Quintus stepped through the field of dead men, his eyes fixed straight ahead. His bearing remained resolutely impassive despite it all—the Primus Pilus would not be moved, even by such a scene as this. Across the silent battlefield, a golden eagle stood tall, guiding him forward to the command post.

As Quintus approached, his gaze trailed down to the man who bore the shining standard of their Legion. Aquilifer Lucius gave him a slight nod, his hand firm on the long staff that the eagle perched upon. Together, they stood in silence. The two were friends of a sort, closer than even the brotherhood found between Legionnaires. But today, the solemn air and exhaustion kept them silent as they stood, waiting for the Legatus to finish talking to his second in command.

After the officer hurried away, the Legatus looked down at his map once more. The polished steel of his breastplate glinted in the rays of the dying sun. At his elbow sat a similarly cared-for helmet, open-faced and topped with a large red plume. After a brief moment, the man beckoned Quintus over.

Quintus stepped forward and clasped his fist to his chest in salute, the clink of his own breastplate echoing in the silence.

"Legatus Tiberius," Quintus addressed the man with utmost respect in his voice.

Tiberius's gaze rose from the map he'd been studying to meet Quintus's own. He had expected to see some measure of weariness there, some small trace of the toll of battle affecting everyone. But even after three hard days of battle, the man's face remained as unreadable as ever. The Legatus's stoicism put even his own to shame.

Tiberius spoke, his deep voice carrying easily. "Report, Primus."

Quintus dropped into parade rest and spoke. "The outriders have returned. The stragglers have been pinned against the Metaurus River and have no hopes of crossing."

"Good. Crush them, then assemble the men. We have further to march before nightfall." Tiberius looked back down at his map, already dismissing the matter from his mind.

As Quintus marched away, the Legatus ran his fingers over the rough surface of the map. He triple-checked all the numbers and reports the scouts had provided, confirming that everything seemed to line up. The fighting had been fierce, but even when outnumbered 3 to 1, his Legion had emerged victorious with minimal losses.

He would have liked to reward his men with a day of rest so they could recover and mend their equipment, but it was not meant to be. They would have to march to make it to the next rendezvous in time.

It wasn't long before Quintus returned, informing the Legatus that his orders had been fulfilled. After sending a few more officers to the winds with their own tasks, Tiberius tucked his helmet in the crook of one arm and followed the Primus Pilus to inspect their forces.

The Legion had gathered nearby in a cleared patch of battlefield. Rows of travel-ready men stood before him, stretching as far as the eye could see. Each stood at attention, loaded up with equipment and ready to move at a moment's notice.

Tiberius gave a curt nod at the sight. This level of professionalism was standard, an expectation rather than an achievement. Of course, they would all receive their rewards when they returned from the campaign— commendations, coin, and more material awards. But for now, the approval of their commander and his second would have to do.

Tiberius strode to the front of the formation and, as one, the Legion saluted their commander.

"Men. Brothers," he began. "This day will forever be remembered as a day of triumph. A victory befitting Rome."

He began with a few words about the battle, their victory, and the march to come. His men listened with rapt attention. While the Legatus was technically a politician—a senator, at that—he considered that a secondary role. Tiberius was as much a Legionnaire as the rest of them, and the men loved him for it. They knew of no other commander who inspired their men to work as hard as Legatus Tiberius.

"From this field of victory, we should go home to our cups and women and celebrate," the commander bellowed, his voice carrying effortlessly to the six thousand men before him. A few chuckles rippled through the ranks, but were quickly stifled by the centurions. The Legatus let it play out with no hint of disapproval.

"But we will not. We will not rest, because we are not done," he continued. "Northward we march. The Gauls have forgotten their last lesson, believing themselves superior to Rome's prowess. And so we shall go. We shall put down their ill-advised incursion and take back what is ours. Then, we shall teach them what it truly means to be a Roman. "

The Legatus continued, his voice growing in volume and intensity. "There is much still to do. More glory to be won, more riches to be had, and more barbarians to be crushed beneath our feet. We are not done, for Rome is not done. She is not yet satisfied. And so we shall not stop!"

"For the glory of Rome!" The men shouted in unison, saluting as Tiberius finished his speech.

Tiberius nodded in approval, turning to Quintus and the other officers. It was time to march. But before the order was given…

…Quintus vanished.

It barely took a moment for the men to react. In a flash, the sounds of shouts and swords leaving their scabbards filled the air. The Legionnaires' expressions went tense as they scanned the area for threats. Tiberius's mind raced as he held his own blade at the ready. This was no natural occurrence. The man was simply gone. Had their gods taken his Primus Pilus? Was this witchcraft of some sort?

An instant later, the first row of each cohort vanished, then the second. By the third row, the men were in an uproar, pulling out shields and weapons for defensive formations. But there was nothing to defend against. Row by row, second by second, the Legion disappeared into thin air.

***

Marcus dashed through the darkened streets of the backwater town. Behind him, rapid footfalls and clanking metal told him exactly how close the guards were to catching him. They weren't exactly stealthy, though given their shouts of alarm, they obviously weren't trying to be.

He swore under his breath. By the time the sun finally rose, the whole town would already be on alert, if they weren't already. And seeing how he wasn't a local, a dedicated search would likely flush him out for good. Meaning he was on borrowed time.

Unfortunately, the best course of action seemed to be moving on to another town. Again. Such was the life of a bard.

It really was a pity. He had hoped to stay for a fair bit more time here, especially after meeting Myra. Her gentle smile, supple skin, and honeyed lips would've been enough to keep him in place for at least a week or two. Hopefully, her heart wouldn't ache for him for too long after he disappeared.

After a few more maneuvers, Marcus managed to outpace the guards, leaving their shouts in the distance. For now. While he had an opening, it was time to make his escape.

He quickly made his way towards the east gate after he was certain he'd lost the last of them. The stars slowly faded as the pre-dawn light grew, lightening the sky from pitch black to midnight blue. Luckily, the men at the gate seemed half asleep. It was a good sign. It meant they hadn't been warned about any criminals on the loose.

Marcus looked down, checking his appearance. The dull brown of his travel cloak hung about his frame, obscuring the finery and silk shirt beneath. His plumed hat hung askew from all the running, and his hair likely hadn't fared much better. He'd managed to keep hold of his travel bag in the commotion, at least. But other than that…

Normally, he would have been dismayed at his disheveled appearance. But right now? He could work with it.

Marcus rolled his shoulders, then twisted his expression into an appropriate mask of concern. He pulled off his hat and tugged the cloak a little more tightly closed to ensure that a stray breeze wouldn't betray him. He also shifted his pack to make it less visible from the front. Flicking on [Glamor] and [Charm], he smoothly sank into the role of a concerned father as he ran to the gate. The guards straightened as he rushed forward, wringing his hands in distress.

"Open the gate! Please!" He spoke quickly and urgently. "My son, I have to find him, he's out there—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" One of the guardsmen put out a halting hand. "Slow down. What's the issue, sir?"

"My son. He's missing!" Marcus clutched at his chest in distress. " The last I saw him, he was going to the forest. I fear I may already be too late. I shouldn't have allowed myself to sleep until he returned. I must—"

Marcus continued, rambling on with desperation in his voice. The other man—more of a lanky teen, really—frowned. "Uh, it's pretty early. We can't open the gate until dawn. Technically—"

"Please! Time is of the essence," Marcus begged, squeezing fake tears out. "I might already be too late!"

The first guard patted his shoulder. "All right, sir, we'll let you through. Though, if your son spent all night in the forest..." He grimaced as he trailed off, letting the sentence hang.

After a thoroughly profuse slew of thanks, Marcus darted under the sliver of still-opening gate and towards the forest. Fortunately, his cover story gave him a good enough reason to move quickly, and he dashed along the short road leading into the wooded treeline. As soon as he was out of sight, he leaned against a tree, catching his breath.

Now that he had a moment to think, he cursed his bad luck. How had they found him? Had news spread this far already? No, it couldn't be. He had picked this area precisely because it was remote and disconnected from the rest of the kingdom. They hadn't even heard about the war in the west all the way out here. It was a perfect place to lay low while certain people's tempers cooled. It was the back end of nowhere.

So how had he been discovered so quickly?

It wasn't from his incredible performances—he hadn't even put on a single show here. That had taken considerable self control, given the absolutely abysmal state of the tavern performances he'd seen. Honestly, the real mystery was how no one had run that out-of-tune flute player out of town yet. He wouldn't have lasted a second back home.

Marcus let out a long sigh, pushing away from the rough bark. It wasn't all bad. At least he had his belongings. That was better than he'd managed in some places. This was merely a setback, one that meant he'd have to continue his search elsewhere. Though at this rate, he seriously had to consider fleeing the country altogether…

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

He huffed, hefting the small pack on his shoulder and adjusting his travel cloak as he scanned the dark forest. He had come here with an escort, a guarded merchant train he had tagged along with. They had been watchful and told people not to stray into the forest alone, which was only reasonable. But as long as he stuck to the road, he should be fine, right?

Marcus didn't feel nearly as secure as he would have liked. Naturally, he always listened to local stories when they were told. Who knew when he would get inspiration for his next masterpiece? But the boilerplate tales of scary monsters in the forest hadn't really interested him much. Still, some of the villagers' words were coming back to him now, and with far more gratuitous detail than was strictly necessary.

Marcus swallowed loudly and pushed off the tree he was leaning against. Walking quickly, he followed the path away from the village. It wasn't that large of a forest, not on this side. They were on the frontier of the kingdom, true, but the village itself was set only a little distance into the dense woods. It was a logging town that didn't need to be too far in—less than a mile away were the plains, and from there, civilization wasn't too much further. Only a couple of days' journey, tops.

Marcus hefted his pack, checking its weight. He should have enough food for the trip. But if not, he'd been hungry more than once. Perhaps he'd find another traveler and entertain them enough for a shared meal. That usually worked wonders.

A rustling in the forest made his head snap to the side. He peered into the darkness, trying to see what had made the noise. Surely, it had just been a deer or a raccoon or something like that.

He continued along, a little more cautiously now. His eyes continued to scan the trees, hoping to find a level one forest creature somewhere to assuage his concerns. But unfortunately, his hopes were dashed. He soon spotted a dark, indistinct form hidden in the foliage. As he focused on it, a glowing string of golden letters resolved in his vision.

[Shadow Panther - Lvl 7]

Marcus bit his tongue. He wanted to curse, but the creature looked like it hadn't noticed him yet. Maybe he could sneak by without drawing its eye. But if the wind blew wrong... well, he didn't want to think about the other options.

Just as he continued to tiptoe forward, he felt a slight tingle on the back of his neck. Before he could even think, instinct sent him rolling forward into a somersault. He felt the wind whistle just above his head as something tore through the space his head had just occupied.

Springing to his feet, Marcus looked back to see a second shadow panther – a level six one this time. Its paw was still outstretched as it finished its swipe. Glowing purple eyes fixed on him as it gave a low growl. Even worse, the other shadow panther had descended from its perch to join its fellow. Evidently, they were working together.

Thinking quickly, Marcus activated [Glamor]. Unlike changing his appearance as he had for the guards, this time he used a different aspect of the skill. He sent a projection of himself running into the darkened forest while doing his best to mask his own presence. Stretching it like this was taxing, but the skill was a high enough level where it might work. Especially if the beasts didn't look too closely.

He continued running down the forest path, towards freedom and hopefully safety. Only a couple dozen steps later, he heard a tinkling as the broken [Glamor] vanished behind him. Still, whether the cats would figure out his deception was unclear. He couldn't afford to look back and check.

As he rounded the next bend, he dropped his [Glamor] to conserve mana. The cats weren't breathing down his neck, so maybe his ploy had worked—despite most of his skills being designed to work on humans, not beasts. He was a bard, after all, not some rogue assassin or tank with [Taunt] or [Conceal Presence] or anything useful in combat.

Still, even as he let his invisibility drop, Marcus kept pumping his arms and legs, ignoring the burn in his calves and the ache in his lungs. He could run a mile. He wasn't in that bad of shape. And if he got out of the forest, surely the shadow panthers wouldn't attack him. Those local stories had mentioned that they didn't like sunlight.

A light at the end of the tunnel of trees spurred him forward. He pushed on, waiting with dread for teeth and claws to sink into his back at any moment. But in a few moments, the light washed over him. Marcus stumbled to a stop, his relief quickly giving way to horror.

Before him lay the river he'd expected, its rushing waters clearly visible in the large clearing of tree stumps from local logging operations. On the other bank stretched an expanse of flat, open plains, a dirt road curving invitingly through its grasses. Why the forest had failed to grow on the far side of its banks, Marcus wasn't sure. But that's how it was. There were still several hundred yards of stumps before the river on his side, providing a clear view of the bridge that spanned it.

At least, it should have.

It wasn't like the bridge was easy to miss. It was wide enough for two carriages to pass abreast and nearly eighty paces long. Given the vastness of the river, it had to be big. But the rough-cut lumber structure was nowhere to be seen.

Marcus's heart sank as he ran forward and frantically scanned the riverbank. There, at the end of the dirt path, he saw bits of splintered wood and shattered pylons along both banks. He was in the right place, alright. But the bridge itself was no more.

He swore under his breath. It had rained a lot over the past week, but surely not this much. Sparing a glance to the swiftly-flowing waters before him, he realized that swimming wasn't an option, either. Not unless he wanted to get dashed against those rocks or pulled under the turbulent rapids.

Turning back to the forest, he froze. Several sets of purple eyes stared at him from its edge, their gazes hungry. They hadn't come into the light yet, but they were watching him. And that meant there was no way he could hide back there.

He heard the approaching shouts from further up the forest path. To top everything else off, a guard rounded a final bend in the road and spotted him.

"Halt!" One cried out. "Don't move!"

More footsteps echoed from behind the shouting guard as his comrades caught up. A torch flickered brightly in the man's hand. Evidently, he'd planned a little better than Marcus had for getting through the forest.

The bard's eyes darted between the guard, the shadow panthers, and the river. He was surrounded on all sides by dead ends and terrible options. There was no getting out of this, no way to hide. He was screwed.

In case it wasn't abundantly obvious, Marcus didn't want to be caught. At a minimum, being captured meant an almost certain confiscation of his belongings, which already was a terrible deal. There was no way he'd give up his stuff that easily. Not his coat, not his hat, and certainly not his instruments. At worst, though… well, Marcus didn't feel any particular inclination to test that option out, either.

A little reluctantly, he pulled out his emergency option—a leather bound tome, its pages yellowed but surprisingly intact. Its cover bore the image of an eagle with wings spread out wide to either side, its form superimposed on a golden wreath. The letters "SPQR" were embossed in gold underneath the bird's feet.

He'd found the tome with Myra during a very poorly conceived date the previous night. Evidently, the beauty had a thing for ancient ruins or something, and the town had ruins aplenty. At least he'd gotten something out of the night.

Flipping through the book, Marcus searched for the page of the singular spell within. From a quick glance, the rest of the book seemed to just be flavor text and background rather than actually related to the spell. He obviously would have preferred to investigate the thing a bit more before using it, but there simply hadn't been time. All he knew was that it was clearly labeled as a summoning spell, though he had absolutely no idea what a "Roman Legion" was. A legion indicated a group of something, clearly. But "Roman?" Perhaps it would produce a golem army or something.

Whatever the book did, he didn't particularly care at the moment. He just had to hope it would help. Besides, if he got captured here, then he would certainly be saying goodbye to his theoretical legion of golem servants. And so he began reading the Rites for the Summoning of a Roman Legion.

Marcus had cast more than a few spells over the course of his long career. He wasn't a proper wizard, of course, but any bard worth his salt picked up the general [Spellcraft] skill. Even minor spells could add a certain spice to one's performances, especially in the readings of epic tales.

But real magic like this wasn't a trivial matter. Spells were complex things.The timing, pronunciation, intonation, and a whole host of other things being just slightly off could cause the whole spell to fail. Attempting to cast it like this was like trying to perform a piece of complicated music that he'd only seen for the first time moments ago. Doing it while under duress? It would fray the nerves of even the most seasoned performer.

Luckily for Marcus, he was quite the bard.

The words of the spell flowed off his tongue with confidence and fluidity. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow in concentration as the guards drew ever closer. About halfway through the spell, he heard a shout of warning.

"He's a spellcaster!"

"He's the scoundrel we're looking for, I know it! Be careful!"

Yet Marcus didn't rush. After a few tense moments, the incredibly long spell was completed, and with a vocal flourish, Marcus said the final words.

For a moment, nothing happened. In the sudden silence, all he heard was the clanking of armor and the rustling of leaves.

Marcus blinked. Had the spell failed? No, spell failures were far more dramatic. They usually didn't fizzle like—

A flash of crimson and gold light blinded him. His senses were filled with the clash of metal, the roar of a great audience, visions of battles won and eagles with golden wings. A tidal wave of fearless determination and confidence crashed over him, calling him towards greatness. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it all stopped.

Blinking away the disorientation, Marcus's vision slowly returned. At some point during the vision he'd fallen to the ground, but that wasn't the only change. He was no longer alone. Now, a second person had joined him in the clearing.

A male figure stood resolutely before him. The man was clad in a polished metal breastplate, its overlapping sheets catching the rays of the rising sun, and a skirt-like garment of leather and red cloth. A great assortment of blades, spears, and other equipment protruded from his back and belt. Slung across his shoulders was a rectangular red shield bearing four golden wings arrayed across its front. And to top it all off, he wore a strange helmet bearing a vertical plume of red and white feathers.

Marcus stood staring in awe at the man. He was clearly a warrior of some kind, given his equipment and musculature. He also appeared to be a little taller than Marcus—not altogether impressive, considering his own diminutive height. But the coloring and the ornamentation of his gear… Surely this was no normal soldier? Who would have the audacity to wear such a thing? The helmet alone might put even his own colorful performance cloak to shame.

But before he could so much as greet the man, a flash of motion caught his eye. An inky black cat leapt from the shadows and into the light, towards his prone form. Slight wisps of dark smoke poured from its fur, but evidently, the opportunity was too good to pass up. That, or those wives' tales had grossly overstated the cats' aversion to light.

Fear flashed through his mind as he called out a strangled warning to the summoned man. Without hesitation, the warrior sprang into action. He spun around to face the cat, drawing his blade at the same time. The blade tip gracefully sliced through the panther's throat in a spray of blood. The warrior continued the motion even as he ducked beneath its lunge, brought up his shield, and slammed aside the other massive cat coming for him. It fell to the ground and the warrior stabbed down into its skull.

Before the shadow panthers had even finished twitching, the warrior was moving again, spinning to face the guards still charging from the forest. Raising his curved rectangular shield, the warrior deflected an arrow and sent it whizzing off to the side. The warrior's expression turned stony. The guards drew their weapons and charged even closer as the two with bows shot more arrows from behind.

Marcus gulped, scrabbling backwards. Despite the warrior's incredible melee prowess, he wasn't sure if he could take on a half a dozen trained guards with archer support. Not by himself. Even worse, Marcus himself was completely undefended. If the archers had aimed at him, he'd be dead in an instant.

As another round of arrows loosed, Marcus ducked behind a stump, hoping that it would be enough protection. He heard the shots slam into the shield again as hope blossomed in his chest. Maybe the man would make it? Peeking his head out to check the situation, he blinked.

An entire line of soldiers wearing almost identical armor to the first now spanned the clearing, having popped into existence while Marcus's back was turned. There had to be at least a hundred of them filling the area now. The original red-plumed warrior glanced behind him and issued a single command to the group. "Shields!"

With military precision, the men slung shields from their backs to their arms and snapped together in a solid wall that covered their fronts and heads, blocking a couple other arrows the panicked guards loosed their way. Beyond them, Marcus could just make out the figures of the charging guards skidding to a halt and scrambling back the way they'd come. The warrior yelled again.

"Advance!"

The wall of shields advanced. An instant later, another row of warriors appeared where they had been standing and kept marching after their fellows.

Then another.

Then another.

Then a dozen more.

Marcus watched from his place on the ground as a literal army appeared before him, line by line. The endless torrent of men marched forward, all bearing shields and short swords with packs on their backs. They relentlessly pursued the retreating guards through the forest, heading toward the blissfully unaware town beyond it.

It was at that point that Marcus realized he might have made a mistake.