoys had made demonstrations of their combat style and abilities during negotiations, but those were the best they had to offer. It didn’t compare to seeing the rank and file at scale.

They had performed adequately. Their discipline was rather respectable, and their archery skills certainly did not disappoint. Yet they had their own collection of shortcomings. Namely, their vulnerability to a charge was inexcusable for any true Legion. Clearly, the Elven Republic in the Great Ruthin Forest had drifted from its roots.

Much of that would be remedied with time and proper training. Yet it made Tiberius consider what form that training should take. He would have to decide whether they should remain as they were, an army with tactics and specializations different to their own, or have them retrained into a more traditional legion.

Such decisions were best saved for a later date, however. Today, there was still a war to be won.

Tiberius checked on the status of his men. The battle had noticeably depleted them. While they weren’t yet exhausted, it was far harder than they’d been pushed in any battle thus far.

Part of that was due to the delays in making tactical decisions. Even if Gaius waited a few seconds to consider each, those precious handfuls added up as his men were forced to endure longer and longer.

It also exposed one of the Legion’s bigger weaknesses. Though their stamina pool was far deeper than what any individual could feasibly use, it wasn’t limitless. And though all could draw on it, allowing them to fight far past a normal man, that very draw would necessarily take its toll on their brethren right alongside them.

Since the pool was shared, even a full cohort held in reserve to enter the battle fresh would find themselves exhausted by extended conflict. Resting on the backline could recover some of their energy, but it was a pittance compared to what the frontline fighters consumed.

Of course, that wasn’t to say that rest was entirely pointless—there was still the immediate tiredness of physical exertion that affected each individual. But the problem was clear when it came to skill use.

“Have the duke order his men to pull back for now.” Tiberius spoke to the empty air without turning his head. “Have the elves take up positions behind the first Legion as well. There is no sense in allowing them to be exposed if they cannot maintain the same level of defense.”

“Sir.” He heard Lucius acknowledge the orders before going silent to communicate them. Each force’s commander had a Legionnaire with him for just such communications, though the majority of the messages passed still were communicated through messengers. Old habits died hard, and given how hard they were taxing their stamina pool, conserving it wherever possible seemed prudent.

As his orders were passed down, Tiberius considered that he himself may have also made a mistake. He had been content to allow his commanders free rein, to see what they would do and observe their tactics from afar. But such an arrangement left a vacuum at the top of the hierarchy. Gaius had taken charge for now, fortuitously enough, but such a gap could have led to discord, infighting, and even more tactical slip-ups.

He would have to thank the elven Legatus for his tact and understanding. And ensure that he did not make the same mistake again. But right now, perhaps it was time to take a bit more active role in commanding Rome’s forces.

Tiberius began to relay additional orders to Lucius, trying to keep from micromanaging too much. It seemed that this battle was proving to be a learning experience for all of them. He just had to make sure these mistakes didn’t come at the cost of men’s lives.

B3 Chapter 9: Assault and Battery

B3 Chapter 9: Assault and Battery

From atop the hill, Marcus had quite a decent vantage point as the battle unfolded. The marquis’s forces battered against the Legion neither their physical or magical assault able to make much discernable headway. But that didn't stop them from continuing the pressure.

He watched the mages continue to hurl spells toward the line of shields. Arcs of lightning rippled up and down the line while the ground before them alternately froze and burned to a crisp. Any semblance of grass had long since been vaporized by the assault.

A frown creased his brow. This assault was stretching on far longer than it had any right to. Either those mages were far beyond the level that he'd expected, or…

Marcus’s gaze was drawn to a particular patch of the landscape, just behind the mages. He couldn’t entirely explain why. It was as though an invisible finger was pointing it out, urging him to pay close attention to it. Even though there was absolutely nothing strange about—

His attention sharpened. With a conscious effort, he dispersed the insidious effect and focused.  There, partially obscured behind the hill, stood a few small clusters of unarmed individuals. There were three per mage, their eyes glassy as they swayed gently in place.

His lips twisted in disgust at the practice. [Mana Batteries]. A powerful and incredibly useful class, if one was willing to sacrifice their own individual agency. Both it and other classes like it had been outlawed for a long time in the Novaran Kingdom, and for good reason. 

While it was possible for others to contribute to mages using their own mana pool, doing so required a handful of skills that often hamstrung the person in other areas and made the effort not worth it. But [Mana Batteries]? They took that principle up to eleven.

They were practically walking vegetables whose sole purpose was to be wrung out by mages. With enough support, a mage could double, triple, or even quadruple their mana regeneration. And that wasn't even considering the additional mana pool available to them. 

The fact that the Marquis was using these so openly was not a good sign. After all, it was exceedingly rare for anyone to willingly choose the [Mana Battery] class. 

But if the Legion was hoping to outlast whatever attacks these mages could throw at them, they might be in for a rude awakening. There would be no end to these strikes anytime soon. Worse, the effect he’d just experienced made it clear that they had some sort of skill designed to divert attention away from them. If Marcus had hardly noticed them, the Legion likely didn’t stand a chance.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment and focused. Tenuous threads extended out from him in every direction. Most reached toward the Roman Legionnaires he could see on the battlefield ahead. Others reached back toward Hausten or Stonester or to other undefined points along the countryside.

Quickly, Marcus identified the closest one that was separate from the others. If they were moving alone, it would likely be a scout or messenger of some kind. Someone who would be able to carry word of the [Mana Batteries] back to their commander. Otherwise, those mages would continue to make trouble.

He began running toward the Legionnaire, watching the battle as he moved. It appeared that whoever was in charge of the Marquis’s vanguard didn’t find the mages’ attacks enough. Several squads broke off, around eight in total, charging parallel to the Legion’s shield wall as they avoided the magical barrage.

One group in particular rallied around a cavalier in armor even heavier than the others. His horse was bedecked with similar protections, giving it the appearance of an armored castle on stilts rather than something meant to move with any kind of speed. But move they did.

They began to charge toward the formation of elves raining down arrows from one of the Legion's flanks. As soon as they were in range, more waves of deadly arrows arced skyward before descending onto the cavaliers’ heads.

The concentrated mass firing on the smaller groups should have been more effective. But this was what the army units had been trained for. Their shields were locked tightly together in some vague semblance of the Legion’s own tactics, albeit less precise. Arrows flew to either side without apparent reason as the men’s arrow deflection skills overlapped and amplified each other.

A few men fell, but only the ones responsible for support. The juggernauts at the front still continued forward unimpeded and protected by the rest of their group. Marcus stared hard at one, willing [Appraisal] to work at this distance. To his relief, it did. Unfortunately it revealed that the hulking armored figure chagrin forward was around level thirty.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. He was no tactician, but the elves’ shields didn’t seem built for taking a charge the same way the Roman Legion’s were. The slighter forest folk wore small, round shields built to be used with their bows, not form an impenetrable wall. Meaning they would need a miracle to not be broken through.

The elves began a staggered retreat, half of the force firing at the incoming attackers before running back and switching with the other half. The synchronization of their movements was hypnotic with its precision, and Marcus didn’t see a single elf panic and break formation.

Still, they were on foot while being charged by mounted cavalry. And with the recent level reset, they didn’t have anywhere near the stats to keep ahead.

After what felt like a long time, the first Legion finally responded. Several cohorts split off from the end of the shield wall, shortening it and increasing the load on those defending against the magic barrage. As they marched, the entire force condensed into an airtight defensive formation that rather resembled a turtle. A turtle that inexplicably moved even faster than the horses they were moving to intercept.

A few mages tried to redirect and catch the moving Legionnaires unawares. They aimed for any perceived openings, looking to take advantage of momentary gaps in the formation.  Yet their efforts were quickly nullified as a group of Legionnaires knelt and placed their hand on the ground. A wall of stone sprang up before them, dirt and stone sprayed in every direction as the spells hammered against the hastily-constructed fortification that the men were rapidly spreading mortar across.

Ironically, the wall lasted far less time than the Legion itself. But by the time the first spells broke through, the men it had been covering were long gone.

Another order was given, and the remaining wall of Legionnaires began to march forward. At the same time, a few groups of what Marcus recognized as Legion’s half-mages began their work.

The sky began to darken above, clouds swirling with ominous intent. Rain began to pour down from the heavens and onto the enemy forces. Over the course of a few seconds, the temperature dropped precipitously and solidified the rain into sharpened hail chunks the size of daggers.

The effect was immediate. The incoming barrage of magic faltered immediately as the mages were forced to seek cover and switch to protective spells. The other forces scrambled to protect them, deflecting the deadly hailstorm with raised shields and whatever scraps of clothing they could scrounge up. Throughout it all, the [Mana Batteries] in their midst stood unmoving. Their empty expressions didn’t so much as twitch as they were sliced as though by a hurricane of razors, lacking the self-preservation required to seek safety.

A few of the mages tried to erect barriers to protect their precious fuel reserves from any incidental harm, but the damage had already been dealt. The slack-jawed [Mana Batteries] bled freely from dozens of cuts across their exposed skin. Healers hurried forward to restore them as quickly as they could and move the others to safety.

Marcus couldn’t help but gape. The Legion’s half-mages were still in training, only capable of casting a few spells provided to them by Claude’s disciples. If they could already bring power like this to bear… How strong would they be in a month or two? And what horrifying feats would the full mages be capable of?

Regardless, the spell had done its job. The marquis’s forces were on the back foot, and their cohesion was much worse for wear.

The mages and their protectors began pulling back in an effort to escape the hail. Yet the Legion continued their grim pursuit. Some even began whirling slings above their heads to add to the assault.

Marcus frowned. These were no standard sling stones being hurled forth. Nor were the men standard Legionnaires. Their armor was bedecked with macabre talismans of polished ivory that glistened in the light. Bones.

The bone projectiles whistled ominously through the air, emitting a keening sound like a dying man's last screech. Rather than striking the vanguard directly, they scattered before their feet and hemmed them in on either side.

A moment later, the bone shards erupted. A forest of pale spears lanced toward the vanguard. Their defenses, already stretched thin between the hail and preparing for the Legion to engage, weren't enough. A hundred men along the edge of the group fell in the first volley.

The marquis’s forces regrouped, shoring up their defenses to render the next round of bone lances less effective. But it slowed them down even further. The mobile shield wall of the Legion hastened forward to take advantage of the opening and strike.

A massive clash sounded across the way. Marcus turned his attention there as the first of the attack squads slammed into the shield wall that had moved to protect the elves.

To his surprise, the shield wall didn’t stop the charge in its tracks. It began to bend in the middle. He could practically hear the groan as the massive formation began to give and cave inward. But it managed to stop the charge. Several horses fell as they were stuck up against shields and spears or fell victim to the continued rain of arrows from the elves themselves—a cloud of deadly hail twin to the one the Legion had summoned.

It was only a few moments later that both Marcus and the enemy’s forces recognized the truth—the “failing” of the shield wall had been a feint.

The ends of the Legion’s formation curled around the marquis’s men as they pressed their “advantage” forward, encircling them totally. The elves halted their own retreat to split, circle, and surround the now trapped squads as well. Hundreds of elven arrows slammed into the groups with astonishing speed as the Legion pinned them in place. Slowly, they were being whittled down.

The tide of battle had clearly shifted. That much was clear to everyone. Every member of the vanguard that could retreat did, hurrying back in a disorganized group as they tried to outpace the storm and the Legion both. Even with the mages hastening everyone they could, it didn’t save them. The Romans remained right on their tails.

Marcus wondered for a moment why they hadn’t simply run the forces down when he saw it. Movement in the distance. From beyond a nearby ridgeline, a small company of a few hundred horses began their own charge down the gentle slope toward the flank of the retreating vanguard. The duke’s men.

The marquis’s men heard the thundering of hooves, but it was too late to turn and fully prepare. Nor could they stop, lest the Legion run them down themselves.

The duke’s cavalry slammed into them. Like an avalanche taking a village unawares, these riders smashed through the formation and began wreaking havoc among the vanguard.

Trampled and crushed, the vanguard began to rout. It was an unquestioned victory on all fronts. But the battle was far from over.

Marcus saw the Legionnaire he’d been pursuing appear in the distance. But that wasn’t the only thing he saw. There was another force as well. A much larger one, right on the heels of the first. And it was growing closer by the minute.

This had only been the vanguard, after all.

B3 Chapter 8: The Welcoming Party

B3 Chapter 8: The Welcoming Party

Quintus watched the incoming charge from behind the Legion’s newly erected fortifications. They were relatively simple work, not much beyond the standard defenses they had come to adopt whenever they made camp. There had been only a little time to alter the terrain before the attackers got here. If they didn’t want to have to use the camp defenses.

That would have put a lot of things at risk that didn’t need to be. While the camp was fortified and guarded, none of the legionnaires wanted to risk their tents getting set alight by a stray spell or something. The camp defenses ideally were never used, but the only case where it was a good idea was defending against surprise attacks that had gotten through the scouts or in terrain they couldn’t properly control.

A deceptively dangerous earthwork and palisade lay between them and the enemy, as well as a field of caltrops set to catch any charge that wasn't properly coordinated and ready for them. Other traps that would explode or send shards of daggerlike ice into the enemy forces lay among them to form a veritable field of death.

The scout that had managed to escape warned them of the incoming cavalry—something that made Quintus bemoan their lack of pikes. The longer weapons would prove incredibly useful here. But it couldn't be helped. Their spears would have to do. Though perhaps their smiths could work an extendability enchantment into the next version.

The mass of horses was almost halfway to the Legion's fortifications when the first volley of arrows slammed into them. Quintus couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the sight. Rather than the dense clouds of black shafts he’d grown accustomed to seeing, this was a singular flat plane of death. The arrows were so tightly coordinated that it sounded like a single massive bow had been fired.

Not only were they so in sync, but this was no simple massed volley. Each elf was tracking their own targets, as if they were firing on their own. If unaffected, all arrows would hit.

As the arrows arced back toward the ground, they found their targets. Explosions, creeping vines, and flashes of blinding light erupted wherever they struck home against the charging enemy. The arrows seemed to unnervingly find the weak points of the enemy, honing in on joints and patches of exposed flesh.

Though the elves’ attacks had been imbued with any number of skills, the cavalry had ones of their own as well. The air shimmered as arrows were deflected sideways or shattered entirely against invisible shields. Horses danced about with speed and dexterity that shouldn’t have been possible. A few of the more lightly armored riders even made motions with their hands, causing both themselves and their mounts to dissipate into fine mist for a fraction of a second before reforming.

Quintus saw a horse take an arrow to the eye, the beast not even having time to scream in agony before the shaft popped back out. A golden glow emitted from its rider and siphoned into the animal as it healed beneath him. But not all were so lucky. In particular, the vine-sprouting arrows wrapped about their targets, tripping whatever horses were unable to overpower them and pulling riders from their saddles. The result slowed the charge and thinned it out somewhat. But it was nowhere near breaking it.

That would have been too much to hope for. The elves had both their levels and their skills reset only a day or two earlier, and he shuddered to think what the results would have looked like if they had even a month of time to train. The fact that they were able to do this much suggested that the second Legion had distributed a few high-rarity skills from their newly shared pool.

But the Legion’s strength didn’t come from a strong individual. Rather, their soldiers were each supported by a number of high-rarity skills that not even the best adventurers could dream of. And there were thousands of them. Now the elves each had multiple rare skills. Before there were maybe five rare skills among all of them, maybe a dozen individuals had one or two, spending centuries working on upgrading their crafts. Now, every one of them had that too.

Once they leveled up, like the Legion… Mars help anyone who stood in their way.

A second volley followed close behind the first, this time consisting of more creeping vine projectiles. Yet as he peered between the shields, Quintus noticed something. The elves weren’t simply casting a blanket of death over their foes. Each shot was carefully aimed at a particular spot on a particular man or animal. Even more incredibly, despite the level of precision on display, no two arrows ever targeted the same point.

It was as though the archers were coordinating with every single shot. Many times, the effects of the arrows had some level of synergy. Like one that covered a hose in vines that it snapped without thinning, but the second set them alight.

He wasn’t sure if it was a skill or a matter of discipline. Perhaps the pointy-eared romans deserved a bit more respect than he’d assumed.

By the third volley, the charge finally managed to reach the defenses. Just as with the arrows, many of the horses were able to dodge and sidestep the caltrops and traps. But others weren’t so lucky.

The several-inch-long spikes shoved into the horses' tender pads and caused them to limp, trip, or fall altogether. Many of those who tried to dodge the traps found themselves peppered by shrapnel or blown back by the mistakes of their less dextrous comrades. Between the treacherous ground below and the death above, any semblance of a formation quickly began to falter. By the time they leapt over or crashed through the palisade to take additional injuries, their force had lost nearly all its momentum.

Then, they finally hit the shield wall.

Quintus braced alongside his brethren as the cavalry made impact. Those that hadn’t fallen during their approach still hit with a surprising amount of force. A few even recovered in time to accelerate again at the last moment to hit the Legionnaires harder. Spears and lances glowed with the activations of skills doubtless designed to punch a hole right through the line. Yet rather than trample the men into paste as they’d doubtless expected, the wall held strong.

A wicked grin found its way onto Quintus’s face as the Legion’s own spears began to take their toll. He felt his own weapon sink into flesh, then yanked it back. The barbed tip pulled a man from his saddle and onto the spear of another Legionnaire, the glow fading from his mount as he died. Quintus instinctively ducked to avoid a hoof lashing above their shields, only for it to slide off of [Coordinated Bulwark].

“Pull back!” Came the shouted order from among the Marquis’s men. The powerful words pulled at Quintus, even though they hadn’t been intended for him. Seeing the failure of their initial assault, the enemy wisely retreated rather than continuing to push up against the shield wall.

The natives of this world were obviously used to incorporating the System and its skills into their fighting style, and that familiarity extended to large-scale warfare as well. According to the elves, the last proper large-scale battle that hadn’t been a glorified melee had occurred during the time of the previous Roman Empire’s rule. In general, armies in this world were composed either of small squads of specialized, powerful individuals or barely trained fodder that may not even have combat classes.

They had already faced the latter before taking Hausten. And to some extent, the adventuring party they’d defeated back then might count as the former, though such groups were generally less disciplined and trained in different kinds of tactics. But this would be their first time going up against a true army in this world.

Quintus tightened his grip on his shield. It wasn’t hard to understand why the Novarans chose to fight this way. It made sense. It was a natural consequence of a world where individuals could become so powerful as to defeat tens or even hundreds with a single attack. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t a mistake. After all, the System rewarded their teamwork and cohesion quite handsomely.

And now, they would see the folly of placing personal power above proper discipline.

Quintus counted a few seconds, waiting until the cavalry retreat had cleared the immediate area, before giving the order.

“Pila!”

They didn’t use pila anymore, obviously. But the word conveyed what he wanted perfectly. In unison, the back line of Legionnaires switched their grips on their spears. They took a step back, then forward, and hurled their weapons toward the retreating forces.

The spears stabbed into armor and horse alike. Screams of pain filled the air as many of the spears found their marks, the same countermeasures that had stymied the elves’ arrows shattering before the heftier projectiles. Now that they weren't charging, it seemed that much of the cavalry lost the protective benefits they'd previously held.

Quintus could see the visible frustration and exertion on the men's faces as they wheeled and tried to regroup. And that was before the spears started exploding.

A series of rapid detonations rocked the battlefield. Fragments of metal and enchanted wood slammed into flesh and armor at several hundred miles per hour. If the enemy forces hadn't already been on the back foot, they certainly were now. Especially as more volleys of arrows sent them ducking for cover. 

Still, the charge hadn’t been entirely fruitless. The sheer number and magnitude of impacts they’d taken up and down the line left Quintus feeling drained. Whatever skills they'd been using must have been powerful indeed for them to feel any level of exhaustion. After all, these were high-level soldiers with stats, offensive skills, and enchanted equipment to match—as well as some mages, if Quintus didn’t miss his guess.

But whatever skills these men boasted, Quintus was certain that the Legion’s were better. Not only were their skill levels absolutely ludicrous for their levels, according to everyone they’d spoken to, but their rarities were practically unheard of as well. Practically every Legionnaire had three or four rare skills at least, all powerful and selected for maximum impact as part of a large group.

The opposing forces clearly decided that their current strategy wasn’t working. They quickly regrouped, the men rearranging into small clusters as some of the lightly armored riders that had held back previously now took point. But rather than another charge, these men began to launch an assault from afar.

They stood shoulder to shoulder and began chanting, their hands flashing through a series of strange gestures.

“Mages!” Quintus heard Gaius roar from behind. “Brace!”

They didn’t need to be told twice. An instant later, a flurry of spells hurtled toward the wall—lightning bolts, fireballs, and showers of needle-tipped icicles. Together they battered at the Legion’s shields as though nature itself rebelled against their existence.

Quintus felt his arm tingle, warm, then immediately develop goosebumps. Over and over again, faster than he could even respond, the sensations ran up and down his shield arm as the flurry of attacks was dispersed across [Coordinated Bulwark]. If they had assembled into smaller formations, he imagined that the onslaught wouldn’t have left him unscathed. But as it was, their numbers were enough to render even this ineffective.

Yet as the attacks continued, Quintus felt his shield arm begin to freeze up. He gritted his teeth, bracing harder as he felt his shield arm stop responding to his attacks. The assaults of the mages were slowing, but hadn’t stopped entirely.

“First rank, switch!”

With a single fluid motion, the front rank of Legionnaires ducked back to be replaced by the brethren behind them. As soon as he was safely behind the fresher men, Quintus frantically shook out his arm. He saw the thousand other men up and down the line follow suit, most letting out some variety of curse to accompany the motion. He accidentally bumped into one, and the resulting shock of static sent them both jumping.

“Fuck!” The other man swore. “What are you, trying to imitate the damn mages?”

Quintus flexed his fingers, which had almost dropped his recalled spear in their numbness. Evidently, [Coordinated Bulwark] wasn’t a complete protection from these attacks.

As he recovered and got back into position, Quintus took stock of the battlefield. Simply outlasting them wouldn’t be good enough. Not when this was only the vanguard.

They needed to organize a counterattack. They needed to either advance on the enemy’s position using the main forces or put some of the more specialized troops to the test. He was certain that some among them would be a good fit for the situation. Perhaps even the mages in training or the duke’s men might be able to demonstrate their abilities.

But the matter of how they would approach the situation wasn’t his call right now. The Legatuses had command of the field. He just wished that Gaius were nearby so that Quintus could give him some advice.

As the seconds ticked by, Quintus waited for Gaius’s orders. This would be the lad’s opportunity to set the tone of his leadership and truly start earning the men’s trust. But he needed to act now. If he messed it up… well, the enemy ahead may be the least of their concerns.

B3 Chapter 7: Shots Fired

B3 Chapter 7: Shots Fired

Quintus ran through the camp toward the command tent. All around him, the sounds of shouted orders and clattering armor filled the air as the Legion prepared for battle. Already some of the cohorts were beginning to form up—a rather impressive response time, he had to admit.

He noted those who were quickest to prepare in the corner of his mind for commendations later. For now, however, he needed to find Gaius.

Amidst the rush of activity, he noted a number of confused looks across the occasional elven face at whatever unseen threat had flung the Legion into such a state of alarm. But aside from a few shouted warnings of the incoming attack, he didn’t have time to explain more.

Locating the Legatus wasn’t difficult. The young leader was already issuing orders of his own, the eye of a storm of messengers and centurions. As Quintus approached, he saw the elven Legatus Sylendor hurrying forward as well, doubtless looking for answers as well.

Quintus skidded to a halt. “Legatus. I ordered the men to form up and prepare a defense.”

“I heard.” Gaius’s face was grim. “Good work. See to your men. I will take over command.”

“What information do we have?” Sylendor demanded. “Numbers, direction, levels?”

“The direction is that way, roughly ten miles out.” Gaius pointed westward. “As for the rest… we don’t know. All we know is that they killed one of our scouts.”

Sylendor’s brow furrowed. “That’s all? How–”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” Gaius informed the man. “For now, I advise you to prepare for an attack. Set up a defense for your own camp and form a screening force on our flanks. Be ready to reinforce if needed.”

Sylendor didn’t look entirely satisfied, but seemed to recognize that additional questions would get him nowhere. Instead, he nodded and turned, already calling to his aides to relay the orders, the sound blending in with the rest of the turmoil.

Turning back to face Gaius, Quintus saw the set of his jaw. He almost offered the lad a word of reassurance. But the steely determination on his face warded him off of the idea. This was not the boy that he had trained any longer. Treating him as such would simply be an insult. No, this was his Legatus. 

“Legatus!” A Legionnaire called out—a scout, based on his mottled cloak and the unnatural way he seemed to blend in with his surroundings. The man was panting with exertion, his garments tattered and flecked with blood. “Incoming forces from the southwest. An army of about 6000, with a vanguard of about 2000.”

“Where are the rest of your comrades?” Gaius demanded.

“Captured. One was killed, as I’m sure you’re aware. We were caught unawares by their vanguard. Those men are faster than we gave them credit for. They seemed to have some skill that let them find us more easily than expected, too.”

“I see.” Gaius turned to Quintus, a hint of his usual self showing through as a cruel smile formed across his lips. “Well, Primus. I suppose Novara is sending us a welcome party. It would be rude not to reciprocate, wouldn’t it?

Quintus grinned.

***

Marcus emerged from the meeting tent to find the camp already in chaos. Well, it looked like chaos at first glance. Men ran every which way, swirling between and through the tents as though someone had kicked a nest of rather shiny wasps. Yet even before his eyes the tumult was already resolving into lines and formations of grim-faced men, their shields and spears at the ready. 

He felt more than heard Tiberius and the duke follow behind him. The emperor's deep, gravelly voice filled his ears.

“Prepare your men for an attack. You will receive additional orders soon.”

“Yes… my liege.”

The duke hurried off as Marcus turned to look at the grizzled military man. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked over the activity around him.

The man hadn't seemed to react at all to the sensation of the Legionnaire’s death. Not like Marcus and the aide that served as the man's shadow, at least. If he had felt anything, then he'd done a frankly incredible job of hiding it. 

Marcus briefly considered broaching the topic. However, the emperor had more important matters to tend to—a sentiment reinforced as Lucius began to speak.

“Sir. We have details regarding the incoming forces…”

The man began to rattle off a report as several messengers ran toward them. Marcus took that as his cue to leave. Military tactics and planning were not his strong suit.

Besides, he wasn't here to fight—he was here to bear witness to the Legion's—and Rome’s—many exploits. Which meant he needed to find a better vantage point.

He hopped in place a couple of times to limber himself up before setting out at a jog. It was easy to guess that an incoming attack would come from the same direction as the death they’d felt. Which meant Marcus knew exactly where not to be when the fighting broke out. Instead, he made for a nearby hill—one that would provide a good view of the camp and upcoming battle while hopefully staying firmly out of harm’s way.

After all, it was one thing to fight alongside the Legionnaires in a more intimate setting. But during a full military conflict? He was more liable to get an unceremonious arrow through the eye than accomplish anything of actual value.

He made for the edge of camp, doing his best to keep out of the way of the bustling Legionnaires. A few creative applications of [Sleight of Hand] allowed him to avoid near-collisions and slip beneath some spear shafts that were being carried at a little bit too much of an angle.

Marcus slipped past a group of men that filled the entire path, only to immediately leap over a crouching centurion as he laced his caligae. All without eliciting a single word of complaint. He honestly felt rather impressed with himself. If he kept this up, maybe the System would reward him with some sort of stealth movement-related skill. Then again, he was a bard. Taking something like that would feel antithetical to his very nature—not to mention a little incongruous with his terminally bright clothing.

The whole time, the sounds of shouted orders filled the air, Quintus’s familiar voice loudest among them. Legionnaires began to stream out of the camp in different directions as Marcus made for the hilltop. Not long after, the elven Legionnaires followed suit, then the duke’s men, the trio of forces turning the landscape into a precisely-ordered pattern of reds, greens, and silvers.

Then, they waited. And waited.

Marcus couldn’t help but fidget slightly in place. Perhaps his expectations for the speed an army moved at had been colored slightly by the Legion’s ludicrous skills. But after what felt like an age, they finally saw it.

A troop of horses crested the hill opposite of Marcus’s own position, their banners fluttering in the breeze. The horses halted at the top of the rise, their riders looking down at the forces that had gathered to meet them. More horses appeared until a rather sizable vanguard of armored knights stood in a line, their horses snorting as the men awaited orders.

Squinting at the coat of arms emblazoned across it brought a frown to Marcus’s face. Marquis Morozov. A man he was quite familiar with. Despite not being from a particularly prestigious house, he managed to navigate the political landscape with an alacrity that few others had. Submissive enough to avoid becoming the object of even the king’s mercurial moods, yet sharp enough to gather power unto himself without anyone being the wiser. Judging by the forces on display, he’d even managed to weasel his way out of sending quite a few more of his troops to the west than anyone had realized.

The identity of the other army made it clear. Even if their arrival hadn’t been heralded by the death of a scout, there would have been no doubt in Marcus’s mind that he was here for anything less than a fight. Not with Duke Redcliffe here. In fact, he wouldn’t have been surprised if this force had already planned to take advantage of the duke’s weakness to conquer his territory.

Marcus held his breath as the horses in the Marquis’s army paraded around, preparing into a row as the Legion marched forward. The Roman soldiers stopped and lifted their shields, the shadow panther hides that composed their surfaces seeming to absorb what little light there was. The tall rectangles slotted together neatly to form a wall. As the men made their formation, Marcus saw a faint shimmer in the air as an ethereal arch formed in front of the shields—a visible indicator of their skills’ activation.

A horn blew. All at once, the marquis’s men spurred their horses forward and began charging toward the Legion. As they moved, a series of sharp twangs split the air as the elves loosed a volley of arrows. Several of them seemed to glow and split and shimmer strangely as they arced through the air toward the approaching forces.

The projectiles rained down, many bouncing off of invisibly rippling shields in midair or glancing off of obviously enchanted armor. Some found their mark, however, sinking into horseflesh or impossibly twisting to find a chink in the enemy's armor. Shouts of anger and pain carried across the space at the wounds, yet no one went down. But a second volley was already on its way.

Marcus bowed his head, but kept his eyes open and on the scene before him. Then, he did something he hadn’t done in a long time. He prayed.

“Hey, Apollo. If you’re up there like your buddy Mars, do me a favor and watch over us, would you? Maybe do what you can to make sure this is a heroic battle worthy of a song. I'd really appreciate it, thanks.”

He finished and straightened once again. Perhaps he could have made it more formal, but surely the god of the arts had an appreciation for comedy. If not… well, he supposed getting smited was certainly a memorable way to go.

The charge collided with the shield wall, and the battle began.

B3 Chapter 6: Under New Management

B3 Chapter 6: Under New Management

At Tiberius’s words, the duke grimaced slightly. It was the briefest of expressions, a mere flash across the serious man’s face. Yet it spoke volumes.

To some extent, it was understandable. Considering the treatment he’d received at the hands of his last liege, Tiberius rather doubted the man was eager to come under the yoke of another so quickly. Yet as he’d already said, the man had little choice in the matter. Not if he wanted a chance to retain what he already had.

“My fealty?”

“Indeed. Tomorrow, before we march, a small ceremony will be held before all of the men. One in which you will swear fealty to me.” Tiberius stated. “In exchange, I will guarantee you dominion over your current lands after Novara’s king is deposed. Should you prove your loyalty and competence during this campaign, then we will discuss the expansion of your holdings.”

The duke frowned, but nodded in agreement. These were terms that they had already discussed in writing to some extent, and incredibly fair ones at that. Tiberius could have insisted on the seizure of his lands, but given the scope and speed of their conquests? Having someone experienced in the management of these lands would be quite a boon indeed. If he could be trusted to do so, of course.

“Command of my men…?”

“Will remain with you for the moment.” Tiberius confirmed. “As a commander, however, you will report to me. Overall decisions and tactics will also be decided by me.”

Marcus cleared his throat. “Pardon me, emperor. I must ask… Do you intend for these forces to become another Legion?”

The emperor remained silent. Unlike with the elves, he knew little about the training and general competence of the duke’s men. And even if they were somehow good enough in battle to warrant being called Legionnaires, he rather doubted that a single one of them held a mindset and values befitting of a citizen.

That was even without the consideration that turning these men into a legion would drastically change their battle capabilities in the short term. The elves had shown that much. No, any retraining would be a matter for after they’d conquered Novara.

He allowed the silence to stretch on for a little while, just to see the duke’s reaction. The man’s jaw was set. His face betrayed little, but Tiberius could still read a hint of worry in it—worry that diminished only slightly as he shook his head. “No. Two Legions will suffice.”

“My own scouts informed me of your forces as we approached.” The Duke of Redcliffe said. “You have… considerably more men at your disposal than the late baron’s reports indicated.”

“Our forces have grown since Hausten.” Tiberius admitted. “Something which should prove reassuring.”

The duke nodded slowly. “It is. I fear it may still not be enough, which is why I have called on the forces led by my son as well. But is it true that the elves have sided with you?”

“What, you doubted my words?” Marcus tisked. “What reason would I have to make up such a fantastical detail?”

Tiberius ignored the man. “Indeed. They, too, have sworn fealty to Rome.”

The duke blinked. “Truly? How…? The elves are historically a reclusive race. The fact that they have emerged from their forests at all is one thing, but to place themselves under your banner…”

“Our nations have history together.” Tiberius said simply.

“Truly? I will admit, I had not heard of Rome before all of this. And while I do not consider myself a scholar, the texts I consulted held no mention of your empire’s name either…”

The duke quirked a questioning eyebrow, but Tiberius did not elaborate. Marcus cleared his throat slightly. “It is a bit of history that Novara seems to have forgotten. Perhaps I can fill you in later… with the emperor’s permission, of course.”

Tiberius gave his approval with a nod. The time for secrecy was long past. Now, sharing the tale of Rome’s glory—both past and present—may better serve their interests than hiding their origins.

Eventually, the duke let out a tired sigh. The man seemed to age a decade in a minute as he met Tiberius’s steady gaze. “Very well. I, too, will swear fealty to you as my new liege. As I mentioned, the men I have brought with me do not represent the totality of my forces. They are simply my personal retinue and a portion of the duchy’s last remaining soldiers. I cannot leave my lands completely undefended, you understand. But know that their quality and loyalty are unquestioned. None are below level fifteen, and most bear a majority of uncommon skills.”

The decision was completely understandable. Still, despite the duke’s obvious pride in his forces, the description left Tiberius a little… underwhelmed. The fact that they were cavalry units certainly helped, as they would still open up additional tactical possibilities. But if that level of strength was considered elite? Then perhaps the Legion would face even less resistance than he thought.

“The remainder of the duchy’s forces are being pulled back from the western front,” the duke continued. “As previously discussed, they plan to rendezvous with us en route.”

“I see. There is one matter I would like your opinion on.” Tiberius tapped a finger on the desk. “What will be the consequences of your forces leaving the warfront?”

“That… is a less pleasant topic.” Duke Redcliffe winced, shifting slightly in his seat. “You see, he and his men were stationed at Corwyn Pass.”

Marcus blinked, his eyes darting to meet Tiberius’s own. But he already recognized the significance of the location. The bard had spoken to him about it during one of their many, many talks.

“They disengaged successfully from the orcs two days ago, collapsing the pass behind them from what I understand. But they do not expect it to hold them for long. At best, we have a few more days before orcs finish excavating the pass and begin flooding through in earnest.”

“Hmmm…” That was troubling news for a number of reasons. He began turning over the complication in his head and evaluating how it might change their existing plans. “What is the probability that the king is able to move additional men to reinforce the position before the orcs break through?”

The duke scoffed. “Honestly? Practically zero. All of the men available are preoccupied on other fronts. Reshuffling them would just provide other openings for the orcs to come through, albeit less direct ones. And that’s assuming he’d be able to even communicate the orders in time.”

“...Which means we will soon have a new problem on our hands,” Marcus sighed. “Barbarian orcs spilling onto the plains and looting everything in sight until they are beaten back. Unless…?”

The bard raised an eyebrow. Tiberius knew exactly what the man was asking. He wanted to suggest that some portion of the Legion be sent to reinforce the position. With their speed, there was no question of whether they’d make it in time. However…

“...Marcus.”

“Yes, emperor?”

“What are the orcs like as a race?”

The bard shrugged. “It is as I said, emperor. They are seen as bloodthirsty barbarian raiders who lust for battle and destruction. At least, that’s the prevailing impression of them. In reality, I hear that they can be quite organized when they put their heads together. Hence the ongoing conflict.”

“I see.” Tiberius turned to the duke and considered how to phrase his next question. “Given the history of this conflict, what is the likelihood that the orcs would choose to simply raid and pillage the countryside, rather than focus on striking at the heart of Novara?”

The noble frowned, his head tilting slightly as he thought. “Well… that’s a good question. I’d expect that they’d choose to take the capital before rampaging across the countryside in earnest—the majority of them, at least.”

“I see. And what do you expect the king’s reaction to be when he hears of the threat to his capital?”

“I would expect he’d immediately call all forces to defend him.” The Duke of Redcliffe answered without hesitation. “Regardless of whether doing so would open up additional vulnerabilities along the western front.”

Tiberius leaned back in his chair and thought. A plan began to take shape in his mind. It may involve borrowing a bit of trouble from the future, but if it worked…

He smiled mercilessly. “I believe the circumstances have afforded us an opportunity.”

***

“Legatus.” Quintus saluted. “The scouts have confirmed the approach of the duke’s remaining forces. Some will make contact en route.”

Gaius nodded. When he spoke, his tone was serious, with little trace of the lad’s usual humor.“Good. See that it’s done. Have we received any word from the men scouting near the capital?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Hmmm.” Gaius frowned. “Let me know as soon as you hear from them.”

Quintus saluted. “Yes, Legatus.”

The new commander of the Legion nodded, and Quintus took the dismissal for what it was. He turned on his heel and headed back toward the camp.

The seasoned first centurion had grown relatively used to receiving orders from the youth, given his previous status as an officer. Still, calling Gaius Legatus instead of Tiberius was taking a bit of getting used to. Quintus had yet to slip up in that respect, thankfully, but it was a streak that he was bound to ruin eventually.

When it came to the actual day-to-day operations of the Legion, however, not much had changed. It wasn’t as though the appointment of a new leader changed all of their standard practices overnight—especially not while they were on the warpath. And given that the new Legatus still reported to Tiberius, even their large-scale priorities still remained the same.

In Quintus’s opinion, that was a good thing. Consistency was key, especially right now. Once Gaius had better solidified the men’s trust in his abilities, then he could afford to alter his approach and call for more sweeping changes.

As he strode through the camp, Quintus took note of the general attitude around him. Legionnaires saluted or nodded their heads respectfully as he walked past, gestures that he returned in stride.

The fact that he remained as Primus Pilus did much for the men’s cohesion. Gaius had only been with them for their most recent campaign, and that, coupled with his relative youth, didn’t sit well with everyone. Sure, the men would take orders, but would they trust their new Legatus with their lives?

Most seemed willing to give the lad a chance, but there were a few in particular that Quintus was keeping an eye on. 

Still, the lad’s bearing did instill a bit of confidence that such trust would come quickly. Gaius had adopted a more formal manner with the men, one more befitting of his new station, yet not so much so that his head seemed swollen. He was also making an effort to go out and be seen among the Legionnaires more, rather than allow himself to stay cooped up with his papers and reports.

They were small changes, but effective ones that would help maintain his reputation for authenticity.

“Primus Pilus.” A centurion jogged up to him, the man's helmet tucked beneath one arm. “A word, sir. We’ve gathered the siege engines outside the camp for the moment, but the engineers wanted to review the nature of their fortifications…”

Quintus nodded, indicating for the man to lead on. But he hadn’t taken two steps before he froze in place. A bitter chill swept over him, running up and down his spine like the icy fingers of a mourning ghost. His stomach hollowed into a pit of grief and dread that seemed to have no apparent source.

The Primus Pilus’s head whipped toward the west. Beside him, he saw the other centurion’s attention snap toward the same seemingly arbitrary point in space, as did the head of every other Legionnaire in the camp.

His jaw clenched. He’d felt the sensation more times than he liked to think about. They all had. Quintus had even begun to grow desensitized to it, mostly out of necessity so as not to grow distracted in the midst of battle. But feeling it now…

“Form up!” Quintus roared, his orders carrying clear through the camp. “First through fourth centuries, with me! Sixth through ninth, ring around the camp!”

No one questioned the orders. Most of the Legionnaires were already hastening to don their armor and ready their weapons as Quintus shouted. 

A Legionnaire had been killed. Likely one of their scouts, based on the direction. And based on the distance… it seemed they would soon be under attack.