Markus's legs pumped as he sucked in one breath after another, pushing himself up the arch of the beastkin bridge. Reaching the apex, he stopped, taking a moment to look back over his shoulder.

Green's trainees, the two still alive, were halfway up the bridge to him. Behind them, steadily backing their way up the causeway, was the rear guard, consisting of most of the scouts that were in the cages. Which consisted of Squads one, six, seven, eight, and nine. While the forty-seven other scouts faced off against the increasing numbers of beastkin pouring into the fort and halted at the bottom of the ramp, the two trainees hauled Greens unconscious from up it.

No matter how skilled his scouts were, they could only hold off those numbers briefly, especially without any of their gear. But Markus only needed a few minutes to get his bearings and decide what to do next.

The coming deaths were already weighing on his shoulders, joining those already there, but he needed to shove them away and clear his mind. If he made the wrong choice, they all could die… And then their deaths, and all those before, would mean nothing.

Pausing as he looked backward, he closed his eyes for a single second. At that moment, he let the guilt press down on his mind and soul. He let himself wallow in self-pity.

That was all he allowed himself. After the second ended, he opened his eyes, and Markus drove the inconsequential thoughts away, focusing on what to do next. Turning forward, his eyes swept over the mud-covered clearing making up the bridge's exit on the eastern side of the Rush and the scouts guarding it, then he kept turning to look downstream.

His body froze as his mind raced to devise a solution to their situation. And to help the 15th Legion. It did not take a tactical genius to realize what it meant that the thousands — no, tens of thousands — of the troops he watched marching over the bridge were now gone.

And while he had never seen or heard of beastkins showing this level of intelligence, the facts were impossible to deny. The threat could not be underestimated. Olimpia needs to know… Even if the Triad falls.

His eyes drifted to look down the river, his mind racing along the twists and turns until his imagination arrived at the three-pronged bridge with the forts at their bases. That construction was a testament to Olimpian innovation, if there ever was one. Then his mental picture was intruded on by thousands of beastkins sweeping in to burn and smash the forts.

Beastkins who controlled rivers of fire and could alter what people saw at a whim. An obvious example is the dome of splotchy colors he had studied the entire time he was imprisoned until this morning when it finally disappeared, along with the sounds of the camp. It didn't take much to figure out what that meant.

Markus believed in Olimpia and her legions. They stood firm against the hoards and Imperium for thousands of years. Markus had no doubt in his mind that the legions could hold back the beastkin…

If they understood what they were facing. If we had the numbers to man the walls properly. If they were a veteran legion in a prepared fortress, not a backwater, that existed as little more than guards for a training camp. With all of them — shit with one of them — Markus would be confident that the Triad had a chance to stand firm. But they didn't have any…

The Triad is going to fall. In resignation, Markus acknowledged the fact to himself. Word of these events has to get out, especially with the 1st Turma destroyed.

Not one to turn away from reality, Markus's eyes and head turned to look upstream. Overall, the river's course ran north to south as it snaked through the land, but when it cut through the northern forest, it made quite the curve to the west before turning north again, almost to the point that it came out on the western side of the forest.

The path would take them a bit out of the way, but they could eventually find or make a way to traverse over the river before heading southwest to Cross. What was really important to Markus was getting out of the theater of this battle. While the beastkin came from the northeastern side of the forest, most of their troops had to have passed by, right?

If he was right, it would mean it was entirely possible for the scouts to make the thousand-odd-mile journey with some luck on their side. His glazed-over eyes snapped into focus as a plan coalesced in his mind. Turning his head from the flowing water, his eyes widened in shock and fear. The bridge's apex put him about halfway up the trees on the riverbanks, and being in the center of the river gave him a better angle to look at them.

Movement on both sides of the river filled the forest upstream. With a casual glance, he could make out figures moving between the trees. Not a handful or even multiple dozens, but hundreds. The last time Markus checked, there were no Olimpians north or west of them.

As he searched the shoreline upstream, something impossible to miss came around the distant bend in the river. At first, he couldn't make it out, but as more came into view, he realized what it was. It was a massive barge filling most of the river.

Figures were moving around its edges, as the center was filled with wooden crates and other piles covered in cloth sheets. With his spike of alarm filling the mental network, the others took a moment to look around and spot the approaching threat for themselves.

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"Move it, people!" Shouted Markus, both mentally and physically. While it was unnecessary to use his voice, he found that people often responded faster when someone was screaming into their faces.

One of the unspoken lessons the legion taught was how to drown out others while in a union. While you were never supposed to block out the links, as life-saving information could come through at any time, it could happen subconsciously when someone was in shock. Shouting in their faces while sending a message directly into their mind always seemed to snap them out of their thoughts. And the jump is always entertaining. He thought, a smile almost coming onto Markus's face.

Putting his words into action, Markus ran down the arching bridge. Behind him, he heard the trainees shuffling along with Scout Harrena — who had appeared next to them to help speed up carrying Green — sticking close on his heels.

He could not see it, but Markus felt the rear guard rip off and throw a section of the bridge's railing at those threatening to overrun them before turning and sprinting away. The shock they felt at the disruption of their psy strands was impossible to miss, but more so was the bridge shaking and rocking like it was a pile of unsteady boulders, causing many to stumble. Sliding to a stop on the muddy ground, Markus's gaze quickly took in the empty clearing on the eastern side of the river before turning around to face the bridge with a grim look in his eyes.

"Send me your psy," Markus sent to the nearby squads. The flood of energy in response made his head swim momentarily as it hit him all at once, but it was nothing he wasn't used to. With a flex of his will, the centurion brought order to the chaotic streams of energy and shaped them into two tendrils that he extended to either side of the bridge. "Hurry the fuck up!" Markus shouted in encouragement and warning to those still fleeing.

Their little trick gave them a few moments to get up to a full sprint, but it did not matter. The beastkin are far faster than any unenhanced Olimpian, even when their movements were aided with psy strands. At the bridge's apex, those in the rear were set upon by the pursuing beastkins, and it was a minor miracle they made it that far.

When Markus saw it, he ordered those at the rear, "Hold them back for thirty seconds, then jump over the sides."

There was a moment of mental silence before the reply came, "Yes, Centurion! Long live the Republic!"

"Long live the Republic," Markus replied, his voice solemn. Instantly, the five in the back turned and faced the hoard, their steal bars raised in defiance.

The world slowed, and seconds passed, each one like the toll of a funeral bell as the five legionaries at the rear desperately fought against the charging enemies. They used their steel bars as spears, thrusting with psy-enhanced power at those who got close, but it was far from enough to stop the flood. With every other thrust, the scouts were taking hopping steps backward to avoid being immediately overwhelmed.

Markus might not have been the Scout Centurion for long, but he could not be prouder of the scouts' skill. Those were the legionaries he led… And there was more than a twinge of guilt that he was forced to give them such an order.

Regardless of the impossible task he gave them, the men still stood firm against the odds. The scouts had long since left behind fighting in a shield wall, but Markus would put them up against any cohort in the legion. In perfect synchronicity, two of the five thrust out while the others took a step back. The three would then thrust their own makeshift weapon as the two others fell back in turn.

When one was in trouble, one or both of their neighbors stepped forward to block or misdirect the attack. After ten seconds and dozens of rapid beats of his heart, Markus felt the slightest hope flicker to life in his chest. They might just live to jump off the bridge into the ice melt of a river.

Then, a beastkin lunged forward, reaching for the legs of one of the legionaries with his clawed hand. The scout tried to step to the side while the man beside him attempted to slam the butt of this bar into the beastkin's head, but both failed in their attempts. There were too many beastkins around them, and they noticed the attack too late to react in time.

The beastkin tilted his head to the side to dodge the attack as his hand clamped shut on the scout. The next moment, the wolf slid back like a snake and stood to his full height, the punctured calf the legionaries clutched in his clawed hand.

A scream loud enough to cut through the noise of the fighting tore itself from the legionary throat as he was pulled out of the formation and up into the air upside down. His cries of pain only grew in intensity as the beastkin's other hand grabbed hold of the man's waist, and his chest flexed, ripping off the scout's leg with a howl of bloodlust.

With a hole in the formation, the next few seconds passed in a blur as the legionaries were ripped apart. Some were stabbed in the chest by those with spears and then had their heads caved in with clubs. One man was ripped in half, his skin shredded by the claws of a particularly large and scarred beastkin.

Markus silently watched it all. As the last of his scouts streamed past him a moment later, he turned to follow the group a few steps away from the bridge, knowing he had made the right choice, but his heart was still heavy at the cost. A few die, so many live…

"Head to the southeast, back to the Triad!" Markus shouted and sent out to his scouts, "Our only chance is to slip past the lines!" His plan to retreat to Cross was smashed to dust when he saw the thousands of beastkin approaching them from the west, and now it was time to make the best of a bad situation.

Turning to face the beastkin thundering down the bridge at him, Markus bore his teeth as he flexed his will. All of the psy that the scouts sent to him came crashing down in the two tendrils on opposite sides of the bridge's base.

There was a brief moment when a large portion of the psy he was controlling vanished, making him gasp in shock as the casting destabilized. Then, the tendrils plowed through the stone bridge like it was nothing more than an old, dried-up tree.

Actually, it was easier than that. It was like Markus was pushing over a collection of loosely stacked rocks. A fierce smile of vengeance flashed onto Markus's face as the bridge creaked and began to crumble along with the charging beastkin into the river, mixing with the rubble and creating large splashes of water.

The plunks and cracking of large stones were loud, but they could not drown out the screams of fear tearing their way from the beastkin's throats. It did not make up for the deaths of his people, but it was something. Turning away from the disaster he caused, Markus signaled a group of scouts to follow in their wake and act as a rear guard.

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