B3 Chapter 58: Maker of Myth

Marcus’s heartbeat filled his ears as his breath came in quick pants. Thousands of orcs poured through the mountain passes behind him, their green mass morphing fluidly in accordance with the widening and narrowing of the paths before them. He said thousands simply because getting a more accurate estimation was nigh on impossible. The column stretched well out of view.

The noise they made echoed off the jagged peaks and mountainous terrain to fill the air with an ever-present boom of thunder. Yet even with the din, one voice could still be heard singing along to the strumming of a lute.

I would run six hundred thousand miles

and run six hundred more,

Just to be the man who ran twelve hundred thousand miles

to kick your ass once more!

As with every audience, he tailored his words to the situation at hand. Evidently, even though orcs found themselves immune to most taunt skills, orcs had quite the sore spot for insults and challenges to their honor and strength. Assuming one could pierce through their rabid haze. Something that his blessing helped with quite considerably.

Marcus belted out the song between breaths as he worked to keep the orcs’ attention. Of course, even a performer like himself couldn’t amplify his voice enough to cover such a large distance. Fortunately, he didn’t have to. The orcs proved more than willing to follow the leader in their battle-induced fury.

But despite the sheen of sweat across his brow, he didn’t feel tired. Not overly so, at least. Not compared to what he would have, once.

That wasn’t to say that he was in peak condition, of course. His stamina clearly dwindled over time, and his muscles began to voice their own complaints as well. Yet he didn’t slow, nor did he feel the need to. [Mythchaser]

allowed him to ignore all of that in the pursuit of this latest tale. His hunger for new stories to tell and great exploits to recount served as better fuel than his body itself ever had. It even allowed him to keep up with the Legion on the march, though that proved far, far more taxing than something like this.

Though truly, he hadn’t been aiming to be such an active part of this story.

A rumble sounded from behind. Marcus glanced back in time to see a shower of rocks tumble down from one of the cliffs above and crush a handful of the orcs pursuing him. A moment later, the Legionnaires responsible zipped back to his side as another pair ran forth to set the next trap.

The constant cycling of his companions allowed them to slowly whittle down the enemy as they moved. It felt a bit like spitting into an ocean, but it was something. And it certainly gave the Legionnaires something better to do than simply running alongside him.

One of the men beside him stumbled slightly. Another grabbed his shoulder without hesitation, hauling him forward before his momentary lapse made him fall behind. Marcus sent a questioning eyebrow his way even as he kept singing.

“Something’s wrong,” the soldier grumbled, frowning deeply. “I lost contact with some of the other messengers.”

The others grumbled, brows furrowing all around. Marcus hadn’t felt a death, much less multiple. But now that the man mentioned it, the Legion felt smaller than before. Much smaller. It was as though an entire bundle of connections had simply vanished from his senses.

“Command?” The centurion leading their group demanded as Marcus thought.

The messenger went silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I can still talk to them. Though they have no idea what’s going on either.”

“Sir, look!”

One of the Legionnaires up on a nearby rise called down, pointing toward the mass of orcs behind. The closest bunch was still pursuing as before. However, some distance away, the line began to slow and fall behind those that went before.

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The scene disappeared behind another cliffside before Marcus could get a better look. But just in case, he redoubled his efforts and tried to project his song even further than before to keep his audience’s attention. He quickly found that rude comments about their mothers weren’t nearly as effective as simply insulting their muscles or height. Such were the complexities of cultural differences.

The centurion scowled. “Faustus, tell us as soon as command figures itself out. In the meantime, we stick to the plan. All right?”

All nodded in assent. The plan in question was for Marcus to lead the remainder of the orcs’ forces around by the nose for about an hour, giving the main Legion forces time to deal with the ones on their end. Then they’d regroup at the secondary ambush point to take on more orcs. This process would rinse and repeat until they managed to take out the remainder of the enemy or whittle them down enough to retreat without too many losses.

With that timeframe, Marcus was holding up rather well. They were making good time, according to the Legionnaire who was in charge of navigating, and Marcus’s stamina reserves still felt like they were in good shape. The combination of his blessing and the crazy charisma score he now boasted did well to shoulder some of that load.

They continued on their way, the Legionnaires continuing to harry the orcs as they moved. Small rock slides and flurries of hurled spears took out handfuls at a time and gave them a bit more breathing room in their chase. Marcus even pitched in with an occasional illusion of stable ground, obscuring a steep cliff. Half a dozen orcs slid along a particularly loose patch of scree to their deaths below, while others used their tumbling bodies as stepping stones to get after their prey.

Between their efforts, Marcus and the Legionnaires had no problem keeping the attention on themselves. They even managed to slow their pursuers enough that, when they finally neared the rendezvous point, it was nearing an hour and a half since they’d set out. Yet as they crested a final rise, they were met not with lines of red-plumed helms and neatly arranged forces, but emptiness.

“Faustus?” The centurion growled.

The messenger of the group grimaced. “The Legatus says… they need more time.”

“The fuck you mean ‘more time’?” Marcus panted during an instrumental break in his latest song. “They’re right behind us!”

“I’m aware,” Faustus said dryly. “The battle isn’t going well. The orcs fucked up everyone’s skills. They should be able to win, but it’ll take more time than expected.”

Marcus had no idea what that meant. How could one mess with someone’s skills? Sure, there were people who built around such disruptive tactics. But they tended to specialize in counter-specific kinds of skills. Perhaps some among the orcs could do similar?

The centurion swore again. “How much time? And did they rig the rocks to blow at least?”

The messenger’s face was answer enough. One of the other Legionnaires piped up. “Can we take them on another loop? Just keep ‘em running until they’re ready?”

The navigator shook his head. “Good luck. We’ll have to figure out a separate route back to the path, without running into a dead end that gets us all killed. And that’s assuming it’s not clogged with orcs. The way the group split back there, they may well be spreading out for all I know.”

Marcus grimaced. The man had a point. Though they’d mapped out their original route quite extensively, the terrain remained treacherous and full of potential pitfalls. Trying to dive back into it without a good plan would be tantamount to suicide, even if they didn’t run face-first into more orcs.

“Seems like they bit off more than they can chew…” He muttered. The Legionnaires remained silent, but didn’t disagree with him either. That was telling enough. “Best we don’t do the same. How many are still on our tail?”

“At least five thousand,” the centurion replied. “Depends on whether the others catch up.”

Marcus made a decision. “If time is what they need, then time is what they’ll get. Although I sincerely hope it’s a toll we won’t regret.”

Marcus managed to work the statement into his song, though a little clumsily. The situation was starting to push his limits. Nevertheless, he dug deep inside himself, activating more skills as he turned to face the approaching horde. His palm slapped against the body of his lute in a percussive rhythm that began to echo through the mountains like the marching of feet. The clatter rose in volume, amplifying with each repetition until it grew to compete with the din of the orcs’ own disorganized charge.

If they wouldn’t get reinforcements anytime soon, then they’d simply have to make their own.

He sent a quick prayer up to Apollo as he activated [Illusory Domain]. All at once, scores of armored figures began pouring out of the branching paths that surrounded their position. Their forms shimmered with light briefly before snapping into focus, looking for all the world as realistic as the men beside him.

The illusion had the intended effect. The orcs roared, turning to charge toward the false promise of battle at the same time that Marcus felt his stamina plunge. Fresh sweat beaded on his brow as he realized this was not something that he could maintain for long. Not without help.

The Legionnaires around him—the real ones—began to rush about and shout to each other, but Marcus paid them no mind. This performance needed his full attention. Especially if he didn’t want the illusion to fall apart on first impact.

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