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B3 Chapter 7: Shots Fired
🕑 Added 2025-10-17 02:19:46 +0000 UTCB3 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.
Comments
ImYou
Arent bards usually a jack of all trades
LordBoris
I'm surprised that Novara has gathered an army o 6000 strong, but all in vain, as they will be defeated by the Legion and harvested as experience
