Marcus prided himself on his wit and eloquence. Whenever he spoke, it was not simply to communicate a point. Rather, each word was carefully chosen to imbue the right tone and elevate his message to the level of poetry. It was this dedication that rendered crowds spellbound by his stories and opponents tongue-tied by his insults. Even the most critical curmudgeons and dismissive dastards found themselves unable to deny his abilities. In his best moments, he'd even been known to sway kings.

This was not one of those moments.

A string of vulgar and uninspired curses spewed from Marcus as he finally came back to his senses. Despite all of his training, for once he neither had the time nor the mental fortitude to maintain his usual bearing and presence of mind. The present situation truly was an exploration of new ways to trigger a heart attack.

The endless lines of men continued to march past him at a quick pace, practically a jog. Marcus grew increasingly horrified as he watched the tide of armored warriors appear and then immediately follow after the previous row toward the town. At this point, he'd probably watched several thousand go by. The numbers were reaching levels of such absurdity that he worried that they would never stop coming.

"Uh, halt! Stop! Pause! Cancel!" Marcus cried out anything he could think of to cancel the spell or somehow stem the flow. He even used [Spellcraft] to recount some handy dispels he'd memorized, but nothing worked. Whatever he'd set in motion, it wouldn't stop now.

His attempts to stop the army gave way to more curses. For once, he wished he'd been just a little less distracted last night. Then he might have actually read that tome through.

He hurriedly flipped open the book and skimmed through the spell section to see if there was some other part of the incantation he'd missed. But if there was, it was a hidden thing, buried beneath lines upon lines of other magical jargon and diagrams. Everything he saw related to the summoning itself, not what to do once said summoning was successful.

He looked up at the sky helplessly. Whatever mage wrote this was probably looking down on him and having a hearty laugh right about now.

Throughout the whole ordeal, the continuously spawning lines of soldiers completely ignored their summoner. Even when he risked directing his orders at the men, they seemed to fall on deaf ears. As bad as that was, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise—having the attention of hundreds of dangerous warriors directed his way might actually give him a heart attack, or worse.

Eventually, though, Marcus was able to pull himself together. The first one summoned seemed to be a leader of some sort. Perhaps he had to command the ones in charge, rather than the footsoldiers.

With a plan in mind, he squinted into the mass to find any other possible leaders. The Legion marched forward steadily, their armor clanking with each unified step. The sound was deafening. Interestingly though, Marcus noticed that they hardly spoke. There were no shouted commands, no jeers, not even a battle cry. In fact, aside from the first soldier he'd seen, none had made so much as a peep. It was a bit frustrating, given his current predicament. It also made him wonder if they were some sort of hive mind collective or even golems shaped like men.

Realizing that no commands were working, he focused on their attire instead. At first, the men all appeared to be uniform. But a closer inspection revealed differences between individuals. Even their armor, identical as it seemed, bore slight variations from one man to another. Their height varied, and even though most of them were taller than his admittedly diminutive five-foot-one frame, they were not giants. The bronze breastplates and the skirts of cloth and leather seemed standard. But small inconsistencies in what they carried on their backs changed things. Some had cook pans strapped underneath their packs, while others had felling axes or bundles of canvas.

He also noticed some more obvious standouts. There were some larger men wearing plumed helmets similar to the first soldiers Marcus had seen, though they were scarce. Many of them bore staves topped with a strange golden eagle, the bird bobbing along as they marched.

He tried shouting an order at one of the passing stave-bearers, but to no avail. Either they didn't hear him, or they simply weren't following his commands. Either way, they continued to pass by Marcus as though he didn't exist.

Suddenly, the lines ended. A final group of seven men appeared, bearing fancier plumage and no packs. They also looked far more intimidating than any he'd seen so far. Before he could gather himself, they, too, marched after the receding group.

Marcus suddenly realized that he was being left behind. The last of the soldiers were already disappearing into the forest. His stomach dropped at the idea of heading down the path alone once again. The army was probably getting close to the gate by now. And with a force this size…

He gulped. Their numbers alone would be enough to overwhelm the town. Not just overwhelm it—they'd practically be drowning in summoned soldiers. A hundred guardsmen wouldn't stand a chance. No, even a thousand wouldn't be able to hold off the coming tide.

Not that it was his problem. He was a wanted man. Not even an hour ago, he'd been fleeing from the very town guards that would soon be under siege. That didn't mean they deserved this, of course. But he'd already tried to call the Legion off. What more could he do?

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Turning away from the forest to write this off as decidedly none of his business, Marcus froze. Amidst all the chaos, he'd entirely forgotten about one tiny detail—the bridge was broken. There was no getting across without getting it repaired. Even finding a boat or some other way to take him across would require getting back to the town and greasing some palms. A town that, based on how things were going, might not exist in a few minutes.

Taking a deep breath, Marcus gathered himself. He could still hear the receding footsteps of the soldiers as they marched through the forest. If he hurried, he might be able to catch up. It was better than being stranded here alone. At least this way, he might have a chance at saving his own hide and maybe the town. He did feel at least a little responsible for this whole debacle.

If the worst came to pass, at least he'd be able to witness and chronicle the events for future generations. He already had the beginnings of a great story as things were. And what kind of bard would he be to pass up on something like that?

"Hold! Wait for me, fellows!" Shouting after the soldiers, Marcus hurried to catch up.

The return trip through the forest was considerably safer. He positioned himself close enough to the mass of soldiers for security, yet far enough away that he didn't think he'd be noticed. Either way, it seemed to work. The shadow panthers and other wildlife didn't even bother to poke their heads out this time. He didn't have to wonder why. A few bloodied carcasses among the underbrush indicated that they had learned their lesson.

It didn't take long before Marcus began wheezing, his steps becoming labored. He had already run a couple of miles to escape the guards before all this. The skills and spells he'd used along the way had also done their part in draining his remaining stamina. And now he was making the same trip again with barely a break. It was at a trot this time, but he didn't have the additional "motivation" of being eaten by massive cats to help him along the way, either. The soldiers, though, never even slowed. Their double-time march continued relentlessly, echoing through the forest.

Gritting his teeth, Marcus began clapping out a quiet [Inspirational Song] to bolster his energy. It wasn't the most effective thing, running as he was, but it helped a little bit. He didn't want to tempt the forest's denizens into an easy meal if he could avoid it.

He rounded a bend, a break in the trees affording him an excellent view of the Legion's first line nearing the wall. A scattering of archers stood at the tops of the wooden barrier, frantically shooting arrows at the invaders. They splintered ineffectually against the wall of shields. But to Marcus's bewilderment, the soldiers weren't fielding archers of their own. Instead, they were throwing rocks.

Slings whirred in the soldiers' hands as they flung stones at the city's defenders, then hid behind their shields. The weapon choice completely stunned him. Slings? Really? What kind of soldier worth his salt used a sling? Those were children's toys, not actual military weapons. Internally, Marcus revised his evaluation of the summoned soldiers from "ancient warriors" to "ancient barbarians."

The town guards ducked behind the walls as a flurry of stones whizzed through the air with terrifying speed. One failed to move in time, a rock striking his head with a sharp crack that cut through the clearing. His leather cap did nothing to protect him as the stone caved in his skull. With a soundless cry, the man crumpled and fell out of sight.

Marcus grimaced. Luckily, he was too far away to make out the gory details or hear the landing. But perhaps those slings weren't entirely useless.

The soldiers made it up the wall in a well-rehearsed maneuver that he didn't fully understand. Several disappeared down the other side in a flash and the gate began to open. Marcus kept running, desperately trying and failing to catch up as soldiers began to flood into the town. As he got close, he could see white flags fluttering through the open gate.

"They're surrendering! Cease your assault! Fall back!"

Marcus figured that his breathless orders wouldn't do anything. They hadn't so far, and the last group of soldiers was fairly far ahead of him now. But regardless, it was worth a shot. He could only hope that the barbarians understood the signal for surrender.

Luckily, it seemed like they weren't entirely bloodthirsty. A large portion of the army continued to pour into the town while others stayed outside. Soon after, he saw the barbarians begin to escort disarmed town guards out of the gates.

He breathed a sigh of relief. Emerging from the forest, Marcus decided that he could afford a quick breather. He jogged to a halt, hands on his knees as he gulped in air. Once he was no longer in danger of having his heart fling itself forcefully out of his chest, he began to take stock of the situation.

The summons were dangerous—that much was clear. But there was still the possibility that he could get them under control. If he couldn't, then he still had to make sure that they didn't raze the town outright. He still needed to get across the river, after all. But it didn't matter who rebuilt the bridge, as long as he didn't get arrested or killed before it happened.

Whichever way he sliced it, Marcus was going to have to get in there and work his magic. The question was, how to approach it?

Marcus stood up straight, dusted off his coat, and fixed his hair before he began to walk over. Hopefully, this "Roman Legion" was a bit more reasonable and open than their first impressions indicated. Talking to their leader was his best chance at regaining control over the summons, not to mention it was a good idea in general. But he'd have to make it through the rank and file first. And that meant the time for subtlety was past.

He stuffed his traveling cloak in his bag and slung it over his shoulder. In its place, his rich purple bard's cloak waved freely in the breeze. The light of the rising sun glinted off of the gold thread stitched artfully throughout it and ensured that anyone looking upon him would know that he had wealth and status.

Running a quick hand through his dark blond locks, he got them back into shape once more and straightened his slightly rumpled shirt. If someone looked at him closely enough, they might notice the residual perspiration and slight reddening of his face, but it couldn't be helped. He'd made better first impressions under worse circumstances. And besides, his appearance was only an aid for the real meat of his approach.

Adopting his most regal posture, Marcus began rehearsing the upcoming performance in his head. It was time to put on a show.