“The Centurion requests you allow him a day before you depart the capital, sir.”

  Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “Did the Centurion provide a reason, Caleb?” The man was swift and discrete, which had made John place him in the role of permanent messenger. Mitchell had agreed and had already earmarked their first horse for the man, to assist him in his job. When they got it, that was.

  “Yes, Patriarch. He says to allow his forces time to march, you should depart at just after noon. He also says that combat with the Raccans is going well and casualties are almost non-existent, though he expects proper fighting to break out soon. So far it’s just been a few skirmishes, our scouts harrying their hunting parties, but we retain the qualitative advantage.”

  “Did the Centurion tell you which forces were marching?”

  “The Second Legion is at roughly half-strength. Centurion Forrester wishes to blood and train them on the Raccans, and is sending half the First to assist you in the campaign against the Khanclave.”

  Mitchell chuckled. John had left not a day ago and was already finding things too easy. “Very well. Consider your message received and acknowledged. Deliver your message to the Surgeon General and then report to the Master Hunter for your return trip.”

  “Yes, sir!” Caleb saluted before darting off. The man was fast, he would easily admit, though not quite at George’s level.

  Mitchell didn’t agree with John’s decision. He could see the merits in it - low-level creatures would be prime training for the Legion, though with the dungeon so close to them, it was largely a moot point, just Raccans instead of the giant ants. However, he was more worried about spreading their forces too thin. Outnumbered to the north, and with the south holding the equipment advantage, either fight would be one that relied on cunning and strategy to win. To take both groups on at the same time displayed a level of confidence in Mitchell’s leadership that he himself found alien.

  He would not let John down, though. Half a century was fifty soldiers - Miriam had gone north with her Wandslinger apprentice. She would not help them fight, but her enchanting would reinforce the walls, and the Wandslinger had just begun being able to create his own wands. With them as a force multiplier and a hundred at their back, Mitchell had faith that John would succeed in driving back the Raccans.

  He turned his thoughts to his own task, reviewing the tactical situation. A day’s quick march stood between them and the Khanclave, though it was closer to two days given the terrain and the need to make a proper camp for the night. Marching from dawn to dusk would leave the soldiers exhausted, and Mitchell lacked any of John’s skills to assist with the army. So it would be two days of travel.

  However, that first night of camping out in the forest would be dangerous, with the wild beasts and Khanclave riders. He needed John to come down and build a fortification at the halfway point, but John was too busy to do that right now. Instead, he was forced to find another method.

  George had blatantly refused to transport more than the Core members at one time using his new Treestrider skill, given his lacking MP and the effects of running too low, which Mitchell understood. He considered the idea of travelling from the other side of the river, but quickly dismissed it - the western edge of the river lacked the tight forest that barred their path, true, but the wide plains made it the best possible terrain for a force of horse archers.

  Beyond that, he’d yet to decide what kind of force they were sending. Would it be a small garrison, to keep the riders honest? Would he be at the head of a conquering army? Would they attack the camp and destroy the Khanclave in a war of extermination, or was this more of a border dispute?

  Most importantly, though, Mitchell wanted to speak with this Khan of theirs. From leader to leader, to determine exactly why the riders had come unannounced and set fire to his wall. As it was they had attacked unprovoked, and Mitchell had reacted by responding with his declaration of war. He wanted to speak with them, find out if there wasn’t a way to solve this without bloodshed - or rather, without any more. George had killed a number of them already.

  Mitchell sighed. He just didn’t know how to proceed, he only knew that he must do so anyways.

  “Lines one and two, take the north flank. Three and five, take the south. Fourth, you’re with me.”

  “Should we wake the others, sir?” Jack asked, his armour since adorned with a trio of hawk feathers over his left breast.

  John smirked at the sight of the sea of Skirmishers and Brutes outside his walls. “No need. We can clean this batch up no problem. Let them get their rest for the night shift. Now go! I’m sallying out in three minutes and if I don’t see you out there, I’ll hand you over to Jack for PT again!”

  “Sir!” Two groups of twenty Legionnaires ran into the camp, heading for the west entrance. Once there, they would split and engage along the north and south. If timed right, this would be after John’s own line made themselves targets, and his reinforcements would be able to smash into the distracted troops rear.

  “Alright fourth line. Time to go earn our pay.” A smattering of affirmation met his ears, and he rolled his eyes internally. “The hell was that lukewarm shit? Fourth Line! Prepare to repel the enemy at the gates!”

  “Ha-oh!” A unified call returned, and John nodded with satisfaction. Ten steps later, they were at the impromptu gate, the slender wood reinforced with the sigils of Enchantments. Miriam found it frustrating to be forbidden from combat, but she’d proved invaluable when it came to her ability to improve their existing gear. His own shield had the same sigils carved onto its back side, and the sigil on his gladius both signified the same thing: their equipment would last longer in the field. Sword edges would dull slower, shields would resist splintering, even the javelins were less prone to shattering against hard surfaces.

  “On my mark!” John shouted, strapping his shield to his arm and drawing his gladius. “Three! Two! One!” John took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and slapped his gladius against his shield once, the crack of the wood serving to hype himself up. “Mark!”

  A booted foot raised, and kicked the gate open. The wood swung forward a half foot before bouncing off something on the other side. Without waiting, John dropped his shoulder and pushed forward, the resistance giving way almost immediately as the door was forced open by his prodigious strength score. Then, with three more steps, he was among the surprised Raccan’s that had been milling outside the wall aimlessly.

  With hoots and howls and chittering screeches, the Raccans turned to the enemy and pushed forwards. John’s shield pushed out, and the Centurion was briefly surprised to see that the impact with the Skirmisher knocked it bodily from its feet and bowled it over, the creature falling and tangling up a Brute’s legs and sending both of them to the hard packed dirt. John stepped forward, taking the opportunity to stab deeply into the Brute’s chest, twisting the blade as he yanked it out.

  To his right, another Brute bulled its way through the crowd, clawed arm sweeping down to decapitate him, but the claw never made it, a red shield interspersing itself between John and the danger. To his left, the rest of the line stepped up and into formation, lashing out with thrusts and bashing shields to clear enough space until he was standing in the center of a line of hardened warriors. Like him, they used their shields masterfully, bashing away attacks and pushing the enemy off balance before their comrades capitalized on the distracted foe.

  However the sheer number of foes could easily overwhelm John and his eleven. This was only reinforced when the Legionnaire at the far right of the line, a man John had never gotten the name of, was dragged screaming into the mass by his shield, unable to remove the straps in time before he was forced to the ground and his screaming gave way to the pained gurgling and gnashing of teeth.

  John watched as the man - one of soldiers - was eaten alive by the beasts. Rage, pure and hot and red flowed through his veins and narrowed his vision. He activated his skill Hold the Line, feeling the effects deep within. The pressing need to take the land they stood upon and hold this space until none stood before him, to be the unbreaking bastion upon which the waves of blood would be halted. His emotion welled, and he let it all come forth.

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  “Hold!” He shouted, a pulse of crimson erupting from his feet and enveloping the line as the skill entwined itself in his actions. “For hearth, for home, for the end of the beasts, hold!” The crimson glow swirled around their feet, coursed up their legs, and sunk into their courageous hearts. Those wavering after the fall of their comrade had their fear replaced with righteous vengeance, those who fought with all their might found those reserves of energy just a little bit deeper. “‘Tis a bloody day, but we are bloody men! These fuckers at battle, but we In the name of the Legion! In the name of the Clan! In the name of Gunther, we hold!”

  A separate golden pulse swept out from John and encompassed the line, but it didn’t stop there. It spread out into the Raccan lines, it spread beyond, to the north and the south and into the camp. Everywhere it touched, the hearts and minds of the Legion were bolstered with courage and skill. The bodies of the Raccans responded just the slightest bit more slowly, the Skirmishers faltering in their zeal and the Brutes growing tentative in their assaults.

  It was enough to allow them, these ten men, to stand with their backs to the open gate of the camp, with naught to their front and sides but the enemy, and hold fast. A Brute attempted to bowl through the line, but was met by two shields and a thrusting Gladius that was only barely dodged. A trio of skirmishers ducked low in an attempt to scrabble underneath, but were almost instantly dispatched with quick, efficient thrusts.

  John lost himself to the battle, his shield arm vibrating as it blocked attack after attack, the wood holding strong. His sword flicked out from behind the defense, ending Raccan lives or just maiming them enough to stop them from fighting. After a minute, he noticed that his line was having trouble, getting tangled up in the limbs of the fallen.

  “Fourth Line!” He bellowed, his voice clear even over the sounds of battle. “Forward!”

  Using his second combat skill, Testudo, glowing copies of his shield materialized before him. John pushed them forwards, catching three - no, Raccans in his push and overpowering them with a shout of effort. He took three steps, just enough to get him away from the corpses, then planted his shield. To his sides, a similar display played out, the line working in synchronized motions to deal efficient death.

  The maneuver was enough time for John to peek his head over the mass of black and white fur, smiling as he saw the right part of the horde diverting its attention to something that was beyond the wall from his own vision. That would have been Third and Fifth Lines. First and Second had yet to make their appearance, but the terrain was tougher around that side of the camp and they should arrive soon.

  With a solid third of the mass distracted, John breathed a sigh of relief and amended his orders to account for the lessened pressure. “Fourth Line! Crescent formation!”

  The left and right flanks of his line tightened themselves in towards the middle and stepped back, allowing the small formation to have a limited ability to refuse the flanks. Six on front, two to either side. “Fourth Line, Double ranks!” This adjusted the line even further, to have a front and back rank. Three shields in front, three swords behind, and a pair on either flank. This allowed the soldiers to step back if they were being overwhelmed, and the man behind could push back into the space and fill the hole. It had worked well in their drills, but now John would see how his small-unit formations worked in practice.

  The answer was absolutely flawlessly. The Fourth Line turned into a deadly hedgehog, not a single Raccan could even get close without swords flying out to meet them. John saw a cloud of javelins fly in from the south, and with how densely packed the Raccan’s were, not a single one missed.

  John could not help himself, and let out a cheer even as a second flight of javelins pierced into the southern flank of the mass, tens of Raccan’s dropping unmoving to the dirt. The pressure lessened even further from their formation, and John chanced a glance back to see Optio Hailey in the midst of dragging corpses out of the way. Her eyes went wide, and it was clear she knew she was on rest detail, but then they hardened as if daring him to challenge her.

  He did not. They needed those corpses moved to keep the gate secure. He waited until she was done, the shield wall having reached a tense stalemate with the Raccan’s directly across. A space of bloody mud no longer than a person was tall was all that stood between, but the beasts didn’t seem willing to cross it. “Fourth Line, back step!”

  Under John’s command, the line retreated back to their spot in front of the gate, now free of obstruction. A skirmisher tried to dart forward at their first backstep, but found itself impaled to the dirt and soon thereafter dead, Hailey’s thrown javelin propping the corpse up in a macabre display. There was a pause, only the span of a breath, but then the Raccans turned and fled for the treeline, an unintelligible command spreading by word of mouth through their ranks. They ran north, away from the third flight of javelins. A few were caught by the attack, but the majority of the projectiles stuck into the dirt.

  Sixteen men and women of the Legion emerged from the southern edge of the wall. John looked north, and could see only the retreating Raccans. His heart sank, even as he broke formation and sprinted with all of his strength, rounding the corner-

  Death. Bodies adorned in Legion red. Splintered shields and shattered swords. Three Raccan Commandoes all darting and circling around two figures, who stood back to back. Even as John watched, his steps seeming to slow even as his thoughts sped up, a sword slipped under the guard of a shield and stabbed deeply into one of the Legionnaires guts, the weapon being torn out and his soldier falling to the ground with his hands clamped to his stomach, eyes wide in fear as he desperately attempted to keep everything inside of himself.

  The other Legionnaire spun with a snarl, his sword flashing out at head height and only just scratching the Raccan across the face. With a chitter of pain, it scampered back towards the tree line, but that moment was enough for the other two to attack in turn, one sword going high and the other low. Jack - for that was who still stood - roared in pain as his chest armour was slashed clean through. He’d blocked the lower attack with his shield, and even as blood fell down his chest he adjusted his footing, placing one leg on either side of his fallen comrade.

  His face was stricken with a terrible visage, a bloody snarl on his features and hate in his eyes. His mouth was stained with blood, and John felt a mix of revulsion and tempered awe. “Come on!” He shouted, his voice cracking. “Come and get me!”

  John pushed himself as fast as he could, his feet sinking into the dirt, but each footfall felt slower than the last, heavier, and he knew he wouldn’t make it in time.

  The commandos shared a look, then darted forwards, the first making an obvious overhand swing with both of his hands that Jack was forced to block, lest he take a shot to the head or worse, allow the strike to pass down to his protectee. In a picture-perfect display of his training, the shield flew up, countering the force of the blow, even as Jack’s other arm leapt forward and thrust his sword home, the blade coming up underneath the Raccan’s jaw and out the top of its head.

  Then the other Raccan’s strike landed from behind him, and Jack’s hamstring was cut, his leg failing out from under him. Yet, even as he fell and screamed and bled, his arm lashed out one last time, a silver blur shimmering through the air before Jack fell unconscious.

  The second Raccan commando fell unmoving with a new, bloody line across its throat. John’s jaw dropped as he ceased his run, still fifteen feet away from the scene. John stood and stared at the unmoving form of his Optio Primus, even as shouts of ‘Medicus! Medicus, here!’ began to erupt. He continued staring, even as Optio Hailey led him away and back to his tent where his state of mind wouldn’t be as noticed by the men.

  In total, twenty-four soldiers were lost in the battle that would never have a name nor a purpose. Among them were three of his Optios, one Medicus, and the majority of the First and Second line. In later debriefing, John learned that as soon as his two lines - his lines, the ones who had done best in drill and had been combat tested in the dungeon - had left the walls, ten commandoes had leapt out of a tunnel covered with grass and ambushed them. Only one had escaped, the one that John had seen go with the scratch across its face.

  Then he learned that Jack had traded his Optio shift with another Optio, and he hadn’t lost the first line, but the seventh. The Optio Primus was slated to make a full recovery - those Medicus were no joke if they got there soon enough after the injury had happened - but John knew that some punishments needed to be dished out, and discipline reinforced.

  There was, however, one good thing that John saw out of the horrible disaster that was the battle. His Legion had been blooded, and with that came legitimacy in more ways than one. The first was a new tab in his status called a campaign map, which showed the local area with a small x over where the battle had taken place. There was another x closer to the dungeon which he resolved to look into later, then a smattering down south where the Khanclave was camped. Locations of battles or ambushes, he wagered. There was a small banner where he was currently, and another half-banner slowly making its way south to Old Mill Town. More importantly, however, was the upgrade to the legion itself.

  First Legion legitimized!

  First Century training complete.

  Second Century training 53%

  Third Century training 0%

  Fourth Century training 0%

  Fifth Century training 0%

  Sixth Century training 0%

  First Cohort progress: 27%

  Please select a specialization for First Century - Error!

  First Century specialization auto-relegated to Command Specialization.

  First Century training status reverted to 50%.

  Please select an Auxilliary Type for the First Cohort:

  -Equinnes

  -Archers

  -Engineers

  Due to your Legions history of battle, the following options are also available:

  -Raccan Skirmisher Band

  -Raccan Wolf-riders