Fiction The Outland Legion

Summary:

From the Isle of Madrigal comes a lizardman temple-host. Their ongoing mission - tasked by none other than the Slann mage-priest Annat'corri - is to traverse the lands of the warmbloods, to track down and remove any potential threats to the Great Plan before they have a chance to grow into actual threats.

But, in order to perform their duty, it was decided early on in their mission that the temple-host needed to adapt. It would be easier to seek out these threats if they could communicate with the warmbloods native to these lands. To that effect, these lizardmen have adapted, taken to wearing the garb of the warmbloods, followed their strange rules about what defines a civilised race, and learnt to speak their tongue.

Now, these lizardmen sell their services in exchange for information, gossip and rumours. They are the Legion, and this is their tale.

 

Notes:
Hola, Children of the Gods.

This an upload of my first attempt at fiction in the setting of Warhammer, and doubles as fluff for my own army (still at this time in the midst of being converted). T'is a tale of a particularly eccentric band of lizardmen. You might have seen this work elsewhere (I also post on AO3, FF.Net and Spacebattles). All are still me. Though in order to not flood the forum with a barrage of posts, I'll be taking this opportunity to re-read my work and then make any corrective editations before posting each chapter.

Feel free to comment, even if it just to jeer at how... odd... these lizardmen are.

Hope you enjoy.

-Jay

 

Prologue
​

The Old World - The Border Prince Peninsula
-

The village of Schnappleberg was no stranger to raiding marauders. It was an unfortunate consequence from a combination of being only a small village that was placed in just the wrong spot for protection from larger settlements—Wissenheim being just far enough that any aid would typically arrive too late to be of any real help. The Wissenheim militia would arrive, chase away those who were trying to loot the dredges, and then claim credit for saving the town, never mind the damage already caused by their delayed arrival.

As a consequence, the people of Schnappleberg tended to pool together a community pot dedicated to paying any bands of sellswords that might be passing through the area for protection. It gave the people of Schnappleberg a sense of protection, the sellswords got paid and enjoyed free lodging on top, everybody was happy. Except for whichever marauding raiders had decided to pick on the village at that particular time.

The one downside, there was a dependency on there actually being travelling bands of sellswords to hire. There was hardly a set routine that said 'this time of the year a band of mercenaries will be travelling within one thousand leagues of our quaint little village.' It had actually become the full-time job of a quartet of Schnappleberg's youths to be scouting around the village for both signs of an impending raid, and for sellswords who could be hired to deter said raid.

Schnappleberg could confidently claim that one such band of sellswords had begun their rise to fame with such a contract. But alas, it had been a long time since they'd last heard tell of the Grudgebringers in these parts. They had long since moved on to more lucrative ventures, far from Schnappleberg.

Unfortunately, for some months now there had been no sign of any sellswords or mercenary companies. As if the fates were having a jest at Schnappleberg's expense, it appeared that a warband was on the approach, the kind of warband that the elders dreaded ever having to hear of. Not orcs, not this time. Worse still, standards were seen, standards which bore the eight-pointed star.

There was a rumour that—a few days travel away—there was a large force of mercenaries making camp. A little further travel than Wissenheim, but also more likely to start moving toward Schnappleberg before the raid hit, rather than waiting because they didn't want leave their home unguarded.

It was with fear of what might happen if they didn't at least try to confirm the rumour of a mercenary company that one of the youths who acted as the eyes of the village—a young lad of no more than fourteen summers—was given the community pot, all of the coinage saved, and was tasked with seeking these rumoured sellswords.

That had been a week ago.

Much of the village believed the young lad to be dead, to have run afoul of either bandits or creatures. A small minority had come to the conclusion that he had instead abandoned them in favour of going to Wissenheim with the coin meant to pay for Schnappleberg's protection.

Whatever the truth of it, the threat hadn't ceased its approach. It had occasionally paused, roughly where other small villages and hamlets lay. All that the people of Schnappleberg could do now was wait fearfully, even as they armed themselves with whatever was on hand. Pitchforks, farming scythes, and in one case a homemade bow usually used to hunt for game, now being readied to protect home and family from something far more dangerous.

Those Chaos aligned marauders arrived, and with them came fire and death.

They cared not for the cries, for the pleas of mercy; if anything, there was a sick, twisted pleasure in hearing their victims beg for their lives. Those who had taken arms against them were cut down mercilessly, no matter how effective such weapons may be. It was as though the mere thought of trying was simply motivation enough to cull those who dared. It mattered not that a broken bottle was all one man held in a frantic, fearful frenzy. It could feasibly be used as a weapon, therefore the penalty was death.

One mother huddled in the corner of her home, infant held in tight embrace, eyes shut while tears leaked between lashes as she awaited the inevitable. They were rounding up the villagers, those who hadn't raised arms, the mothers and the children. What they planned, she knew not, and she dreaded to think.

Her door splintered as a large hulking man in armour inscribed with runes that were sickening to gaze upon entered. The mother wept silently, even whilst she prayed for salvation. If not for her, then for her infant.

The armoured man approached her, footsteps loud reverberations upon the wooden floor. He sniggered, clearly enjoyed her fear—enjoyed her misery.

The remnants of her door connected with the wall as somebody else entered. Their footfalls were not nearly so loud, naught but soft pattering, a sound similar to her child slapping his palms upon the floor in a rhythmic pattern. The loud footsteps paused. Against her will, her eyes opened.

At first, she assumed the newcomer to be a daemon of some variety. It was short, small of stature, and so very clearly not of the race of man, neither were they elf nor dwarf. It had a vibrant green hue to its flesh, while its eyes were bulged out as though trying to escape from the skull of the creature. She was almost startled to glimpse a slender tail.

But then she noted something different about this creature. The first was that it was garbed in clothing. She'd almost missed that detail for the fact that it wore a green jacket and breeches, and while the green was a different, darker hue from the flesh, it had still momentarily confused her sight. Then she took note of what this creature held.

Is it normal, she wondered, for daemon's to carry muskets?

For it was true, this diminutive creature held in its hands a musket, the like that Empire statesmen might be issued. There were no eldritch runes marring this handgun either. It truly looked like something that might have come out of the Empire.

The marauder hesitated at the sight of the diminutive being, and though his face was hidden beneath a helmet, he was very clearly projecting a sense of confusion.

'What?' The question was whispered with utmost confusion.

Another pair burst through the broken door, likewise armed with muskets pointed to the marauder. One of them was a sandy yellow-brown, and wore a similar garb as the first, whilst the third was a vibrant blue, and it too wore the green clothing. With the three standing close to each other, it gave the sense that their garments were a uniform of some variety.

The Chaos worshipper started forward, jagged blade rising up with no question as to the intent. But as though it had been awaiting the excuse, the first of small creatures to have appeared pulled the trigger of its musket. The Chaos marauder stumbled back with blood spewing from his neck, where the bullet had pierced through. He gargled, a hand reached for the open wound as though to block the escape of the red liquid.

The gunshot seemed to echo endlessly, though the mother knew deep down that such wasn't the case. The echo had ended almost instantly, yet rang repeatedly. It was later that she would realise that it wasn't an echo she heard, but of other handguns in the village being fired.

One of the creatures, the sandy yellow-brown one, lunged forward, jabbed the muzzle of its musket, where a blade affixed to the end of the weapon's length punctured into the chest of the marauder, about where the heart should lay beneath. The blade managed to puncture the armour, and it was then twisted as though to make certain that it had done the job before being ripped out.

The creatures chittered while the green one fished around at a pouch on its person, then started to reload the musket with the spoils of its search. The yellowish one turned, so that one of those large bulging eyes was affixed to the mother. Its head tilted as it took in her appearance, then gave a slight hiss as its eye lowered enough to see the infant held in her arms.

'Are you alright, missus?'

The mother started in surprise at the Reikspiel that exited the creature's mouth. It wasn't a perfect example of the imperial tongue, there was a slight accent that she could not identify, but it was close enough that if she hadn't seen the one speaking, she would have assumed the words to have come from a human with a sore throat.

'Missus? Are you well?' The creature repeated the question. It even had the right inflections to its voice to show that it was clearly concerned. Or mimicking concern so perfectly that, again, without seeing the source, she would have honestly believed a human from one of the Empire's provinces to be expressing concern.

The question finally registered. Whatever her misgivings of the creatures, they had just killed the marauder that was coming for her.

'I'm fine.' The words were stuttered, shock was starting to set in.

The creature nodded and patted itself until it eventually found a waterskin, which it held out for her. While it was doing that, it had twisted its head so that the eye on the opposite side of its head was better able to look at the other two.

'Happy, Mizki, to that window. The other regiment will be here soon, let's keep these Chaos swine from noticing, ey?'

'Ya got it, boss,' the original—the green one—said with a firm nod and then moved to the nearby window and propped the musket against the frame.

The other one chittered and moved to position itself next to the green one. The yellow one turned back to the mother after she had unconsciously accepted the offered waterskin.

'My name is Major Sharpe'tus, head of the skirmishers.'

'We're Sharpe's Chosen, we are,' the green one said with a tone that would convey good humour in a human.

'Muzzle it, Happy,' Sharpe'tus snapped. 'Start shooting.'

"Happy" didn't answer verbally, but did angle its musket and pull the trigger.

'What... are you?' the mother asked, though she wasn't certain if she'd meant to or not.

'Skirmishers for the Legion,' Sharpe'tus reiterated his previous comment. Then seemed to acknowledge what she had actually meant by the question. 'We are what your kind refers to as lizardmen.'

'I've not heard of such.'

'Not surprising that,' Happy commented offhandedly as he reloaded his musket. 'It doesn't help that we're rather... off... from the usual mould.'

The mother didn't know what he meant by that, didn't deign to ask. Sharpe'tus accepted back his waterskin after she absently took a sip from it, still too out of it to tell herself that it was a bad idea to accept a drink from a creature that might still be a daemon pulling a trick on her. It tasted of plain old water, but who was to really say?

The two "lizardmen" at the window took turns firing their muskets, followed by a swift reload. Now that she thought about it, the mother realised that she could hear the barking retorts of more than just the two handguns.

'How many of you...?'

'I led the entirety of the skirmishers,' Sharpe'tus said as though that would answer everything. 'We went ahead of the rest of the legion, to try to minimize the damage that the Chaos worshippers could cause in the meantime. I'm sorry we weren't fast enough to fend off the raid entirely, we only got word two days ago.'

'Got... word?'

Sharpe'tus tilted his head. 'You sent a boy to recruit us. Luitwin Fric.'

The name seemed to clear the fog from the mother's mind, and a feeling of relief swelled within her until it inflated her chest. Her eldest son was alive! 'You are the mercenary company we heard rumours of? He found you?'

She couldn't be certain but she got the impression that Sharpe'tus was smiling. 'That's us. Mind you, young Luitwin was a little concerned that we were lying to him about who we are.'

'Prob'ly weren't expecting big lizards, major, on account of us not being locals an' all.' The other skirmisher at the window—Mizki, the mother absently recalled—snorted in sarcastic derision.

Sharpe'tus turned to fully face the skirmisher in question, but any word he might have had was lost as both of the other lizardmen flinched away from the window in time to avoid an arrow, which instead embedded itself into the opposite wall.

'Daemon-humping bastard.' Mizki sounded so offended at the event that it was almost comical.

'Who was it?' Happy asked.

'By the bridge.'

Happy nodded and angled around so that his musket could point toward the bridge at the western end of the village. Two seconds later, he pulled the trigger, the flint hammer slammed down and the weapon barked. Another second passed, and then Happy gave a firm nod to Mizki.

'I have avenged you,' Happy said in a dry tone.

Somewhere outside, in the distance, a horn was sounded. Sharpe'tus tilted his head and listened. Shortly after the horn had finished, the beating of drums took its place.

'Ah, sounds like the Primus Regiment has arrived. Have no fear, sounds like the marshal sent the best.' He paused, tilted his head briefly in that way that some people did when about to make a contrarian or joking comment. 'Well, second best.'

Happy gave a loud snort, fired his musket and then fully turned to face Sharpe'tus whilst he reloaded. 'Oh, don't let Mort hear ya disrespectin' his regiment there, Sharpe. Gets all defensive like, that fellow does.'

'He can kiss my cloaca, the blowhard----' The final word of the comment was drowned out when Mizki chose that moment to fire at that some unseen target. Whether the comment was simply banter between two personalities, or an actual feud, the mother couldn't tell, Sharpe'tus didn't let anything into his tone as he uttered where this Mort could kiss. He checked his musket and after seeing everything was in order, gave Happy a pat on the shoulder and then moved out the door, musket at his shoulder.

The rest of the battle, if it could be called that, was short, brutal. The Chaos worshippers were wiped out to the last man. During the confusion caused by the skirmishers—who had hidden themselves within nearly every building in Schnappleberg—firing at them, a regiment of more lizardmen, these ones far larger than the skirmishers had led the townsfolk to believe, had arrived in the form of two battalions. One battalion had approached from the north, and when the Chaos raiders had seen the large reptilian warriors with gleaming armour, heavy shields and keen blades, they had realised how outmatched they were. With that knowledge firmly in mind, they had tried to withdraw across the bridge to the west.

Maybe they had hoped to use the bridge as a bottleneck—though the lizardmen warriors of the Primus Regiment were the worst choice to try such a manoeuvre against, not that the raiders could have known that—or maybe they had hoped that it would simply slow down the lizards enough to be able to escape.

They hit a problem when they encountered the second battalion doing a very accurate impression of an unbreakable wall at the other end of the bridge. A wall that was apparently not above jabbing spears through the gaps between their linked shields. The fate of the Chaos worshippers was akin to that of an insect caught between two hands clapped together.

In the aftermath, the reptilian warriors gathered the dead, found any and all items that belonged to the raiders and made a point of putting them in the same pile as the now deceased Chaos worshippers—separate from the sons and fathers who had died defending their home—before then putting the Chaos pile to the torch, leaving behind naught but ash.

Then, a large figure appeared, one of the lizardmen but one who had size that managed to dwarf even the warriors of Primus Regiment. This new reptile had pale green and yellow scales and gleaming, intelligent eyes. It was garbed simply, unlike the uniforms of either of the other two types of lizardmen. It wore a simple blue frock coat, though it must have been tailored specifically for its size.

At its side was a smaller example of the strange creatures, more alike the skirmishers than the warriors. However, this one's eyes were different from those of the skirmishers, they weren't bulging out and they didn't seem to move independently as those of the skirmishers did, and it had a fin atop its head. This smaller one had light purple scales and wore clothing fit for nobility, though still simple enough for travel, and most amusingly wore a woollen flat cap, seemingly ignorant of how it didn't quite sit right atop its head due in no small part to its finned crest.

The large reptile met the Schnappleberg's representative, towered over the poor fellow before snorting and dropping down so that it was sat cross-legged on the ground. It was still taller than the human, but the difference wasn't quite so intimidating.

The rest of the village was unable to hear the conversation, but after roughly fifteen minutes, the two lizardmen handed the representative a full coin purse and then departed. With them followed all the other reptilian warriors.

When asked, Hasso Eicher, the chosen representative—who also, it turned out, was aware of the existence of the lizardmen, though his understanding was that they were nothing like those that Schnappleberg had encountered, which he would later rationalize as "maybe these ones were to those what I'd heard of, what Bretonnia is to the Empire"—told that the fee had never been coin. Instead they had asked for, in order of preference: knowledge of events, even if only in the form of rumours; raw materials and supplies; and the facilities to craft those materials.

Eicher would go on to mention that he had heard a rumour the last time he had been in Wissenheim, two weeks prior. The rumour in question would send them up north and east, toward Averland, where an orcish warband had supposedly been sighted. That rumour had apparently been exactly the sort that they had been interested in, and so, by all accounts, that would be where they would be travelling.

The following day a Free Company of Wissenheim arrived. Once again they were too late to have been of help for the actual problem, but this time they were also too late to even help with the cleanup. The man in charge dismounted his steed even as his eyes scanned the damage, took in the burials for deceased family in progress, and glowered in annoyance.

'What happened here?' he asked in a sharp tone.

He was told quickly that 'A mercenary company managed to get here in time to save us.'

'What mercenary company?' he followed up with.

'They called themselves the Outland Legion,' he was answered. 'They were odd ones they were.'

That marked the extent that Bertrand Graebner and his men were able to learn that was factual. But as to the absurd number of claims that this Outland Legion was made entirely of what sounded eerily like the tales that came from Lustria, but with black powder weapons? Well, never let it be said that the peasantry out in the middle of nowhere didn't have an imagination. Blatant falsehood but imaginative.

 

Interesting!

* Reminder to self to read this *

Grrr, !mrahil

 

The Village of Daxweiler​

The Old World - Eastern Stirland, Near the World's Edge Mountains
-

Major Mort eyed the distant mountains with a baleful eye. The World's Edge. An overly dramatic name, there was plenty of world on the other side of those vast mountains, but to the humans of the Empire, those mountains must have represented an end of all that they called civilisation. On the other side of those vast and seemingly endless mountains, there lay the lands so aptly named "The Darklands", home to orcs, ogres and many more creatures that would sooner mutilate a human than talk. Get past the Darklands and one would find oneself in what the ogres called a kingdom.

If the Empire thought that the World's Edge was a vast and imposing barrier, just imagine how they'd feel about the Mountains of Mourn. In comparison, the World's Edge felt small and insignificant. It was only after managing to pass the Mountains of Mourn that one might find civilisation again.

Mort had been to the Mountains of Mourn but once in his long existence. That had been many, many, centuries before the Outland Legion had been even a concept to be expanded upon. Mort sometimes allowed himself to miss those days. There had been a simple joy to his existence before this fool-hardy venture. He had been an eternity warden for Lord Annat'corri, had been privileged enough to stand by his master's side, locked within the Star Chamber whilst the ancient Slann had cast his mind into the eternity of the cosmos.

There were times that he gave himself a moment to wonder whether his life now was a punishment for some misdemeanour. Only moments were given to allow such weakness. His wasn't to question the will of Lord Annat'corri, or the Old Ones. He might not like his new position, but he wouldn't complain. The Oldblood Ingwel'tonl was not a bad leader for the Legion, and had never dismissed Mort's discomfort, had allowed the eternity warden to run the three regiments under him as he saw fit. While the majority of the Outland Legion had slowly adapted and changed to their current state, had adopted the use of the warmblood's black powder—had conformed—Mort's three regiments stood by the earliest adaptations the Legion had made. The clothing was simpler, the armour was simpler—back then it had been felt that the armour was needed to convince the warmbloods of their status as warriors—but both did just fine for their purpose.

It was irrelevant that the Legion had slowly learnt and advanced, developed better methods of garb and arms. The original style had done exactly what it needed and had been enough, Mort refused to change his regiments based on the fickleness of the warmbloods. That he allowed his regiments—that he had allowed himself—to conform even as much as he had should be enough.

He tore his eyes away from the World's Edge, his personally allotted time for brooding over, and he pivoted around, ignored how the cloak he wore flared out in what Major Sharpe'tus would mock him for as being needlessly dramatic, whatever that meant. As the skinks had started to say whenever downtime was finished with: time to get back to business. He snorted in annoyance that even in his mind he was beginning to adopt some of the odd sayings of the warmbloods. However, he was still better off than Colonel Solinaraxl, or Major Sharpe'tus and his skirmishers, who seemed incapable of stopping the humanistic behaviour. It was Sharpe'tus and his so-called "Chosen" that had caused his name to be permanently shortened from Moretexl.

Mort sidestepped a red-coated skink and eyed the gunpowder weapon in the smaller lizardman's arm which had seemingly replaced the bolt-spitters as the weapon of choice. Mort wasn't incapable of acknowledging the potency of the muskets, there was a reason that the Empire's humans, and the Dawi, had taken to black powder weapons. However, it still felt like an unneeded departure from how things should be and had always been.

He had to remind himself that that was part of the point. The Legion had to make use of what they had, what they could get, and if in doing so they had an easier time interacting with the warmbloods and their almost contrarian views of civility, then so much the better.

Mort found the inn that the local villagers had loaned to the Legion, where Marshal Ingwel'tonl had set up office to plot out the Legion's next move. The oldblood looked up at his entry, one finger rested upon the large map which had seemingly become a permanent fixture of his person when off the battlefield.

'Mort.' Ingwel'tonl's eyes crinkled in the closest approximation that their kind could get to a smile.

'Marshal.' Mort's voice was a low, deep rumble, the type that made other people's chests vibrate in concert.

Ingwel'tonl peered back at the map spread across the tabletop and tapped his finger. 'The locals have been saying the same thing as the previous two villages: unknown armoured characters coming from the direction of the World's Edge. Those lucky enough to have seen but not been killed described them. Same as before, if they aren't Chaos, they're savages.'

Mort leaned forward, eyed the map. It had various scribbles and notes written down upon it, most by Ingwel'tonl's hand, though the odd change of font marked where he had allowed somebody else to mark down a point of interest worth recording. Mort's eyes moved specifically to the spot where the oldblood's finger rested. Mort wasn't as proficient in map reading as Ingwel'tonl or either of the colonels, but he did recognise that it was close to the village of Daxweiler, and at the very edge of the mountains.

Ingwel'tonl grabbed a quill and circled the spot in question. 'There is an old pathway.' He paused, tilted his head and seemed to search his mind, possibly for a different choice of words as after three seconds he scowled at the map. 'That might be a generous description.'

Mort snorted in bemusement. 'Wouldn't such a path have a fort? The warmbloods aren't fond of letting things in from those mountains.'

'Once upon a time, I am told.' Ingwel'tonl leaned back in his seat, ignored the creaking as the furniture struggled with his eight and half feet of broad muscled mass. 'The passage was apparently bigger, at one time. Landquakes and rockslides closed it off. Even the Dawi don't have a presence in the vicinity.'

Mort rumbled in thought. 'The fort is still there? Abandoned?'

'According to the locals. Apparently, it is a common source of delight for their spawn to make dares to get as close as they can to the "haunted" fort.'

A single breath was released from Mort, it almost sounded like a "hah" if one strained their ears. 'So the savages will have taken it by now.'

'Most likely.'

'We will be going there?'

'Soon.' Ingwel'tonl stood and rolled up the map. 'First I want to scout the place. Sharpe will be taking some of his skirmishers. Most of the rest of us will be moving to the next village along, in case they know of anything important that Daxweiler's locals don't.'

'When do we leave?' Mort asked, eager to get moving.

'You aren't for the next two days.'

Mort cast the oldblood a look, silently questioned the reasoning.

'The villagers are scared. There have been whispers of villages being attacked by raiders. They are willing to pay in livestock and timber for protection, so I've chosen for you to stay behind with members of the Primus and Mad Dog Regiments.'

'"Mad Dog",' Mort growled out in annoyance. 'Not Fortis?'

Fortis Regiment was the skink regiment under his usual command, whereas Mad Dog Regiment—named for the mountain pass which was incidentally where the regiment had first seen combat—was the newest of the skink regiments, and therefore one of the numerous red-coated musket-using regiments.

The oldblood cast a look upon Mort. 'I was planning to only leave Mad Dog, but they're still not used to working alongside your regiments and their style. So, while you're here, you'll be working on team cohesion.'

Mort silently felt it an unnecessary exercise, but his wasn't to question those higher up on the Legion's hierarchy. His was to accept and do.

Ingwel'tonl rolled up his map and carefully deposited it in the hollowed horn that would protect it from the elements. He then turned back to Mort and allowed some amusement to show in his eyes.

'You could take the time to work on your human relations skills.'

Fully aware that it was a jest at his expense that meant no actual harm, Mort contained his annoyance and instead showed that just because he limited how much he and his followers conformed, that didn't mean he was ignorant of the habits and traditions of the warmbloods. In that vein, he tucked his thumb and far finger against his palm and held up the remaining two fingers in a "V" shape then flapped his hand up and down twice.

Ingwel'tonl laughed out in a hissing rasp. 'I will see you again in a few days, major.'

Once the oldblood disappeared out the door, Mort lowered his hand and moved to the chair previously occupied by the marshal and sat himself down. Two days in which to safeguard the village and run through some training routines with the redcoats. His mind was already coming up with ideas. His approval meant little. He had his role to play.


*


Kaiika braced against his shield, left shoulder pressed against the protective barrier while his right hand held a sword, the blade peaking through the slim gap between his shield and that of the saurus to his right. Behind him, another of his brothers of the Primus Regiment held a shield over that of Kaiika, angled such that it formed a roof over the front row. In the second row of the formation, tucked between each pair of saurus were skinks with muskets in hand, the firearms rested upon the shoulders of the saurus who formed the first rank of the formation, muzzles poking through the planned gaps in the shield barrier.

From what Kaiika could see from his position behind a shield at the front, the bayonets attached to the ends of the muskets were making for a passable spear wall that was protected by the large shields of the Primus Regiment. To the side, Major Mort was eying the formation with a glower. Not that a glower was any different from Mort's usual expression. Kaiika imagined that his elder had emerged from the spawning pool with that glower already in place and perfected.

'Mad Dog, first rank, fire.' Mort's voice was a rumble of thunder despite not being shouted or even really projected. Mort was the sort that if he spoke, all heard regardless of where they were and what they were doing.

Kaiika mentally braced himself, and moments later the musket rested upon his left shoulder fired with the kind of retort that he usually associated with a solar engine being fired. His ear canals rang with a shrill pitch, but despite the urge to shake his head and rub at the side of his head, he didn't react.

'Mad Dog, first and second rank, switch.' And despite the shrill tone ringing in his ear canals, Mort's voice was still just as clearly heard as when the tone hadn't existed.

The red-coated skink behind Kaiika pulled away, careful to keep the keen edge of the bayonet angled away from the saurus's neck. It wouldn't have hurt him, all the bayonets were plugged with leather sleeves, even Mort wouldn't have them practice an untried manoeuvre that had a bladed weapon anywhere near unprotected necks and eyes. But the fact that the skink had already taken to moving the weapon with the safety of the saurus in front in mind was a boon.

The skink was quickly replaced by another. The replacement was slow to thread the musket into position, almost too worried about the bayonet harming Kaiika, something that the saurus took note to bring up later. The skinks that had originally formed the firing line were already in the motion of removing their ramrods and reloading their muskets, bullets spat into the barrel and then pushed further down through liberal pumping of the iron stick.

'Second rank, fire.'

The muskets fired. Kaiika felt his nostrils twitch as the sharp tang of the smoke hit them. He had once heard that the smoke was irritating to human eyes, but he had never had that problem, couldn't recall ever hearing of any of his kin having such a problem. But while the smoke wasn't a cause of irritation, it was obscuring his vision, even after only two volleys.

'Enemy cavalry almost on you,' Mort spoke quickly, though his inflection changed in no way.

The skink behind Kaiika had started to slide his musket back out, getting ready to switch back even before being given the order to, hurriedly pushed it back into position and the smaller lizardman visibly braced himself, feet planted and body almost leaning forward in anticipation of the imaginary cavalry charge.

'Switch now,' Mort commanded after ten seconds of such anticipation, which Kaiika took to mean that the imaginary cavalry had lost their nerve and backed away for a moment.

The skinks switched out swiftly and were ordered to fire. Mort paused for a moment, head tilted.

'Primus, advance. Mad Dog, behind.'

With the order, Kaiika's entire row lifted themselves from their knee back to their feet and slowly advanced in unison, the second rank close behind. The entire time, their shields never stopped forming a protective shell as they moved.

'Huddle. Mad Dog second rank, position.'

And they dropped back to one knee and braced against the shields once more while the skinks brought their muskets back to forming a spiky addition to the wall. On the order to fire, the triggers were pulled, sending another volley of ranged death for any who might dare to keep their distance.

'Stand down.'

With those two words, everybody relaxed and lowered their weapons and shields. Mort remained where he was standing, simply watched as those under his command mentally removed themselves from the state of mind that came with violence, even when only in practice.

Kaiika carefully sheathed his sword and started to move toward the larger saurus. When Mort noticed him, he didn't nod in acknowledgement or any such motion. He just turned his head to fully face the alpha of Primus Regiment and watched his approach.

'Sergeant.' As always happened when using the adopted titles, Mort sounded like he had just taken a bite out of the sour fruits that grew around the Temple City where they had spent centuries of their existence.

'Major.' Kaiika returned the use of the title.

'Thoughts.'

Kaiika turned to look upon the mingling skinks and saurus, made a note that some were far more receptive to the others than they had been prior to a full day of practicing the mobile firing platform.

'We have cohesion,' he answered bluntly. 'The formation has potential. But only the Primus and Fortis Regiments… maybe Shield Regiment… have the right shields for such a phalanx.' Kaiika hid the sliver of amusement that formed as he considered his next words and whether to speak them. 'You made a formation that relies on your command being the shield to protect the redcoats.'

Mort huffed out a breath of air. 'Zakarius will be laughing at me when he hears.'

Zakarius was another major of the Legion, though his position before the Legion was that of a skink priest, and his oversight was typically over regiments of saurus redcoats. He had been mentored by Mort during his earlier years in the Legion, before ranking up to major, and as such held himself to a similar standard and command style. Mort's relationship with the skink was not antagonistic, but the skink did tend to enjoy teasing Mort for being so set in his ways.

Kaiika patted Mort's shoulder, whether in sympathy or camaraderie, even he didn't quite know. Regardless, as Mort silently turned, with a clear intent to return to the inn, Kaiika chose to move instead to the small village of tents that was where the majority of the Legion's garrison had posted themselves, nostrils twitching from the lingering odour of black powder.


*


Goctu'a watched as one of the redcoats cleaned his musket, curious despite his usual disdain for the weapon. It wasn't as simple a maintenance as simply wiping a blade and then, if the need arose, sharpening the edge with a whetstone. Cleaning the musket was a convoluted ordeal that included forcing a length of metal down the hollowed tube that was two-thirds of the weapon, pumping vigorously. Yet this was apparently different from loading the weapon, which also involved sticking a length of metal down the hollow tube and pumping, though Goctu'a wasn't certain how it was different.

There were a lot of things that Goctu'a didn't know. He knew that. He accepted that. He was a saurus, a fairly young one by his kind's standards. Old enough that the geas wasn't fully blocking his thoughts, still young enough that there was still an inherent sense that made him follow commands given without pause, without even thinking. It was dangerous, it took a wrong phrase from those in leadership to cause problems when the wording was taken as an order and acted upon before the one to utter the words had a chance to clarify.

Skinks had never had that problem. They were spawned without the geas, able to think independently from the start, and gifted with the ability to interpret what they were told, to see the nuance that might avoid such a mistake as the accidental killing of those undeserving based entirely on the words "you aren't supposed to be here".

But, with his thoughts being his own when not given orders, Goctu'a didn't hate the skinks for their inherent freedom. If they lived long enough, all saurus eventually earned that same freedom of thought. It was what set apart the oldbloods. To an extent, it was what set apart the scar veterans, though they earned their freedom from the geas through experience rather than age, and still had some learning to do before they had the same respect that oldbloods had.

The skink that Goctu'a was watching paused in his routine, amber eyes rested upon the saurus.

'First time witnessing musket maintenance?' the skink asked in perfect Reikspiel, other than the most minor of lisps, despite the absence of humans making use of the warmblood's tongue necessary.

Goctu'a gave a single nod. 'My regiment doesn't fight beside redcoat skinks often. And never before so close. Mort doesn't like them.'

The skink gave a trill, the type that indicated amusement, though tempered with an undertone of understanding. 'Most of us didn't at first. Loud, smelly, hard to get used to, unlike bolt-spitters.'

Goctu'a tilted his head. 'But you changed, learned to like them?'

The skink gave a human-like shrug. 'Strangely... yes. Fifty summers of using muskets, learned to use them. Learned to master them. Can't imagine going back. Other Children of the Gods will disapprove, but that's not a change.'

Goctu'a huffed in amused agreement at the reminder that others of their ilk would see the Outland Legion as an aberration. Had likely seen them that way ever since Lord Annat'corri had not just had a radical idea but then followed through with it.

The skink removed the rod from the musket and stood, absently shrugged off the woollen coat that was part of his uniform and folded it carefully onto the canvas that was most likely his designated sleeping spot.

'I am Akro.' The skink introduced himself.

'Goctu'a,' the saurus returned the favour.

Akro looked smaller without the coat, though he was still garbed in the grey breeches and waistcoat that were worn beneath the red outerwear. Beneath the waistcoat the skink also wore an off-white linen shirt, the only fabric that wasn't wool. Goctu'a vaguely recalled hearing that the transition for most of the Outland Legion to the redcoat uniform was that to human aesthetics (whatever that word meant) the combination was suitably smart enough that the nobles were impressed, while still managing to have those lower on the human hierarchy find them impressive and professional looking.

And above all else, to the strange and convoluted standards of the warmbloods, they looked civilised. And civilised meant that they could actually interact with the warmbloods without there being screams and attempts to attack them for being monsters or daemons.

'Have you ever fired a musket?' Akro asked.

Goctu'a huffed. 'No. I hear even the redcoat saurus don't use them, just those curved swords... sabres?'

Likely that was for the same reasons that saurus didn't typically use bolt-spitters or throw javelins even before the Outland Legion decided to alter their methods. So even with the breaks from tradition, saurus were shield and hammer to the finely placed knife that was the skinks.

The skink gave another human-like nod. 'They don't use them normally. Still occasionally practice. For pleasure.'

That was a novel concept. Firing those noisy and smelly things... for pleasure? For fun?

'Would you like to?' Akro asked.

Goctu'a looked at the musket in Akro's hands, his head tilted in contemplation. Five seconds later, he decided that he would accept the offer. He wasn't scheduled for the night watch that evening, so his night was going to be one of inactivity. Why not get some entertainment while he had an opportunity?

As he climbed to his feet, Goctu'a noticed Kaiika walking by. The alpha—sergeant, he reminded himself—wasn't wearing his armour, leaving him in only the crimson tunic that the members of Primis Regiment wore beneath their armour.

'Kaiika,' Goctu'a called out. When the sergeant paused, head turned to look at him inquisitively, Goctu'a gestured the skink beside him. 'Akro is letting me fire his musket. You like to join?'

Kaiika's eyes scrunched, not in disdain but more a confused bafflement. 'Going to the lake outside of the village to wash the smell away. Not planning to get more smoke on me.'

That was fair. His words spoken, Kaiika continued to move toward the village's gate.

'His loss,' Akro said with a verbal shrug.

'Smell of black powder annoys him. Makes his nose itch.' Goctu'a explained with a twinge of sympathy for the older saurus.

'Must have hated the exercises.'

Probably not. Too focused to care until finished. Goctu'a didn't speak his thought, but turned back to Akro. 'Where we firing? Not here?'

'There's a clearing a small way from the village. Perfect place.' Akro hadn't even finished speaking before he was moving with a gesture to follow behind him.


*


For all that Mort pushed back against the conforming, some things were just too useful to ignore. Writing on parchment for example. Not quite so useful for storing words over a long period of time—etching writings upon gold was still the superior choice on that—but for short term, something to remember for a small period, then parchment was the far more convenient choice.

The quill in his hand lightly scratched at the parchment, wet ink transferred in sharp movements that were still graceful enough that one wouldn't have thought he had only learnt to write in such a manner recently. Then again, recently for a saurus who had seen well over two thousand summers was not the same as recently for a warmblood.

He scribed his thoughts on the practice with the skinks of Mad Dog Regiment, how practical he considered it would be if used on the field of battle, and anything else that Ingwel'tonl might need to know. He debated within himself whether to say that it would not be viable, but he found that as disdainful as he found the musket weapons. As much as he wanted to keep a distance from them where possible, he could not lie, not for selfish reasons.

When he was done, he noted that the sun had started to set. Usually, by this time, the villagers would be starting their communal meals, which had been up-scaled the previous day to account for their temporary sentinels. It was a strangely nice gesture, and the food they offered wasn't terrible, so Mort had allowed himself to join the previous night, and had decided he would make an appearance again this night.

It wasn't conforming, he was being polite and accepting a gift offered. He would do the same if he ever visited a temple-city that wasn't his own.

In the centre of the village, the bonfire that would cook the communal pot was already alight. Even as he stepped into view, he braced himself for the not-attack of the human spawnlings. Children, they call them children, he reminded himself.

As he predicted, two of the tiny and defenceless humans, known not as Halflings, but as children, launched themselves at him with squeaky "rar" sounds that he couldn't work out the meaning behind. One wrapped its limbs around his leg just like those pesky creatures that lived outside of Tiamoxec. The tiny warmblood clung to his limb, with a strength and determination that said "No, I'll not move", while the other tried to bat at Mort's tail. Mort inhaled through his nostrils and beseeched the Old Ones, or Sotek, or any that might listen—any that wasn't of a particular pantheon of four—for strength and then slowly marched forward, careful not to accidentally dislodge the limpet at his ankle. He was vaguely reminded of a freshly hatched aggradon that had taken to being a menace back when Mort was only twenty summers, young but still far deadlier than an aggradon that had hatched not even a week prior.

Spawnlings, children, whatever the race, they all seem to lack both fear and common sense.

Then again, he mused. Maybe it was because they knew that they had their parent's protection. The aggradon's progenitor had certainly hovered with that aura that warned that any who dared harm her child would regret it. Just as he could see the parents of the two currently harassing him eying the scene with a look that said that the moment that Mort made a misstep, they'd be on him with a righteous fury.

Mort managed to wade to the bench that he had claimed as his the previous night, back against the wall of somebody's shack, able to see the entirety of the village centre, and even able to see the gate that marked the only way through the palisade surrounding the village. The gate hadn't yet shut for the evening, still some hunters out.

A bowl of stew was handed to him, full with a generous helping.

Something trickled at the back of his mind. Something was off, he couldn't place it though.


*


Kaiika shed himself of his tunic once he reached the lake, though calling it such was very generous. It was more of a glorified pond than anything else. Still, it had fresh water, and it worked for the purposes that Kaiika planned.

Out of curiosity, Kaiika took a small sniff of the woollen tunic and flinched as the sharp tang of black powder hit him. He was already planning on scrubbing the tunic, now he was determined not to leave until it was as clean as he himself planned to be. With a grunt, he rested the fabric on a nearby rock and then removed the belt upon which his sword was sheathed. It was laid down beside his tunic, but far enough from the edge of the lake so as to not chance it falling in, and at last he stepped into the water, managed not to flinch at the chilly temperature.

He kept advancing until he was deep enough that he was nearly submerged even without bending over, and after grabbing a handful of the sand at the bottom of the pool started to rub it against his flesh, scratching away at any dirt that might have gotten between his scales.

Behind him, something caused the water to bubble, but Kaiika didn't notice, he had closed his eyes and was enjoying the sensation of the grit scratching and massaging at his scales. He didn't notice when a grey, mottled hand emerged from the water.

What Kaiika did notice was when the hand grabbed him about the neck and pulled him backward, into the water. Against his will, he was submerged completely. Moments later, the water turned red with blood.


*


Goctu'a lined his eye down the length of the musket, listening carefully to Akro's instruction. The notches on the barrel of the weapon, something he'd never even noticed before that moment, were carefully aligned so that the one closer to his eye almost fully eclipsed the one further down, almost but for a small spike which he was told was now the indicator of where the bullet should be hitting.

'It's only an idea,' Akro explained patiently. 'The bullet can be touched by winds, which means it won't hit exactly where you aim, but better to have an idea, to know you are pointing where you want to hit.'

Goctu'a hummed in acknowledgement.

'Carefully pull the hammer back,' Akro commanded.

Goctu'a removed one hand from the underside of the weapon, and slowly lifted it to what he had been told was called the "hammer", though it looked like no hammer that the saurus had ever encountered before. His forefinger wrapped around the small shape of metal and pulled back toward his body, forced the hammer back with it until it gave a click.

'Now, return that hand to the trigger, but don't pull yet.'

He did as instructed. He had to be careful, while the weapon was usable for him that didn't change that it was sized for the intended users. That was to say, the musket was made for skinks, who usually stood at around five feet—though they looked closer to four feet when hunched forward—rather than for a saurus where six feet was considered to be the runt of the spawning.

Could have been worse. Goctu'a doubted any amount of grace would allow even the smallest of kroxigors to use the weapon.

'If the bullet only goes in the general direction you point, why take time to aim?' Goctu'a asked, even while he rechecked the alignment of the weapon.

'If winds favour us, bullet hits where we point. If the target is close enough, winds don't get time to mess with the bullet. If the targets a part of a group, at least those next to the target will die.' Akro listed the reasons patiently. 'You have the sight lined?'

'Yes.'

'Pull back on the trigger.'

Goctu'a slowly squeezed his finger around the metal stud that would have the weapon fire. Once it had been pulled back a certain distance, he learnt why the hammer was called such when it swung forward, connected with the metal panel and created a series of sparks which ignited the black powder. There was a loud bang and the musket pushed itself into Goctu'a's shoulder with a jolt whilst a gust of flame seemed to erupt from the end of the barrel.

The dried log that the saurus had been aiming for exploded in a shower of splinters as the bullet connected with the long-dead and hollowed wood.

'Now, step back and reload, just like I showed you.'

At Akro's instruction, Goctu'a took a step back and grabbed a small pouch of black powder, tore the end, and removed the metal ball from the removed end even as he carefully poured the powder where it was supposed to go. Once the powder had been used up, he pulled the ramrod from its place at the underside of the musket's barrel, dropped the metal bullet down the barrel's opening, before then threading the rod into the same opening as the bullet in order to push the bullet further down until it was rested at the base.

Once that had been done, he checked the hammer, though he didn't pull it back. Akro had been stern about not pulling the hammer back until the weapon was intended to be used. He'd said it was the same as pulling back an arrow before there was any intention to loose that arrow. Goctu'a didn't understand the comparison, simply discerned that there was a danger to it.

Maybe it was like having a sword unsheathed needlessly.

'Fire again, when ready.'

The musket came back up to his shoulder, sights aligned and once Goctu'a felt he had everything right, pulled the trigger again. Another chunk of the log splintered, though this time it wasn't quite where he had intended the shot to hit. And it had taken him longer to go through the motions than he'd seen of the red-coated skinks.

When he wasn't told to reload, Goctu'a simply lowered the weapon, mindful of the bayonet as he rested it at his side in the way he'd seen the redcoats do when in a calm moment.

'What did you think?' Akro asked.

Goctu'a lot out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding back. 'I felt powerful.' He lifted a hand and waved the lingering smoke from the black powder's detonation away from his face. He might not find it to be an irritant, but it still wasn't a pleasant scent.

His eyes drifted to the splintered log. Power to cause such damage from outside of physical reach. No wonder the warmbloods of the Empire had embraced the use of such weapons. It gave them a power that their bodies lacked.

Akro accepted the musket when the saurus held it out for him. The skink absently checked over the weapon and carefully reloaded it, even while he spoke.

'Scary though. Imagine being on the other side.'

It was a chilling picture that formed in Goctu'a's mind. So far, Goctu'a hadn't been involved in any conflict where firearms were fielded by the other side, though there had apparently been a number of skirmishes against skaven, in the early days before he had joined the Outland Legion.

Goctu'a opened his maw to reply, but at that moment a scent managed to pierce the odour of burnt black powder. It was a sickly sweet scent, one that was vaguely familiar, though he couldn't place it at that moment.

Behind them, a human was lurching toward them with an unsteady gait. Goctu'a recognised him, one of the village's hunters. The hunter's bow was in hand, though the arrow wasn't yet notched back.

He'd probably heard the gunshots and come to investigate.

'Greetings, friend.' It was the greeting that all of the Outland Legion were taught to use, neutral in tone but also an indication of being non-hostile, to try and diffuse any potential conflict that might arise from the warmblood stumbling across large reptiles. The other greeting they were taught, the one with a focus on warning away curiosity was a stern "Who goes there?".

The hunter stared at the pair of lizardmen, eyes half-lidded, mouth open in an expression that almost looked like he was in a perpetual state of dull surprise. He didn't answer.

Goctu'a met Akro's eyes, both of them conveyed silent wonderings regarding the hunter's state of mind. The non-verbal conversation was interrupted when the hunter let out a low rattling groan and began to pull an arrow back against the string of his bow.

Akro reacted instantly, musket shouldered and pointed at the hunter's head in a silent promise of death, even while Goctu'a hissed an angry 'Lower your bow, human.'

The human didn't listen, continued to pull back against the bowstring. Akro didn't wait for the arrow to go any further back, he pulled the trigger.

The side of the hunter's head exploded in a shower of bone fragments and brain matter. The body jolted, which in turn caused the bow to slip to one side before the arrow was released from suddenly slackened fingers and propelled forth, though fortunately no longer in the direction of the two lizardmen. The hunter's body tilted backwards, and they waited for the downward nature of the gravity of the planet to finishing pulling the body to the ground.

After a moment of awkwardly tilting backwards, the body tipped forward instead, followed by a large step forward as if to regain balance. The remains of the head focused on the two lizardmen, the remaining eye a shade of white that brought to mind the bovine milk that humans seemed to enjoy drinking. The hunter took another step forward, still unsteady. A rasping breath sounded from the hunter's chapped lips, stuttering as though incapable of simply inhaling normally.

Goctu'a took a step back, confused. Had the injury been anywhere other than the head, he might have thought this hunter to be one gifted with the "blessings" of Nurgle. The diseased worshippers of the pestilent one tended to have an unnatural resilience to them, to the degree that they ignored crippling wounds as though they were but mere inconveniences. But head wounds, particularly when a third of the head no longer existed, that was typically enough even for Nurgle's followers to be felled.

Behind the hunter, another lizardman appeared, eyes narrowed in an ill-contained fury. He was soaking wet, and had streaks of blood about his body, but no apparent wound. Goctu'a recognised Kaiika quickly and watched as the alpha stormed up to the hunter and grabbed the head, then pulled, tore it from the body to which it had been attached. The body fell, a puppet with no more strings.

Kaiika tossed the head aside with a snarl. 'Necromancy!'

'Necromancy?' Akro repeated, almost incredulously.

Almost as if the word had been a prompt, Goctu'a finally recognised where he knew the sweet scent from. It was the scent of death, of a body in decay.

Kaiika hissed. 'You are lucky I heard the gunshots and got here first, we must go.'

'Go? Why? What is happening?' Goctu'a asked, silently thankful that the wording hadn't triggered the geas. Probably because it hadn't included where to go, just that they needed to go.

'You think this was the only animated wretch?' Kaiika pointed at a nearby line of trees and overgrowth, his tongue flicking in and out rapidly. 'Look past that and say what you see.'

Goctu'a instantly moved to look past the thick line of vegetation. On the other side, the scene had his eyes widen.

'I see at least three score undead.'

They couldn't be any less than undead. While some looked almost passable as living humans, but for pale flesh, others were mottled with rot, flesh missing in what were clearly the wounds to have felled them in life. And some bodies were just outright skeletons.

And they were marching—if it could be called marching—toward Daxweiler.

'We need to warn Mort,' he realised.

'Agreed,' Kaiika huffed out. 'Move fast, stop for nothing until we get to the village. Go!'

Nobody questioned, nobody hesitated. All three sprinted back in the direction of Daxweiler.


*


Mort had just finished his stew when there was a startled shouting in the direction of the palisade gate. He looked up, his nerves already frazzled from the sense of something wrong. He saw three of his subordinates. He recognised Kaiika instantly, despite the lack of armour on the orange-scaled saurus. He got to his feet and stalked forward.

Kaiika saw him approaching and turned to him instantly. 'We need to get ready.'

'For what?'

'Undead. More than three-score, before I stopped counting. I didn't see the one controlling them.'

'Undead?' Mort repeated, then shook his head once, not the time to wonder why undead were attacking, leave that for later, and for those who actually had the job of piecing together details into a cohesive whole. His voice raised and he turned his head toward the tent settlement. 'Arm up, gather up and ready.'

If his voice was normally heard even when he didn't take the time to project, Mort raising his voice was like a carnosaur roaring in volume. Those under his leadership would hear, they couldn't not hear.

As if a bell had been rung, skinks and saurus emerged from their tents. Those who had been asleep had awoken instantly, and were already fastening their breastplates or coats. Meanwhile, those who had been awake but patrolling the village as per standing orders—Mort took his tasks seriously, and there was no excuse not to have a rotation of sentries throughout the day—had no such reason for delay and were instantly positioning themselves before Mort, ready to be given orders.

During the pandemonium, Kaiika had disappeared, no doubt to recover his armour. While he waited for his subordinates to muster up, Mort turned to the humans who watched with wide-eyed anticipation.

'Go to your homes, block the doors and don't come out until we say so,' he called out. 'Go!'

While the humans ran for cover, Mort grabbed two random saurus and once they had their attention fixed upon him he pointed toward the gate.

'Get ready to shut that on my say.' His attention then turned to a skink that was moving past. The skink stilled, eyes fixed upon him. 'You, up high, warn when you see anything.'

'What are we expecting?' the skink asked, even as he scanned the buildings for the one with the best roof for seeing the surrounding terrain.

'Undead.'

The skink faltered, eyes briefly flickering to Mort's face as though expecting that last word to have been in jest. It wasn't, Mort didn't do humour, and even if he had any inclination to make such a jest, it wouldn't be at a moment like that.

The skink trilled in acknowledgement and dashed away. At that moment, Kaiika returned, armour donned and shield in hand.

'Sergeant, collect thirty from Primus, and forty from Mad Dog. Meet at the gate.'

Kaiika let out a sound of acknowledgement and disappeared again, stalking toward the gathering members of the legion, already calling out names.

'What are you planning?' The question came from the skink sergeant in charge of Mad Dog Regiment, Mort couldn't remember his name at that moment, and considering the situation wasn't inclined to take the time to remember.

'Meet them outside the village,' he spoke aloud. He eyed the palisade and shook his head. It was only a basic barrier, and without an idea of what the approaching undead might be bringing with them, he couldn't picture the palisade holding in a siege. While the village's buildings might create some chokepoints where his saurus's phalanx would reign supreme if the undead got through the palisade, it was still putting those he'd been charged with protecting at undue risk.

No, he resolved silently, better we meet them outside. Keep them away from the villagers. He wasn't commanding the full number of his Primus Regiment, or the full number of Mad Dog. He had at his command forty saurus and sixty skinks.

With that in mind, Mort turned back to the sergeant. 'You have charge of those staying this side of the gate, if any get past me, or if more arrive from the other direction, you take them out.'

The skink gave a nod and moved toward a gathering of his redcoats, already bellowing orders with a volume a kroxigor might find envious. When Mort turned back toward the gate, he found that Kaiika had returned. Behind him were the assembled troops he'd gathered.

Thanking the Old Ones that they'd blessed their children with such readiness when it came to the transition from still to combat, Mort huffed out a breath and looked upon the saurus among the number.

'Ten of you use halberds. The other twenty, stick to swords, but separate into two groups of ten.'

They did as ordered quickly, no argument about who would be using halberds, no argument about who would be grouped with who. Even before the Outland Legion was conceived, that was their way. Mort then turned to the skinks.

'Two units of twenty.'

The skinks were equally silent as they sorted themselves. No quipping, no nervousness.

'Undead approaching!' the skink that Mort had set as lookout yelled out in warning. When Mort looked to the building that the skink had perched himself, the skink pointed in the direction of the oncoming horde.

'Follow,' Mort bellowed, and led his force through the gate, which was sealed shut once the last of them had passed through.

He could see the horde of undead wretches emerging from the tree line, slowly shambling forward. It would still take them time to arrive. Fortunately, he couldn't make out anything more dangerous than skeletons and walking corpses. But the numbers that seemed to pour forth from the trees, that was concerning.

'That's more than three score,' Mort rumbled.

'Didn't have time to count, Major,' Kaiika retorted.

Mort looked again at the undead. 'They want to overrun us. Numbers. I see nothing dangerous. But we will be dead if they all hit us as one.'

He inhaled, took in the gradually increasing scent of decay. Exhaled with a snort, tongue flicking. Eyes turned to one of the units of swords-saurus and pointed with the end of his sword, didn't feel any resistance as the cloak he wore was forced aside by his rising arm. 'You ten, to that side.' His focus shifted to the other unit of swords-saurus, blade now pointed in the opposite direction. 'You, that side. Halberds, stay in position here.'

The way he envisaged his positioning, the undead horde would have three targets to worry about. They could either split into three, in which case the smaller numbers would be manageable. Or if they tried to pursue either of the swords units as a single massive entity, the ten saurus would have an easier time keeping their distance.

If the horde ignored the swords-saurus flanking them and focused on the halberdiers, the halberdiers would brace, they would hold and the two units of swords-saurus would move in and flank the undead. Encircled, the horde wouldn't be able to wash over and use their numbers so well. Though there was still an unfortunate chance of it happening, there were a lot of undead. Even with no skill, a lucky blow or a gap in the encircling force and that would be one of Mort's saurus dead. And for every saurus that died, the odds of the circle breaking apart would increase.

The eternity warden glanced at the two units of redcoats. 'Position yourself between one sword unit and the halberd unit. If you are being targeted, move behind the swords-saurus. Until then, keep firing.'

If the entire horde chased a single sword unit, that was their backs exposed. If the undead got encircled, bayonet spears would help with the encirclement.

'Move!'

They all reacted to his roar, moved into the positions he had ordered them. Mort couldn't decide how he wanted the undead to react, to split apart, to chase a single unit fruitlessly, or to go straight into the snare.

If the undead split, it was still a case of them having numbers against his troops, just smaller numbers against a smaller group. If they chased as a single mass, it would be a pain to herd them. If they clashed with the halberds and were encircled in the snare, that was still the full weight of their numbers, and depending on how easily a single undead would fall and stay fallen, it was possible that he and his troops would suffer and lose through attrition.

A small part of his psyche wanted more numbers, wanted to have brought the full might of Daxweiler's garrison. But he made the right choice, somebody had to be controlling these undead, and if they had that power, surely they were smart enough to have a second force coming from another direction. Right?

Another part of mind wished instead that it had been the entirety of Primus and Mad Dog Regiments that had stayed behind, not just a small number of both. He understood, there had been no evidence that Daxweiler was actually at risk, those who had stayed behind had been, while not quite a token force, as Ingwel'tonl did not do token gestures even when he felt a job unneeded, but certainly not the full weight that would have come from knowing that there was more than just frightened villagers based on whispers of neighbouring villages being raided.

Every village the Legion had passed on the way here had not been raided and had heard no such tales. But what if the raiding was approaching from the opposite direction? We just... met in the middle...

The undead continued to lurch forward. At that point, the first volley of musket fire came from the redcoat skinks. From his position, Mort made out the first rank of skinks step back while the second stepped forward to take their place. The ones to step back began the process of reloading their muskets with a speed borne of hours upon hours of practice.

After three volleys, the undead finally seemed to register that they were being attacked. The massive horde stilled. Were they living entities, they might have been looking about, heads turning this way and that as they tried to puzzle out the situation. As it was, Mort could see that they just kept staring blankly ahead, milky eyes glazed over, unseeing yet still capable of sight. Mouths hung loose, gaping yawning chasms.

There was no signal, no indication of any change, but the horde started to move again, only now they split into three, smaller hordes. The majority kept moving straight, headed directly for Mort and the ten halberdiers, five to either side of him. His teeth were barred in anticipation, even while he still kept his eye upon the other units.

The two smaller hordes ignored the two sword-wielding groups of saurus, instead focused on the skinks. As Mort had ordered, the moment it dawned on them that they were the intended target, the skinks started to move, not a run, but at a brisk pace that would still keep their distance from the undead's staggered and uneven pace. The skinks moved to the nearby saurus, who had repositioned so that they were formed into a phalanx that faced the undead being lured directly to them.

Despite the fact that he hadn't suggested such, when the skinks reached the saurus, they didn't just stand a ways behind, idling until an opening arose. Ten of the skinks to each unit positioned themselves directly behind the saurus and jabbed their muskets forwards. It wasn't quite the same as the exercises they'd been doing earlier that very day, but it was a rough approximation. Those that weren't contributing to the spiked phalanx were either reloading or had positioned themselves so that their bayonets were ready to stab any of the undead that tried to circle the shield wall.

Further examination was cut short. The larger undead swarm had reached Mort and the halberdiers. The moment the walking, shambling mockery of death was in range, the halberds were thrust forward, the sharp points puncturing into the rotted flesh of the undead, before the polearms were pulled back and twisted so that the sharp edge on the one side could slice through the decaying bodies.

Mort, equipped with a sword, waited a little longer, eyes locked upon one wretch that seemed to avoid the long reach of the halberds. The moment it got within the shorter range of Mort's sword, he swung it upward, cleaved through the undead's body and nearly bisected the wretch, but for a small sliver of atrophied muscle that kept the two halves of its torso attached. The body was thrown aside from the force of the swing. The corpse hit another shambling dead with enough power to cause it to stumble and fall prone, though it barely seemed to notice, just began to claw at the ground and pull itself forward. It managed to crawl for two seconds before the head was crushed by a stomp from one of the halberdiers.

Mort heard the crack of more gunfire. By now, his vision of the other units was completely obscured by the mass of groaning, shambling undead wretches. One undead swung wildly with what looked like a rusted and blunt hatchet. Mort twisted his body, didn't let the hatchet's edge near his body, swung his sword in a shorter swing than the undead had tried, rent the head from shoulders. A clang and a slight pressure told Mort that another undead had just attacked him and managed to connect. When his head turned, he took in the half-rotted body of a human, an axe in hand. It had failed to penetrate Mort's armour, though he did note that his cloak had a new hole in it. Eyes narrowed, Mort lunged forward and slammed his head into the wretch. The hard bone crest that covered his head was more than the wretch's unprotected skull could take, its head was carved in from the blow, and the body stumbled back.

Probably wasn't enough to kill the undead. If that was the right word, Mort didn't even know what the right term would be in Saurian, never mind Reikspiel, where so many words had two or three different meanings. He adjusted his grip on his sword and swung it in a downward chop, split what remained of the wretch's head in two distinct halves. Kicked the body away from him for good measure.

Another burst of gunfire from the other groups. He had to trust that they had it in hand. They were his saurus—they were the best of the Outland Legion. And the skinks of Mad Dog had shown that they weren't terrible, they did as told, and had a dogged determination when given a challenge.

What was a battle but another challenge to overcome?

A skeleton appeared before Mort, flecks of rotted flesh still clinging to the yellowed bone, while mould painted its ribs a blue-green. Mort thrust his offhand forth, wrapped his fingers around the skull and squeezed, felt a grim satisfaction as the skull popped, fragments of brittle warmblood bone scattering from the pressure.

Still, there were so many in front of him. It was a sea, a sea of writhing, groaning corpses that should have stayed still and dead. Necromancy was a perversion. While it had never been the threat to the Great Plan that Chaos represented, it was still a blemish, and if left unchecked, had the potential to become such a threat.

Mort roared with a fury matched only by a feral carnosaur, felt that fury fuel him. His swings were filled with a power borne from that righteous fury. The dead should stay dead.

Another distant volley of gunfire. Undead piled at Mort's feet, made it harder to move without stumbling. But it also made it harder for the undead to remain upright as they approached him. He could feel his saurus brothers nearby. Could sense the adjusting formation, no longer a line forming a wall, had to form a circle instead, becoming not a wall, but an island to withstand the tide of undead. Couldn't let them around, couldn't let them get behind. Keep them in front.

Eventually, there was a pause. Something was different. There was a change in the air, a change that had nothing to do with the pungent odour of death and decay.

'CHARGE!'

He recognised the voice. But a distant part of his mind knew that he shouldn't be hearing it. Why did he hear it? A horn was being blown, a distinct tone that he knew. It meant ally, it meant friend.

And then the sea changed as the tide lowered, no longer a perpetual wave, but shallow ripples. And he could hear the chant, the Legion's hymn being hummed, but it came from the undead.

No. Not the undead. Behind the undead.

A dismembered chunk of undead sailed the air, missed Mort, but for a brief moment he could see through to the other side of the tide of dead.

An aggradon leapt through the air, and landed upon an undead that had the misfortune of being in the wrong spot at the wrong moment. The large raptor bared its teeth in a snarl, the sound audible through the chaos of combat. Sharp and intelligent eyes zeroed in on another undead and it lunged forward, jaws clamping down and with a twist of its head the wretch was torn in two. Meanwhile, the saurus that was riding atop the massive raptor swung the sword in hand, cleaved through a trio of undead.

In the field, multiple other aggradons with their riders charged into the swarming mass of undead, the weight and power of the raptors tossing undead aside like they were the straw dummies used in practice.

The rider that had led the charge and was even now hacking down undead while his mount ripped limbs from bodies through teeth and claw, locked eyes with Mort, sword briefly lifted in an acknowledging salute.

Through the momentary calm in the sea of dead, Mort was able to see the other two groups. Of the sixteen aggradon cavalry to arrive on the field, ten had dispersed, and then split into a further two groups of five, and both groups had slammed into the undead pinned them against the two phalanxes, a mace against an overripe fruit. The remaining six had done the same to the horde slammed against Mort and his cohorts.

The battle, if it could be called thus, was short-lived after the arrival of the cavalry. Behind the cavalry, came those members of the Primus Regiment who had previously left with Ingwel'tonl the prior day.

Mort learnt later that he had been fending off the horde for a full hour before the arrival of the majority of the Primus Regiment. The skinks behind the phalanxes had run out of bullets half an hour into the fight, had been relying solely on their bayonets turning the muskets into spears.

Three had been killed, one skink and two of his saurus, and another three were sporting injuries. It only took one lucky blow from the foe, one unlucky moment for the one fighting to take a fatal strike. An hour was a long time in non-stop violence.

Once the Legion's dead had been taken from the field, Captain Preda'tor of the cavalry took the time to explain.

It turned out that Mort's musing had been accurate. When the Legion had reached the next village along, it had been empty of all life. There hadn't even been any bodies to mark that any had ever lived there before, had it not been for the signs that the disappearance had been recent: plates of cold food that had yet to go bad, tracks in the ground that were recent.

Preda'tor had personally taken the cavalry and rushed to the next village in the space of less than three hours, and found it to be in a similar state. Coupled with the fears of Daxweiler, Ingwel'tonl had ordered those of Primus Regiment to make haste back to Mort, at best to warn him that the fears of the village had been based on a truth they might not have been fully aware of and prepare. At worst, he was to determine Mort's fate.

Arriving in time to reinforce Mort's stand had been somewhere in the middle of the optimism scale.

Mort watched as Kaiika walked with a heavy limp toward the space where the three dead lizardmen had been laid. 'You didn't know necromancy would be involved?' he asked Preda'tor.

The scar-veteran shook his head once. 'Two empty villages with smashed gates at both. No sign of anybody. The marshal said that the scouts couldn't find any sign of survivors having fled, the only tracks were moving in this direction before vanishing. We assumed it was Chaos, but didn't understand the lack of destruction.'

That did tend to be a trait of Chaos marauders, burning the homes after killing and pillaging—and raping if Slaanesh was being revered by a given group. Even normal human brigands had a habit of being petty enough to burn homes down just because they could, like some deranged sense of self-power was granted from the act.

Mort rubbed at a cut that had managed to be inflicted to his arm, one he hadn't even noticed during the violence. By the time he had noticed, it had already scabbed over and was well on the way to healing.

'Do we need to stay here longer?' Mort wondered, more to himself than to the cavalry captain.

Despite not actually being addressed, Preda did give his thoughts. 'Only saw reanimated bodies, nothing powerful. Nothing like the stories we hear about necromancers.' Nothing like the tales they'd been told while the Legion had been in Araby, about the neighbouring Land of the Dead. Nehekhara was one of the few places the Legion had thus far outright avoided. 'The village will send a message to the count. Villages gone, this is the Empire's count's mess now. If he is a good leader, he will fix it.'

Mort acknowledged the truth of the statement with a snort. 'And if he's not, the village suffers from his inaction.' Mort straightened. 'You are right though. If that horde was his prey from the other villages, he has no strength for a time.'

'Time enough to be hunted by others.' Preda clearly agreed.

'And no longer leaves us any need to stay longer.' Mort craned his neck in the direction of the field. 'Make sure the bodies are burnt. I would prefer this necromancer not reuse them, if he can.'

Preda's huff of bemusement was the answer he got. Mort in the meantime turned to go to the fallen members of the Legion. There were rites to be done, and in the absence of any of the skink majors, those who would have been priests back in Tiamoxec, the duty fell upon him as the oldblood. Maybe those rites weren't exactly as they had been traditionally performed, the Legion had started to build its own traditions, its own culture, but Mort would respect the traditions regardless, whether new or old.

He had his role, that which he had been tasked with. This was his place, and… he looked away from the three bodies of his subordinates to the humans of the village, who looked upon him and his kin with thankful smiles and trust in return for saving them… even if it was not conventional, maybe it wasn't so bad.

It felt strangely pleasant.

 

Before anybody comments, I am aware that Aggradons are supposed to be a different species from the Old World's Cold Ones... but quite frankly I always hated calling them Cold Ones. It felt like I was constantly a single typo away from implying that the lizardmen charge into battle riding upon their own gods as steeds.

As for the sake of this tale; since "Aggradon" is actually a name and not a description, that is just what the lizardmen call Cold Ones.

 

Plugging the Pass​

The Old World - Unnamed Pass through the World's Edge
—

Marshal Ingwel'tonl held the spyglass close to his eye, observed for himself just what he was looking forward to enduring. He had been told, multiple times even, but sometimes one needed to see for oneself to truly take in the scene. It was as the villagers of Daxweiler had said: the pass which had supposedly been blocked off for longer than any human had been alive, was now open.

It was not a wide, vast pass that would allow an army to pass through in rank-and-file formations, quite the opposite. Maybe once upon a time, it would have been large enough, but it was very obvious that the rock and dirt that had once blocked and filled the passage had only recently been dug through.

It must have been quite the landslide, Ingwel mused privately, redirecting the spyglass toward the entrance of the pass, at the old fortress which blocked passage, for the Empire to see that old fort as unnecessary to man any longer.

Visible atop the fort, above the heads of the occupants who had chosen to stand among the battlements, was a dark standard, upon which a splash of colour formed the symbol of the so-called "Architect of Fate". But, strangely enough, it wasn't the obvious symbol of one of the wretched pantheon that captured Ingwel's attention. There was another object, slightly further back and almost hidden from sight, and constantly obscured by somebody moving in front of it. It looked to be an icon, but it didn't bring to mind any of the Chaos gods.

'Does that icon at the back of the fort mean anything to you?' Ingwel asked as he lowered the spyglass and handed it to the skink at his side.

The brightly coloured skink accepted the item and lifted it to his eye, absently pushing aside the flatcap atop his head. Colonel Iycan'ceya spent a full minute staring down the spyglass, a hum escaping his throat. He ignored the sharp retorts of gunfire from down the hill.

'The Bull of Hashut,' he finally said. 'I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting the Chaos dwarfs thus far.'

'Chaos Dawi?' Ingwel asked in bemusement.

'Dawi-Zharr,' Iycan corrected with an absent-minded tone, still staring down the tube in his hand. 'Working alongside some Tzeentch cultists. That isn't a pleasant combination, Ingwel.'

'Am I to assume,' Ingwel began, crossing his arms across his chest as he spoke, 'that worshipping Chaos hasn't stopped them from having the same talent as their non-Chaos afflicted kin?'

'Dwarf ingenuity paired with daemonic craftsmanship, if the tales are true.' Iycan nodded, finally lowering the spyglass. 'We haven't heard much about them, what little we know came from one of the Irregulars, and the drunken ramblings of that dwarf that followed us around two winters ago, so I don't know how much of that is accurate.'

'Anything that didn't involve bragging is probably safe to assume as accurate.' Ingwel's eyes narrowed in an amused grin.

There was a loud cracking sound as heat and light shot forth from the Legion's formations. The golden beam flew straight and true toward the fort, wherein the solar engine's blast slammed into the wall, scorched and battered. Unfortunately, the manmade structure managed to endure.

'Do we know that this fort is actually manmade?' Ingwel wondered aloud. 'That it wasn't originally Dawi?'

'The dwarfs are less inclined to abandoning their own bastions than the Empire is,' Iycan reminded the oldblood. 'And I'd be advising we leave it be if it were, lest we incur about fifty grudges for them to hold over us for our breaking anything that used to be theirs.'

Ingwel chuckled softly, silently conceded that point. So far the Legion had managed to avoid upsetting any dwarfs, and he would very much like to keep it that way. Dawi memory was long, going through one generation to the next. Even if Ingwel lived a thousand more summers, if he was the recipient of a grudge, the dwarfs would pay him in full, whether not he even remembered the reason why their ancestor might have been upset with him.

There were those who claimed the Slann were clinging to a past long gone. Ingwel would very much like to point out the dwarfs, who would cling to upsets for so long as to have their descendants punish the descendants of the originator. Had to feel sorry for the random human who was suddenly ambushed by a mob of angry dwarfs over being short-changed in a business transaction four hundred-odd summers ago.

Iycan pointed past the fort, back to the pass itself. 'If the Old Ones have any mercy, they won't yet have widened the gap enough to bring their war machines through.'

'With Tzeentchian cultists involved, we'll have to worry about sorcery,' Ingwel mused aloud. 'They won't need war machines to be a threat.'

As if to emphasize the point, a storm of unnatural purple fire erupted from the ground, beneath a small troop of saurus. Even the typically stoic saurus screamed as they were incinerated within the ruinous flames. Ingwel let out a breath of air which escaped with a loud hiss, the only sign he gave that he was anything other than coldly detached regarding his subordinates' lives being snatched away so abruptly. He refused to look away as the pink ashes that used to be living saurus were scattered by the winds and formed into deformed pink entities. The horrors weren't given much of a chance to enjoy their new existence, nearby saurus leapt forth with sabres swinging in powerful cleaving swipes that destroyed the abominations, and then the smaller bluer forms that tried to form from the dissolving bodies of the Pink Horrors.

'It'll still be one less thing to worry about.' Iycan's voice was filled with resignation. 'We still have two uses of the----'

Ingwel cut Iycan off with a mild 'Let us avoid using anything that might chance upsetting the local Elector now, shall we.' It wasn't a question, the weapon that Iycan was referring to was something that none of the Legion had yet worked out just how the Empire would react to their having. 'We have an enemy in a superior position, with unknown weapons and at least one sorcerer.'

Something was launched from the top of the fort. It flew, mostly straight and true, with an unearthly shrieking sound that had Ingwel flinch back as though it would protect his hearing from whatever the infernal sound was. The flying projectile connected with the armoured shell of a bastiladon and exploded in a fiery display of violence.

The large thundersaur roared in pain, its shell charred and cracked, and one leg very clearly injured. The skink charged with guiding the beast, on giving it direction, had managed to escape the blast unscathed. When the skink saw the state of his charge, he had it turn and start to lumber away for relative safety.

'There is that Dawi innovation at work.' Iycan adopted the tone typically used by humans for sarcasm.

'So I can see.' Ingwel snorted in irritation and then looked at Iycan. 'I want that pass sealed. We need the pass unusable, or else the fort will keep getting supplies and reinforcements from the other side. You work on that, while I keep this siege going.'

Iycan nodded thoughtfully. 'I have an idea, but it will need the artillery unless you're willing to sacrifice a solar engine.'

Ingwel gave Iycan a steely gaze in silently contemplation, internally weighed pros and cons. 'Would this dispose of it afterwards?'

'I can guarantee that afterwards it'll never be seen again.'

Ingwel snorted in amusement. 'You just want to play around with it. Fine. Tell me what you are thinking.'

Iycan couldn't grin, not as humans did. He certainly managed to give the air of doing such as he leaned closer to share his idea.


*


Sergeant Yeucan'dewit watched the ground beneath him move at a speed that the ground should never move, and he unconsciously clutched tighter at the harness which was holding the cart over the air.

'If skinks were meant to fly,' he shouted—had to shout, the sound of the air was a roar that was trying to snuff out his voice as much as it was his ability to keep his dinner down, 'then the Old Ones would have given us wings!'

Above him, the terradon's rider very clearly laughed at him. 'They did give us wings, they're called terradons.'

Yeucan swallowed down the bile that fought its way up. Against his better judgement, he looked over the edge of the cart again, at the distant grounds below. He could make out the siege, where occasional flashes of light marked musket fire, artillery, or fell sorcery at work. They weren't flying directly over the fort, that would likely be suicide, as it was if they were noticed then it was hoped that by keeping a distance they could avoid being shot down.

After far too long spent dangling in the air inside a cart held aloft by a terradon, Yeucan felt a change and was relieved to finally see that he and his cohort were being lowered to the ground. Around him, the other terradons with their own cargos were also descending down toward the closest thing that the World's Edge had to level ground outside of the well-known passes and karaks.

Once the wheel-less cart was touching rocky mountain, Yuecan wasted no time clambering out of the wooden structure and all but hugging the ground.

'Never again.' It was a promise he knew would be broken, he would have to repeat the experience if he wanted to get back to the rest of the Legion after all was said and done.

Around him, the rest of his force disembarked the baskets, all with varying levels of discomfort. After a few deep breaths, Yeucan straightened himself, hands grabbing at the lapels of his coat and tugging downward in order to straighten the garment. Another deep breath and he managed to shove aside the still all-too-recent experience for another time, even if that time were to be at late night in the form of nightmares.

Colonel Iycan'ceya vaulted from his own basket, one hand securing his woollen cap to his head, but otherwise looked so completely at ease that Yeucan wondered if the other skink had experienced such a method of transportation before. Wouldn't surprise me, how else would he have thought to have terradons ferry us through the sky?

The terradons moved aside once their cargo'd passengers had removed themselves from the wagons they'd been carrying, to make room for another trio of the flying creatures, these all tethered to a single object and their handlers were making certain that they were moving with care regarding the large object in question. It was lowered, slowly, carefully, and then once it was on the ground, a handful of skinks moved to undo the harness which had been fashioned for the purpose of moving that very cargo.

Despite his misgivings, Yeucan did eye the freshly delivered cargo with an appreciation that had little to do with the job at hand and everything to do with the fact that they were going to get to use that.

'It is a beautiful thing, isn't it?' Iycan asked, absently fidgeting with the cravat he wore around his neck. 'An Empire Helstorm Battery. Fiery death from above.'

Indeed, that was the cargo. The Legion had been lugging the artillery piece for about six months at that point, a lucky find when an orcish camp had been wiped clean only to find that at some point the green-skins had looted the artillery battery and had yet to smash it for whatever purpose they had. The Legion had been reluctant to use it while within the Empire's provinces because none had any idea how protective the Empire was regarding such equipment. Were they valuable to the point that any seen to have one would be marked for death? Or were they common enough that a misplaced Helstorm was simply written off?

The answer would have been easy if it had been a steam tank that the Legion stumbled upon, which it had been noted that the Empire, if they had the ability to make more, either weren't doing so or they were making new steam tanks so slowly that every last one was valuable enough that they would not tolerate a legion of mercenaries taking one for their own use. But Helstorm batteries were more commonly seen, which could have meant that the Empire would not be so protective. However, until the Legion had a definite idea, it had mostly been relegated to that place of "one day there will be a use". That day had apparently finally arrived.

The two kroxigors who were accompanying them approached the Helstorm and positioned themselves such that they were able to cart it around. Both kroxigors had a large crate each strapped to their backs. The kroxigor closest to Yeucan shook his head and rumbled quietly. 'I not like flying.'

'Nor do I, Toxte'zec,' Yeucan answered. 'We were meant to keep our feet firmly on the ground.'

'Are you still whinging?' Another skink asked.

'Yes. Yes I am. And I will until this is over with.' Yeucan was nothing if not honest, and the flight had cemented itself firmly in his mind as something to make his displeasure about well known.

Iycan chuckled even as he unrolled a large parchment and examined the map which had been inscribed to its surface. 'Now now, let's save the arguing for when we're back home and safe, hmm?'

'One question.' A turquoise-scaled skink lifted a hand, another one of those humanisms that had begun spreading throughout the Legion. 'Why us and not Major Sharpe and his chosen?'

It was a valid question. Skirmishers had a better time with the sort of task that Yeucan and his cohorts had been tasked with. Fighting on uneven terrain, sneaking by the bulk of a force in order to achieve a goal only tangibly related to fighting. It had skirmisher written all over it.

'Sharpe's Chosen are in the mountains also, but they have gone another way from us and are trying to draw attention so we can hopefully go unnoticed,' Iycan explained, while still staring at the map. 'As much as we'd like to think otherwise, we have to assume that our enemy isn't so blind as to not notice a dozen terradons flying by and landing in the mountains. So, Sharpe and his skirmishers are to do what they do best: harass and annoy.'

'Well, they are good at that,' another skink commented with a wry tone.

'Where to then, boss?' Yeucan asked.

'We need to get closer to the pass.' Iycan finally rolled the map back up and tucked it into a pouch at his thigh. He pointed a finger. 'That way.'

The terrain looked treacherous, and safe pathways were not a given. The World's Edge was not supposed to be traversed as they were doing, and carting around a Helstorm battery was only going to make it slower. Still, Yuecan unslung his musket and motioned for his cohort to follow his lead.

Unfortunately, despite the idea that Sharpe's Chosen were in the mountains to draw attention away from Yeucan's cohort, they quickly learnt that there were still threats within the mountains. At a glance, it appeared to be a patrol.

They looked like dwarfs, but a mockery of the Dawi that the Legion had encountered in the past. Burnished armour of heavy plates adorned with bright and bloody livery. It was the faces though—those that could be seen—that really drove in the difference. Bestial sneering with a hatred that had nothing to do with righteous fury at a grudge unresolved, and tusks that looked so horrifically out of place and yet seemed quite natural upon these twisted distortions of what dwarfs should be.

They hadn't yet seen the skink regiment. The path—if it could really be called such—that the skinks had been traversing had come to a slope which lowered to another "path" where the small cluster of twisted dwarfs were slowly moving. It left Yuecan with a small issue, a choice.

On the one claw, he and his cohort could fire down upon the Chaos dwarfs from the superior position and with the element of surprise. Short of massively ill luck, the black armoured figures would be killed swiftly and that would be the end of them. However, in doing so, they might attract more attention, encourage any other nearby patrol to investigate the noise or the fate of their comrades.

On the other claw: let them pass, there won't be any noise, no reason to attract unwanted attention. But then there would be a threat behind them and nothing to say that at no point they wouldn't turn and come back the way they came. Going forward, Yeucan would have to divide his force's attention two ways to ensure that there would be no sneak attack from the ones spared previously.

Yeucan lifted a hand, a silent signal to those under him. As one, muskets at the front of the formation were shouldered and aimed. There were quiet clicks to accompany the hammers all being pulled back, the signal that the firearms were now ready to fire. Yeucan waited several seconds, allowed the dwarfs below to move a little more, made certain that all were within sight. His hand came down swiftly.

There was the sound of thunder, the scent of burnt powder and smoke. The muskets were fired as one. Then those at the front rank dropped to their knees and allowed those behind to aim over their heads. Yuecan shouldered his musket and aimed for one of the still-living dwarfs, lined the barrel with his hateful face at the same moment that that same dwarf looked up and met his eyes. There was nothing in his eyes other than utter hatred and scorn. Despite standing amidst dozens of dead and injured, this dwarf seemingly cared so little that he violently kicked aside a body that had knocked into him and was preventing him from raising his own weapon. Once freed, the dwarf lifted his firearm, a queer thing with the end of the barrel expanding out and into the shape of an Empire buisine.

Yeucan pulled the trigger of his musket before the dwarf could finish lifting the oversized muzzle. The dwarf stumbled back, blood exploding out through the back of his chest as the small metal bullet of Yeucan's musket punctured through first the armour, then the flesh, before repeating itself in the opposite order out through the other side. For five seconds, the dwarf stayed upright despite the injury, but then he collapsed, and the strange firearm fell from his now lax fingers.

There was another boom of thunderous sound when the dropped weapon discharged in spite of the lack of anybody pulling the trigger back. The result of the discharge wasn't a single accidental case of (un)friendly fire, instead not one but two of the dwarfs fell to the ground, with large scores of flesh shorn away by whatever it was which had been fired from the weapon. It wasn't a bullet, for no single bullet was capable of that.

The second rank of skinks fired at their chosen targets, which finished off the patrol. If any were still alive, they weren't in any condition to get up.

'What was that?' Yeucan asked aloud, still staring at the bodies that were caught by the dwarf weapon's discharge.

Iycan had a disturbed look to him, eyes both widened and narrowed in a strange paradoxical display. 'Dawi-Zharr blunderbuss. What a crude and horrifying weapon. I suppose it shan't surprise any that it would be a Chaos blighted people to use such a thing.'

Yeucan distantly recalled, back before the Legion had adopted the muskets as their go-to for skinks, those who had disagreed with the idea. Those like Major Mort. It had been argued that the black powder-driven weapons were too violent, that they did far more damage than was agreeable, and as such was borderline cruelty to those they fought and by using such weapons they'd be little better than Khornate blood spillers.

Just because they fought and killed, didn't mean they had to resort to causing more pain than was needed. It wasn't until it was proven by Major Sharpe'tus that when used properly by those who had trained with them, muskets could actually be less painful for the target than a javelin or bolt-spitter, and at a range that was often safer for the skinks in question. "Besides", Sharpe'tus had argued angrily, "who are we to talk about cruelty, when we coat our bolt-spitters in poison and when we use our teeth, which often causes infection to those that survive the fight? We used clubs that broke bones, that turned flesh into putty. And we wonder why we had to change to fit the young races' definition of civilised?"

It had been the argument which had seen Sharpe'tus promoted to head of the skirmishers, seen him placed as an equal to the likes of Major Mort and Major Zak.

However, if muskets had done damage in the same way as these "blunderbuss", then Yeucan got the feeling that those arguments against the black powder weapons would have won out, and instead of a musket, he'd have been using a bolt-spitter or javelins at that moment.

With a shake of his head to dispel the thoughts of what-if, he quickly gave a command to his cohort and watched as the red-coated skinks slid down the slope to the fallen Chaos dwarfs, whereupon they immediately set about stabbing each body with their bayonets, made absolutely certain that they were all dead and nobody was playing a part with the intention to arise and attack them from behind. While they did that, Yeucan cast the Helstorm an appraising look.

'Will we be able to get this down?' he wondered aloud.

Iycan eyed the slope. It was steep enough that climbing up would have been difficult even without dragging a heavy artillery battery behind. Going down, that could potentially be dangerous, as the force that kept pulling everything down to the ground would be trying to pull the artillery into the backs of whoever was trying to move it down. Or it would be trying to force the artillery out of the grips of those same if they tried to lower the helstorm from in front of them instead.

'I think our kroxigors can manage,' Iycan said, though he did turn a questioning gaze to the pair of kroxigors.

Toxte'zec huffed out a breath and leaned forward, examined the incline for himself. 'We can do it. It will be slow.'

As if to prove that they could indeed do it, he kicked the claws at the end of one foot at the rocky surface. His claws managed to gauge deeply into the rock, enough so that he was able to steady himself on the incline. It wouldn't be enough to also brace against the weight of the Helstorm, but his companion had, while Iycan and Yeucan were watching Toxte'zec, unravelled a length of rope and secured it to the Helstorm. Then, he pushed the Helstorm so that the front end—or whichever the firing end was meant to be—tipped over the edge that marked the end of level ground in favour of the slope. Toxte'zec braced himself against the Helstorm that now pushed against him, while at the level ground his fellow kroxigor pulled against the rope and helped ease the weight pushing against Texte'zec with a grunt.

'Able but slow.' Toxte'zec reaffirmed, and slowly took a step backward.

'Indeed,' Iycan agreed with eyes wide in surprise. 'You know, I am constantly taken by surprise when it comes to our kroxigor friends. I know they aren't stupid, but that was impressive problem-solving before I'd even started to think of how to solve it.'

Yeucan silently agreed. In combat, their strength was pretty well known—they swung whatever weapon was in hand with power enough that even a full-grown carnosaur would think twice. But as Yeucan had no interaction with them outside of battle, he wouldn't know just how smart they were. He supposed, privately, that the artisans and the builders would be more acquainted with that intellect and problem-solving ability as they often worked side-by-side with kroxigors. The partnership had to be for more than just the strength.

As Toxte'zec had predicted, lowering the Helstorm battery was slow. While they waited, the skinks all pushed the dwarf bodies aside and found a ledge nearby that dropped who knew how far down. It was an ignoble end fitting for any who willingly embraced the ruinous powers. Distantly, the odd barks of musket fire could be heard, echoing through the mountains.

No doubt Sharpe's Chosen were trying to cause mischief. Hopefully, their efforts had prevented anybody from hearing Yeucan's brief barely-skirmish.

Once the Helstorm was back upon level ground, everybody formed back up into the same formation which they had previously adopted while escorting the artillery battery and began to march anew.


*


Zihton hadn't been fighting as a member of the Outland Legion for much of his existence. It wasn't something he usually thought about: that he would come to spend more of his life away from the temple-city from which he had been spawned than within it. It was entirely possible he would never again see the bastion from which he came. He had been from one of the spawnings which had feathered crests in place of the fin normal to skinks, a trait which had instantly marked the spawning as destined to be shipped off to the Legion as soon as they were educated on the minimum requirements one needed to function within the alien lands so far from what should have been home.

Some days were easier than others. Getting used to wearing the clothing of the young races, that had been difficult. Those days had felt long and tiring. He was still ignorant as to just why all of the young races covered themselves so thoroughly. But he had gotten used to it, had now even reached the point where he prided himself on keeping his uniform looking clean and proper. Something about the red coat he wore gave a feeling of unity with the rest of the Legion. Well, with two-thirds of the Legion, because there were the older regiments who had stuck to older styles. And not just Major Mort's three regiments, those were the oldest three but not exclusive in their stubborn desire to cling to their past.

Today was a hard day. When Sergeant Yeucan'dewit had told Zihton and his squad that they, along with another squad of the regiment, were being tasked with an important mission, Zihton had just known that it was going to be one of those days. He had felt some sympathy for Yeucan, who had not taken well to the method of travel that had them safely deposited in the World's Edge Mountains. The ambush on the corrupted dwarfs had been swift and lethal, and the effects of the discharged blunderbuss had been an eye-opener.

That might have marked the first time that Zihton had been involved in a fight where the other side was using black powder weapons. The Legion had battled against such weapons in the past—Zihton did not doubt that. But it was the first time that Zihton had personally been involved in a battle where the other side used muskets or similar types of weapons.

It was equal measures exhilarating and terrifying. The Children of the Gods were resilient, even skinks were hardier than most young races. But that blunderbuss shot had been a warning that just because the lizardmen were hardy didn't mean they were invincible. Zihton didn't want to be shot by one of those things.

It was hard, but Zihton didn't complain as he followed behind Sergeant Yeucan. The ground didn't get any easier to traverse after that initial path. Calling it level would have been generous—it was bumpy and uneven and caused Zihton's ankles to ache in a way that had never happened even after hours of non-stop marching on a level plain. And the whole time, they had to keep their eyes open, keep a constant vigil because the mountains were not, and had never been the favoured domain of the Children of the Gods. Meanwhile, these Chaos dwarfs that had made themselves the enemy of the day, assuming that there was any similarity to their non-Chaos afflicted cousins, would be perfectly at home with such terrain.

Fortune seemed to favour them as they didn't encounter any more patrols. That or Sharpe's Chosen were doing a magnificent job of drawing the ire of their enemy. Maybe both.

Iycan eventually had them stop for a brief reprieve while he double-checked his map. 'It looks like we're almost there. Just another wegstunde.'

It took Zihton a couple of seconds to translate the Riekspiel measurement into a rough Saurian equivalent. Once he did so, his eyes rolled heavenward to silently beseech Sotek to deliver some form of mercy from one who apparently considered three and a half thousand metres to be minor enough to label as just another! Maybe on even ground he'd be right, but on the rugged mountains, those three and a half thousand metres would feel like twice that number.

'Colonel, that's definitely not a distance we can call "just another",' Yeucan said with a tone that Zihton could best describe as politely rude. It reminded Zihton of why Yeucan was the sergeant: he had certainly mastered diplomacy in tone of voice, to an extent that the rank and file had yet to manage.

Iycan huffed out an openly amused breath. 'Sergeant, it's about keeping positive. Just think to yourself, it's only three thousand metres, and not nine thousand.'

Behind Zihton, Toxte'zec rumbled a quiet 'Speaks truth.'

It wasn't so quiet that Iycan didn't hear. 'Would I speak anything but?'

'Isn't that your job?' Zihton asked before he could stop himself.

There were a fair few rumours about the exact nature of Colonel Iycan'ceya's purpose in the Legion. That he was the right hand of Marshal Ingwel'tonl was not in doubt. He was one of only two who had the power to openly disagree with the oldblood and have a hope of changing his mind from whichever path he had previously decided. But other than that, Iycan didn't seem to have a proper role within the Legion, which just meant that his role was one of secrecy. It was a source of much debate around the fire at night.

Iycan's eyes narrowed in silent laughter. 'Would you believe me if I said not?'

Zihton opened his mouth to reply, registered the question, and realised that no, he wouldn't. An answer would need to come from a source other than the root of the fire-gossip. Iycan's eyes narrowed further, now just barely open in the vaguest sense, the non-verbal laugh not letting up in the slightest.

Yeucan shook his head, for what reason Zihton couldn't quite discern. 'All right, all of you form up. Let's finish this.' He turned his head to peer at the Helstorm battery, still being hauled by the two kroxigors. 'While we march, colonel, do you mind sharing what we're hoping to do?'

Iycan sounded an affirmation and started to walk, leading the redcoats who had all formed up into a tight formation at the stern order.

Iycan started speaking, holding up the map he had been examining so intently. 'We had one of our scribes look at the fort and the pass from above'—from the back of a terradon no doubt, Zihton thought privately—'and he managed to spy an overlook with a view of the pass below.'

Zihton shared a look with the orange-scaled skink marching at his side. There was a moment of confusion that both felt deeply, but it was the orange-hued one who finally twisted his head to look at the colonel.

'We only have enough for two uses.'

It was hardly news, wasn't even an open secret as that would suggest that nobody was supposed to know even if everybody did know, it was something that the entire Legion had become aware of whilst lugging the battery along with them. When they had secured the Helstorm from the orcish camp, it had had enough munitions scavenged up for five uses. Three of those uses had been used up whilst the Legion had been traversing the Border Princes Peninsula, where the Empire's grip wasn't so keenly felt, and therefore they had felt less concern about firing off the Helstorm than they had since crossing north of the Black Mountains those two months ago.

Two barrages, even from a superior position, would not change the tide of this battle.

'Well,' Iycan began with a cheerful tone. 'We'll be making those two barrages count rather than wasting them. Which is why I'm here.'

Which was a roundabout way of saying that that the Right Hand of Ingwel'tonl had a plan—a plan that was not so simple as to simply launch rockets down at the fortress below. A plan that he was not going to share.

Not that it mattered as they were nearing their apparent destination. They would see what he had schemed soon enough. They just had to traverse three and a half thousand metres of rocky, uneven and less than direct mountainous terrain. Those three and a half thousand metres, unfortunately, still felt more akin to twice that number.

The monotony of the cumbersome march that wasn't quite a march was broken up after one thousand and seven hundred metres—give or take, Zihton was hardly counting. It was another patrol of those tainted dwarfs. Regrettably, this time it wasn't an encounter where the dwarfs were ignorant and had been spotted from a location of strategic superiority.

Quite the opposite. This time the only warning they had that the patrol was nearby was the first gunshot.

Zihton dove to the ground at the sound of black powder igniting, his musket hugged close and his eyes already scanning for the source of the gunshot. He was interrupted from that task when his eyes came to a rest upon two of his cohort, bodies mangled and torn through, unblinking eyes looking up at the noon sun.

Without thinking, Zihton dragged himself to the nearest of those two bodies and pressed his hand down upon one of those horrifying disfiguring wounds as though he would be able to stem the blood's flow and preserve a life that was already taken.

Another crack of a weapon echoed through the air. There was a scream. Zihton ignored that, pressed his forehead against the body of the fellow skink, silently uttering words that weren't truly words. Gave the last rite, because deep down, even though the timing was off, he knew the bodies couldn't be taken back for the proper rites. His body functioned without his mind's input because his mind was functioning almost on the will of another entity. His eyes shut. The air tasted foul, tangy, an almost coppery taste, but missing something that truly defined such a simple description. Exhaled, the outgoing air felt cold, chilly. His eyes opened at another gunshot, and his mind finally stopped its waking dream, to him to bring reality back to his sight.

There was a dark armoured figure on a ledge above the path that they had been traversing. The Chaos dwarf must have just fired, for he wasn't even aiming the blunderbuss in his hands, just waving it around like some deranged fanatic. Zihton hissed angrily and pulled his musket from where it had been pinned between his body and the ground. The hammer was pulled back, locking into the firing position with a satisfying click, and he lifted the muzzle of the weapon, pointed it at the dwarf and pulled back on the trigger.

The musket kicked into his shoulder, hadn't been braced properly and as a consequence, the edge of the stock stabbed into him. But he didn't care, just watched with grim satisfaction as the dwarf fell back with a stream of blood gushing from a newly opened hole in his neck.

A shout from the side had Zihton look, watch with panic as another of the corrupted dwarfs charged with a blade in hand toward where he lay. The blade was a nasty-looking thing, crafted not to kill but to inflict pain. No time to reload, and from his position on the floor Zihton couldn't move fast enough to avoid the fate coming toward him.

There was a crack from black powder igniting. The charging dwarf stumbled and fell to the ground. If he was dead or not, Zihton didn't know. When he craned his head around to find the source of the gunshot, he found Colonel Iycan'ceya, a pistol in one hand, a sabre in the other. The usual look of muted amusement was no longer in the purple-scaled skink's eyes. Instead, he now bore a steely glower.

Behind Iycan, another of the Chaos dwarfs charged, roaring a battle cry as he lifted a spiked maul ready to swing the instant he was within striking range. If the roar was supposed to be intimidating, it failed to have such an effect on Iycan, who twirled around and reposted the maul's heavy swing with a flick of the wrist, sabre dancing in his hand. The dwarf stumbled at the redirection of his blow but managed to correct his course and straighten himself. He sneered at Iycan, who gave an unimpressed snort and very deliberately returned the pistol to the holster at the small of his back, just above his tail. Even as he did so, his sabre was flicked into a guarded stance.

The dwarf seemed to be annoyed by the skink's apparent lack of respect. He roared again, but a gunshot sounded and the armoured figure fell with a strangled yelp, maul dropped in favour of clutching at his leg. He didn't have long to wallow in pain, Iycan lunged forward, sabre thrust forth so that the tip pierced through the gap between the dwarf's helmet and his breastplate. There was a gagging sound from behind the facially concealing helmet, and then stillness.

Sergeant Yeucan stepped into Zihton's view, already jabbing his ramrod into his musket while scanning the sight of the skirmish. There was a silence in the air, the kind that always came after the violence was over and done with. Still, Zihton warily scanned about him as he sat upright and began the process of reloading his weapon. Once upright, he was hit by the realisation of just how lethal that small skirmish had been. Of the thirty-one skinks to arrive on the mountain, seven had just had their lives violently torn away before they'd even truly had a chance to fight back.

'We can't linger too long.' Iycan's voice was void of his usual good-natured cheer, eyes were still steeled over. 'We're close enough to the fort that another patrol will have heard the gunfire.'

Iycan's eyes darted to Zihton, and he started to move toward him, sword finally returned to its sheath and his now freed hands were tugging at his silk cravat.

'You're hurt,' he murmured.

As if the observation had been a trigger, Zihton felt a sharp flare of pain in his leg. He bent his head to look, observed the grey wool of his breaches turn dark as his blood stained them. He must have just barely caught the edge of the blunderbuss blast. Iycan made a low, soothing sound and carefully wrapped his cravat around Zihton's thigh, binding the wound tightly.

'That'll do you until we get back to camp, hmm?' A ghost of the normal good nature leaked into Iycan's voice as he asked the rhetorical question. He held out a hand in silent offer, an offer Zihton accepted, grasped at the proffered grip and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

It hurt to put any weight on the leg. The exhilaration that Zihton had felt before? That was gone. Now the fear was starting to dominate with nothing to balance out the feeling. Any exhilaration was torn from him in the same way that his spawn-brother's skull fragments had been torn away from the rest of his body. He wondered, if his leg wasn't injured, would he be trying to break away from everybody else in the hopes of finding safety? It happened on occasion in battle that the stress would have some on either side just break and try to flee, would Zihton be one of those?

Sergeant Yeucan lunged forward abruptly, grabbed onto another skink's forearm with what was very visibly a tight, bruising grip. 'Hey, calm down. Relax, focus on me.'

The skink in question was unable to focus his eyes, was constantly looking everywhere and nowhere at once. But at the stern tone and order, the skink's shoulders slumped and he faced the sergeant with a shamed look to his eyes.

'Calm,' Yeucan reiterated. 'Listen to my voice and don't think about anything other than the words you hear.'

'Battle shock,' Iycan explained to Zihton with a sympathetic tone. 'First time?'

Zhiton nodded. It came out more frantically than he had intended, and he was distantly aware that his breathing was off, unsteady and coming out in short gasps.

Iycan continued to speak. 'Even we Children of the Gods aren't immune to such battle shock. Seeing kin die violently? It isn't something we should ever have to bear witness to. Especially not when so young.'

The comment at his age managed to momentarily startle Zihton from his mental prison of doubt and fear. His eyes narrowed at the colonel, who looked unimpressed with the dour look. Just because Zihton was only twenty summers did not make him too young to be a member of the Legion!

'I never said that.'

Oh, I spoke aloud, Zhiton felt his face scales darken.

Seeing that Yeucan had managed to calm the skink in his grip and taken place at the front of the group, Iycan grabbed onto Zihton, threw an arm over his shoulder and held him close. It took the younger skink a moment to realise that the purple skink was helping him to walk with his injured leg. As they walked, Iycan continued to speak.

'I was thirteen summers older than you when I first experienced a fight like this. I still wonder whether that was too young. There is a reason skink cohorts, even from our more traditional kin, are led by a skink with at least fifty summers and winters worth of experience.' Iycan shrugged. 'It's harder for us, we skinks aren't spawned with the same mind for violence that our saurus kin are, and even they can be victim to battle shock. They're resilient but not immune.'

'But you seem fine.' Zihton hated how weak his voice sounded, so quiet and pathetic.

'I've a lifetime spent learning how to be "fine" during and after a fight.' Iycan let a hollow chuckle escape. 'You would have joined the Legion last summer? Only recently earned your coat?'

Zihton nodded a shallow nod. 'I have fought, but this was… different.'

'This was the first time you were at the front, able to see what it is really like. Actually see kin that you know the name of, had shared meals with, be torn from this life. It is no longer distant, it is right there.' There was no judgement in Iycan's tone. 'Tell you what, when this is finished, you will talk to me, and you will tell me about them, who they were, what they liked.'

'You can get your neck-cloth back while at it.'

Iycan chuckled, eyes momentarily lowered to look at the silk cloth that had been turned into an improvised bandage. 'You can keep it. I have spares.'

Iycan looked up from the injured leg and scanned the way ahead of Yeucan, who had clearly made sure to set the marching speed with any injured in mind, as even supported by the colonel as Zihton was, they were still slower than the usual pace set and yet were keeping up with no problem. He must have recognised something, as he motioned at another skink, one who was uninjured and had them take his place in supporting Zihton. With one last reassuring look at Zihton, Iycan then jogged toward the front of the group.


*


Yeucan was glad when they finally reached their destination. It was a level plateau that had an impressive view down at the pass below. They even had a very clear view of the fort and its walls which were supposed to block passage from that same pass.

It was just too bad that the Elector Count of Stirland had never maintained a garrison in that fort's keep, if for no other reason than so that what was once a pass could be watched to ensure that its status as a former pass never transitioned back into being a usable pass. But again, it came back to the question of exactly how long ago this pass had gotten blocked up by landslides. Long enough ago that the nearby villagers had worded the history as "my old grand-papi used to say". If it pre-dated living human memory, then the sense of urgency would likely be gone from the distant ruler of this land.

Yeucan believed they were in Stirland, but it was close enough to the border with Sylvania that the only reason he wasn't assuming them to be there was the lack of superstitious and backwards thinking from the nearby villages. Sylvania was a miserable experience the last time the Legion had traversed those lands. Something in the air had been cloying and there was a constant feeling of decay to the land. And yes, Yeucan recalled the concerning number of pitchforks and lit torches being brandied about, even before the humans noticed lizardmen nearby. So, he was firmly of the belief that this pass was in Stirland and not Sylvania.

Iycan heaved a deep breath on seeing that they were finally there. 'Perfect, better than I had anticipated.' He twisted around and pointed to the edge that overlooked a sheer drop to the grounds far below. 'Set the Helstorm up there. Quickly now.'

Yeucan crossed his arms, and gave the colonel a pointed look. 'Are you going to finally share your great plan with us?'

Even as the words left his maw, Yeucan closed his eyes to brace himself for the retort his wording would earn him.

'I'm not that old,' Iycan huffed with offence. 'Nor do I have divine percipience. All I have is an educated guess and faith.'

'Faith just got seven of my cohort killed, colonel, forgive me my lack.' The words were dry, and not an apology.

'You are forgiven.' Thankfully, the older skink didn't have any sarcasm in his tone, as Yeucan wasn't certain how he would have reacted. No, Iycan instead sounded fully understanding, even if he was distracted by the two kroxigors setting up the Helstorm battery. 'The plan is that we are going to plug this pass again.'

Yeucan tilted his head, tried to discern the colonel's meaning. Iycan must have translated the silence accurately because he turned to look at the sergeant once again.

'As was pointed out earlier, we only have enough rockets for two uses of the Helstorm, so we are not going to be firing at the ruinous forces below. Instead…' He paused in his speaking to move to the now positioned but not yet armed Helstorm and pointed at the mountainous terrain on the opposite side of the pass. 'We force another landslide.'

Yeucan followed Iycan's finger. The mountain where he was gesturing didn't look stable. In fact it was probably a miracle that a strong gust of wind hadn't caused a landslide at any point over the past week. His eyes then turned to the Helstorm and finally, it dawned on Yeucan just what the purpose of this exercise was.

'You want to shoot the explosive rockets at the mountain itself.'

Iycan hummed in affirmation, finger lowered along with his gaze. 'And we need to do it soon.'

Almost against his better judgement, Yeucan leaned forward to look down at the pass below. They were high enough that he wasn't able to make out the detail of individuals, just large blobs as they moved in thick crowds. There were a lot of them, that much he could tell.

But it wasn't the warriors that drew his attention. It was the large contraption that wasn't quite able to squeeze past the gap in the stone wall that should have marked the end of what would have been a canyon but for the efforts to dig through. It wasn't yet able to fit, but it wasn't so drastically oversized compared to the opening that Yeucan would have said it wasn't going to happen sooner rather than later.

'That is a hellcannon.' Iycan grunted. 'And I would dearly like it crushed beneath the mountain before it fires at us, or at those of us still keeping them that side of the fort.'

Yeucan nodded in silent agreement. He faced the kroxigors, took note that they'd placed upon the ground the large crates they'd been carrying the entire time and opened them to reveal the stock of rockets that the Legion had for the Helstorm.

'Start loading the artillery,' he ordered and then looked again at Iycan. 'How are we leaving?'

'We have two barrages.' Iycan started, seemingly ignoring the question. 'One for that side of the pass, and another for this side. After the first, they will know not just that we're here, but that we are here. But, it will also be a signal to our terradons. They'll come to pick us up and while we wait, we turn the Helstorm and aim up.'

If there is mercy to be had in the world, Yeucan thought to himself, then these Chaos-twisted dwarfs don't have any gyrocopters.

The two kroxigors were fast at loading nine rockets onto the firing tubes. Yeucan briefly wondered if they'd been the ones to arm and use the artillery battery the previous three uses it had gotten. It was only a brief thought as he quickly dismissed it as unimportant.

'Weapon ready,' Toxte'zec rumbled.

Iycan released a breath and moved to the artillery battery, pressed himself close to Toxte'zec where he quietly relayed instructions which had the two kroxigor shifting the weapon in small inch-by-inch movements as the colonel tried to get the weapon as accurate as it was going to be.

It was probably a good thing they weren't looking to hit a small target but a chunk of mountain, experience warned that the Helstorm was… not… the most accurate weapon that the Empire had ever devised. But when hitting a large area through nine explosive rockets? Yeucan had a feeling that the mountain would come out the loser of that match-up.

'Firing in ten.' Iycan shouted out in warning.

Yeucan counted down in his head, and once he hit zero, Iycan slammed down on the primer.

The rocket battery released the nine rockets, which shot forth with a loud screeching sound, trailing smoke behind them as if a taunt to any foes that yes, they came from there, dare anybody try to stop a repeat performance?

It was not a pleasant sound. But the explosions as the rockets hit the mountainside? Music to Yeucan's ears. Especially so when coupled with the rumbling as the weakened rock and stone began to crack and fragments slid and fell, and with each bit of rock that fell, the support for the targeted overhang weakened, more cracks, more discarded rock, until eventually the downward force of the world finally had a firm enough grip to forcefully yank, and with that, it became an avalanche but without snow.

There were screams from the pass below. The Chaos dwarfs were clearly not so far removed from reality by the ruinous touch as to not feel fear. Or else they were screaming in impotent rage.

Iycan gave a whoop. 'Let's turn this around. Texte'zec, start loading the last of our rockets.'

Yeucan wondered whether it was overkill at that point. They'd already just buried the ruinous forces beneath rock and debris. Then his eyes rested upon those of his cohort who had been injured in the previous attack and he decided that no, it was not overkill to cause a second landslide.

There was a shout and the retort of a gun. Yeucan felt pain as a large chunk of his left shoulder was torn away by whatever it was that those Chaos dwarfs were firing. He would have clutched at the injury, but his right hand was still occupied with holding his musket.

But he wasn't the only one hit. In fact, he wasn't the target.

Toxte'zec roared the kind of roar that only came from serious injury and he slumped, one arm hanging limply, shoulder missing two-thirds of what made it a shoulder. By some miracle, the rockets weren't damaged, or if they were it wasn't enough to set them off.

Yeucan spotted the source of the gunshot. A dozen angry Chaos dwarfs were charging toward them. One had discarded his blunderbuss. Another was in the process of lifting his own blunderbuss so that the muzzle was pointed toward the Helstorm and the still uninjured kroxigor behind it. He was interrupted when the more familiar bark of the Legion's muskets beat him to the act. The dwarf stumbled, three bloodied holes now punctured into his armour while on either side of him, his comrades fell, blood slowly pooling out under their prone bodies.

Yeucan grunted, found that despite his efforts he was unable to move his left arm to steady his musket. With a grimace as the pain in his shoulder flared, he adjusted his grip on his weapon, held it closer to its middle and tucked the rear end beneath his armpit. The first of the surviving dwarfs reached him, so Yeucan twisted his torso while dropping to one knee. The bayonet punctured into the breast of the deformed dwarf, possibly where his heart lay if Chaos-mutated dwarfs even had hearts.

He yanked the weapon back, readjusted his grip and was immediately forced to lift it in an attempt to block, or parry, a maul coming for his head. The maul connected with the musket and shattered the wood while bending the metal barrel beyond repair. On the upside, Yeucan's head was spared.

The maul-waving dwarf sneered, or at least Yeucan assumed the sound which came from behind the helmet was a sneer—it was more likely than what he thought the sound actually reminded him of, which was that of a cattle beast with sniffles. The dwarf lifted his maul, and without a means to protect himself, Yeucan had a feeling that he might not survive.

Another musket gunshot was heard. The dwarf didn't flinch or give any sign that he had been shot, but he did pause and twist his head to peer off to one side. Maybe he had noticed who had been the victim of the gunshot. It didn't matter though, it gave Yeucan the opening he needed to leap back to his feet and then throw himself forward, body-checking the armoured dwarf with enough force to knock him prone. There was a barrage of filthy language from behind the helmet, along with a surprising number of statements regarding Yeucan's non-existent mother and her profession in the entertainment industry.

Ignoring the vulgarity, Yeucan dove for the remains of his musket and grabbed at the bayonet, twisting it around and then tugging it free of the muzzle. It wasn't much, but he was armed again. No longer felt helpless, even if with his injured arm he probably still was.

The dwarf started to pick himself up, and Yeucan did not want him getting back to his feet. The skink lunged forward and stabbed his bayonet at the dwarf. The blade didn't manage to puncture the armour but instead slid across the black metal until it finally slipped into a seam between thigh and pelvis. The dwarf screamed and wrapped his hands around Yeucan's throat and then squeezed.

Yeucan gagged but refused to release his grip on his blade, pulled it partway out of the dwarf's flesh and then slammed it back. The clamped fingers about his throat twitched but didn't ease up. Yeucan repeated the effort twice, feeling desperate as his air-starved lungs cried for a breath to be taken.

The dwarf was finally forced to release his grip when another skink thrust his musket into him, stabbing the bayonet through the armour thanks to the extra power afforded by the running thrust. The dwarf seemed to forget about Yeucan, chose to focus instead on the new skink, who in turn twisted the musket—twisted the bayonet blade pierced into flesh—and then pulled the trigger.

The dwarf fell, gargling sounds emitting from his helmet, but otherwise still and silent. Yeucan's saviour grabbed onto his forearm and pulled him to his feet. Yeucan managed to avoid the shout of pain, despite the arm in question being his injured arm.

'We need to go, sergeant.' Zihton's voice was just barely heard through the shrill ringing that seemed to have overtaken Yeucan's hearing.

Yeucan allowed the younger skink to guide him, and didn't complain that Zihton was leaning against him heavily, vaguely recalled that he was the one with the injured leg. That he'd managed to fight the pain to rush forth and save Yeucan was worthy of any compliments that Yeucan would be able to give, once the ringing in his ears finally faded.

At some point, the terradons and their carried carts had arrived and were waiting for their passengers to board. Iycan was still by the Helstorm which was now pointed to the mountain above them. The look in Iycan's eyes said that the only reason he hadn't fired was because he was waiting for everybody to be ready to go as soon as he had started to run for one of the carts.

Toxte'zec, one arm hanging useless, used his good arm to help lift Yeucan and Zihton into the cart. 'All in,' the kroxigor shouted.

Iycan shouted something in return. Yeucan didn't hear what the exact words were, but a moment later, the Helstorm unleashed its barrage. Iycan didn't wait for them to reach their intended destination—he charged to the nearest terradon-powered cart and leapt in.

The terradon's riders likewise didn't wait. Once Iycan was safely in the cart, the winged reptiles were set to fly up and away from the rapidly forming landslide.


*


Three hours later, Ingwel'tonl listened to Iycan'ceya's report, even as he eyed the usually impeccable-looking skink with vague amusement. Iycan was missing his cravat, his silk waistcoat was dirty, and one of the sleeves of his shirt was torn.

It wouldn't have been nearly so amusing to behold if Iycan had actually been injured, unlike a third of the skinks and one of the kroxigors that had accompanied him. The healers had mentioned that the kroxigor Toxte'zec had lost all use in his arm and it had been removed to spare both pain and possible infection. Lizardmen had a good resilience to disease and infection, but the nature of the injury that had torn so much of the crocodilian's flesh from his shoulder? It had been better safe than sorry.

'And as you can see,' Iycan waved a hand toward the fort, or what had once been a fort, before the majority of its walls were crushed and smashed by the twin rockslides. 'We even managed to sort out your siege for you.'

'Oh yes, quite thoroughly.' Ingwel chuckled. 'But now if the Empire wants to repopulate the keep, they'll need to first rebuild it.'

'They can improve it,' Iycan waved a hand dismissively. 'And if they don't take care of their property, being broken is probably the safer fate to befall their discarded waste.'

Around them, the camp was being packed, wagons and carts hitched to whichever beasts were designated for the purposes. Ingwel's own wagon had been latched to the back of a stegadon, which seemed to sense his attentions and huffed at him.

'Incoming.' The shout came from a green uniformed member of the skirmishers. 'Empire, Stirland colours.'

'Ah, it seems the locals finally caught up.' Ingwel crossed his arms and turned to face the approaching human force and on seeing how far out they still were, walked forward to meet them part way.

It was hardly a quick stroll, the skink who had been on watch duty had alerted them the moment he had spotted them, which meant they were still a fair ways away. But Ingwel didn't complain about that, it gave his Legion time to finish packing everything away. Behind him, Iycan had fallen into his usual place at Ingwel's side, but just far enough behind to make sure it was understood that Ingwel was the one in charge.

The Stirland force slowed as they neared, and eventually came to a stop within yards of the two lizardmen. There was a quiet that lasted a full minute as the humans all examined the pair, as well as the remains of the camp. Finally, a moustached human with a feathered helmet dismounted his horse and approached Ingwel.

The oldblood noted that the human's hand did not leave the grip of the pistol at his hip.

'I am Leopold Ganzfried, captain of Stirland and acting on the authority of Count Haupt-Anddersen. Who are you, and what is your business?' The human's tone made it clear that he wasn't certain that he should actually be speaking, that he was humouring somebody.

'Captain Ganzfried, I am Marshal Ingwel'tonl of the Outland Legion.' Ingwel raised a hand in a respectful salute. 'Our business was warding off a war band that had opened up that pass through the World's Edge.'

'There is no pass around these parts.' Ganzfried snorted, though his brow creased in thought. 'Though I do recall tales, and that fort must have had a purpose at some point.'

'If your Sigmar has any mercy, there won't be a pass again for a lifetime or two after what we've done,' Iycan spoke softly.

Ganzfried huffed, clearly having heard the skink's words. 'You say a war band tried to enter Stirland?'

'Mostly Dawi-Zharr.' Iycan nodded, and started to speak in place of Ingwel. 'But there was at least one Tzeenchian sorcerer, so you might want to keep a vigil on the area. They should all be dead and buried, but some dwarfs were moving on the mountain itself, so there might be a few to have escaped the rockslide.'

The human captain examined the pair with a continued suspicious look. 'What is your purpose here, Lustrians? I am aware of your kind killing Empire citizens on the shores of Lustria.'

Ingwel and Iycan shared a look, silent communication passing through small movements of their eyes alone, and then Iycan looked again at the human captain. 'We don't know much about what is happening on Lustria and certainly can't speak for those involved. We aren't our cousins any more than you happen to be Brettonian.'

Something about the comment had Captain Ganzfried taken aback. Another minute passed and finally, his hand lowered from the pistol. 'You called yourself the "Outland Legion"?'

Ingwel nodded. 'That is what we are known as.' The name that they had adopted, that had become their cultural identity more so than the temple-city which had spawned them, or the isle of Madrigal from which they hailed.

'I've heard of you before. And I'm not referring to the villagers in Daxweiler singing your praise. You were in the peninsula of the Border Princes four months back, were you not?'

Ingwel nodded. It was true and he had no reason to hide it.

'So, you're mercenaries. Ones paid in rumours, and materials.'

Iycan's eyes narrowed in a smile. 'More useful to us than your coin, most shops don't react well to an eight-foot-tall reptile asking for goods and wares.'

A huff that could have been an aborted chuckle escaped the human. 'So, what are you charging for this effort to stop a Chaos dwarf invasion into the Empire?'

'Nothing. This one was on us,' Ingwel rumbled.

The human tilted his head, conveyed his disbelieving confusion. 'Really now?'

'It is done. If you approached first, then we would talk about pay. For now, consider this one to be an act of goodwill to our hosts in this land.'

There was another silence, wherein the captain was clearly trying to decide how he should be reacting. If he had originally intended to go the route of violence then he was wisely reluctant now that he could see the size of the Legion behind Ingwel. He was now in a position where he had to decide how to react, what stance he should be taking with a large mercenary band within the lands he was sworn to protect. He was acting with authority from his count, so he certainly didn't want to make a wrong choice.

'Where are you headed next?'

Ingwel hummed, made a show of thinking. Had to make a show of it, he had learnt long ago that the young races couldn't read his expressions at all, so any time he interacted with them he had to exaggerate. If it also made the human think him duller of mind and therefore more likely to relax from a misplaced sense of superiority, then so much the better. Ingwel could work with being underestimated.

'We'd prefer to avoid entering Sylvania, so west and north to either Middenland or Hochland.' Again it was honesty, even if the captain might have preferred to hear that they were not headed deeper into Stirland's territory.

Ganzfried absently ran a thumb along the length of his moustache. 'I see.' Another pause where he no doubt silently cursed his current position. He was ranked as captain, not general, so he must have felt a little overwhelmed at a mass number of mercenaries all of a foreign race. 'You may go about your business then. But we will have eyes watching you.'

Ingwel raised his hand in a respectful gesture toward the captain. No need to offend, the man was confused at the Legion's presence, so a respectful nod and a salute always seemed to go a long way toward easing any of the hostility borne of not knowing.

'Legion,' he bellowed, projected his voice so that all would hear. 'Fall in.'

The reaction was instantaneous. All regiments moved seamlessly into their formations, ranked and filed in an orderly manner that any empire officer would weep in joy to have been responsible for. Ingwel had them stand like that for a moment, his eyes roving back and forth and then turned to look at the wagons and carts, all hitched to either stegadons or aggradons. In the hour since Iycan and the skinks and kroxigors that he had taken to the mountains had returned, everything had been packed away and was ready to go.

'Captain Ganzfried, happy hunting with any lingering Chaos dwarfs,' Ingwel called out to the human, before he then looked back to his command. 'Outland Legion, move out.'

At his order, the Legion began to march, eyes forward. Unlike the formation, the march wasn't quite so perfect to human standards. It was not with each footfall perfectly in sync with those in the same row. But they all managed to keep their pace close enough that the general shape of the formation wasn't broken, and for Ingwel, that was good enough.

There was only so far he needed to conform. Formations: they had importance, even in the field of battle. Parade marching: that didn't do any real favours for his saurus and skinks. So long as the general shape of the formation remained, that was all he asked.

By his side, Iycan waited for Ingwel to start moving, and once he did, the skink matched his pace with the ease of familiarity. 'That went better than well. Nobody even fired a shot in a panic this time.'

Ingwel chuffed in amusement. 'I wonder whether the tales of us are starting to become widespread. He actually recognised the name Outland Legion.'

Iycan hummed, though whether in agreement or not, Ingwel didn't know. After a minute, the skink turned his head to the nearest column of saurus. 'Hey, drummers, let's have a marching beat.'

The saurus within the formation who carried the drums started to drum out a rhythm which had started to become the default whilst the Legion was on the march. Unbidden, drummers from the other columns joined in. Ingwel glanced back at the human army and saw that General Ganzfried was still watching.

'Come on—let's show these humans that we aren't uncivilised brutes. Put some words to the music.'

He didn't have to wait long. There was a momentary pause, but Ingwel had a feeling it was more about waiting to match the beat of the drums than any reluctance. After that five-second pause, a voice rose up, one that Ingwel recognised as Major Sharpe'tus. By the time Sharpe had finished the first line, the rest of the Legion was joining with the unofficial anthem.

'When shadows creep across the land,

I'll neither falter nor stay my hand.

To battle, I'll stride, come what may,

Over the hills and far away.

O'er the hills and o'er the main,

Past Bretton, Karak, and Reik's domain.

Annat'corri's word, our guiding ray,

Over the hills and far away.'

 

Naturally. Who wouldn't be a fan of the one character who can survive being played by Sean Bean? And not just in one film but an entire series of them?

 

Reinforcements and Chats​

The Old World - Marienburg
—

Marienburg was one of the wealthiest cities of the Old World. A vast trading hub, one of—if not the—largest in the world. Maybe in the Far East of the world, within Grand Cathay or Nippon, there might be a trading hub of a larger scale, but to the denizens of the Old World—be they of the Imperial provinces, Bretonnia or Kislev—Marienburg was as big as it got.

One of the quirks of being such a successful international trading hub was the people who came to the city, be they future inhabitants, merchants and traders, or those who were just passing through. Elves and dwarfs were not an uncommon sight. Halflings were just another sight so common as to barely get noticed, in much the same way that the colour of the paving was so mundane as to not even register in the collective consciousness.

But, there were the occasional visitors who did indeed raise a few eyebrows. In most other cities, those within the Empire, reactions might be a touch more extreme. But in Marienburg, those raised eyebrows were it, and after those few moments where the eyes beneath those eyebrows drank in the unusual sight, those brows lowered and the owners went back to their business. So long as these unusual visitors didn't cause trouble then it wasn't their problem.

Only in Marienburg.

One such visitor was in the midst of arguing with a middle-aged human. The human's face was a blotchy red—his furrowed brows indicated that said redness was anger and not embarrassment. He also had a penchant for jabbing his finger into the chest of the one he was arguing with. Which was an impressive feat of bravery, considering he was jabbing a chest that was higher than eye level.

The other side of the argument was a large grass-green reptilian figure that was stood on two legs. It stood tall at roughly eight and a half feet, and was garbed in dark breaches, a crimson tunic and a brown surcoat made from leather that reached its knees, the front worn open. If there was any expression on its face, the average street-goer could not tell. It was clear that the creature's face wasn't built for expressiveness.

The only thing that gave away any sense of annoyance that the reptilian was feeling was the way its left hand kept twitching toward the hilt of the zweihänder slung across its back. It was an impressive blade that a human might struggle to use. For a being with an extra two and a half feet over most humans, it was to the lizard what a normal zweihänder was to the average Empire doppelsöldner.

'----my men in Lustria.' The human finished his tirade.

The lizard didn't react right away, seemed to wait instead for a continuation of the rant. When none was forthcoming, it tilted its head and let out a slow gust of air from its nostrils.

'Are you done?' it asked in ever so slightly accented Reikspiel. The human puffed up and opened his mouth but he was cut off by a sharp hiss. 'I have never been to Lustria, so I could not have taken part in any ambush in Lustria.'

'You damned liar!' the human roared, momentarily catching the attention of the rest of the street. 'Your ilk comes from that wretched land!'

'I am not my cousins any more than you are a Kislevite, human.' The lizard finally emoted annoyance in the form of narrowed eyes and head tilted just so. 'I've never seen the land of Lustria, never set foot there, and have no business there. And I will not apologise for my cousins' actions.'

The human's red face turned a darker shade, and his hand went to the sword at his hip. He wasn't able to start pulling it free of its scabbard though, before the distinctive clicking of a flintlock's hammer being pulled back reached his ears. The lizardman in front of him likewise paused, hand now rested on the hilt of his greatsword. Both turned their heads to the source of the sound.

It was a smaller lizardman, this one a yellow hue with a scarlet banding around its snout. It was garbed in a red coat and grey breaches. Pressed against its shoulder was the stock of a musket. The click had been the hammer of said musket being very deliberately pulled back into the ready position. The muzzle was pointed at the human, nowhere that would be fatal should the trigger be pulled, but the human was likely to live the rest of his life with a severe limp should the musket fire.

'Leave,' the smaller lizard hissed. Unlike the larger reptile, this one while also speaking in Reikspiel had a thicker accent, though the single word uttered was still perfectly understandable.

The human hesitated, eyes fixed upon the flintlock in the smaller lizard's hands. 'Since when…?'

'Long enough.' The larger reptile still projected its annoyance in its tone, though it had relaxed its posture. While the human couldn't see it, the saurus was amused. The reaction to us using muskets never gets old, the saurus mused before speaking up. 'Best you do as the skink says. He'll be less inclined to put up with you than I am.'

The human seemed to war with his desires versus common sense. Eventually, it turned out that common sense was indeed a common commodity, for he let out a loud curse but twisted around and stormed off regardless. The skink kept the musket trained on his retreating figure until he vanished around a street corner.

The larger reptile lowered his arms, crossed them over his chest in a very human gesture, eyes clouded in consternation. 'That's the third time somebody has confronted me over whatever is going on in Lustria.'

The smaller lizard didn't overtly react, other than to carefully push the hammer of the musket back into a safe state, after which he then rested the weapon upon his shoulder, muzzle aimed skyward. The skink's eyes constantly moved side-to-side, repeatedly scanning the street non-stop. The saurus cast a side-eyed look at the silent skink with eyes narrowed in annoyance then let out a breath.

'Relax,' the Saurus said with a rumble.

The skink snorted lightly and finally eased up from its rigid stance, though there was still a stiffness which had nothing to do with posture.

'Not adapting well?' the saurus asked.

The skink tilted his head, seemed to consider the answer before replying with a small 'No.'

The saurus let out a breath of air through his nostrils and started to walk down the street, trusted that the smaller reptile would follow. He was accurate in his prediction, the skink followed, to the side and just slightly behind, a position of respectful deference.

'You make it look easy.' The skink's voice was plain, almost a monotone to any human ear that might listen, but to the saurus, he could hear the undertones that suggested the skink was annoyed with himself.

'I'm not the one to measure against when it comes to acting as we do.' The saurus huffed in bemusement. 'What is the problem? Usually your ilk have an easier time adapting than saurus.'

The skink gave a vague gesture of uncertainty. 'Acting like the warmbloods feels… wrong.' The hand not holding the musket at rest came up and almost physically deterred the saurus from speaking. 'I am aware of why we're doing it, but each summer has more of us acting the part even among ourselves.'

The saurus gave a sympathetic hum, aware that it was a human habit he'd picked up from his centuries of travelling the lands of the young race and incidentally fuelling the skink's point, as their conversation was between the two of them with no human involvement. They were both still speaking in Reikspiel, though that was more due to a strong recommendation to do so on the occasions that any member of the Outland Legion were actually within a human settlement—speaking in tongues that the locals couldn't understand seemed to upset those same locals, even when they had no intention of listening in.

'Would you like to be transferred to Major Mort's regiments?' the saurus asked instead of trying to defend those who had started to have a hard time switching from playing the part they'd been given. He couldn't fault those with that problem when he himself was the worst offender.

The skink tilted his head inquisitively, seemed to consider the offer. Mort was the oldblood with command over the regiments collectively known as the Full-Blood Regiments, the ones who had first formed as part of the then yet-to-be Outland Legion. As a badge of pride, they still used uniforms based on the Legion's earliest experiments with garbing themselves, just a simple tunic with a breastplate and an armoured skirt.

Over time the Legion had picked up and experimented with different clothing and armour options before eventually settling for the red coat worn over grey breaches, shirt and waistcoat that over two-thirds of the Legion now used as the uniform. Though there were some variations between the different regiments, it was mostly in the style of the red coats. The rationale behind that chosen design had been that it looked suitably impressive for clients, almost noble in appearance—the only giveaway that they weren't from a noble's wardrobe was that they had been made from woollen fabrics over the silks and cottons of nobility.

Nobles of the imperial provinces looked favourably upon the uniform and saw it as being proof of the "civility" of the Outland Legion and those serving within. Those lower on the imperial social ladder saw the uniforms as proof of professionalism, that the Legion was an organised outfit with its own identity and standards to be upheld.

'Mort and his regiments don't often interact with the clients. You won't have to act so often,' the saurus explained.

The skink looked at the musket nestled in his arm, clearly indecisive. The saurus understood. A lot of the skinks had taken to using the black powder weapons after the Legion had started to embrace them. However, under Mort, as well as changing to the older uniform, all skinks under his command only used either sword or spear. It was playing to Mort's strengths, the oldblood was well versed in turning his forces into a solid wall that none could pass without far more blood spilt than most considered it worth. More than one orcish mob had learnt the hard way that Mort's phalanx broke for nothing.

'Just think about it, it's your choice.' The saurus reassured the skink. 'If you want to go to Fortis Regiment, I'll put in a word with the major.'

'I thought you didn't like Mort?' The skink changed the subject.

'Doesn't mean I can't work with him.' The saurus very deliberately didn't let any feeling into his tone, hid it so well that he doubted even the skink would pick it up. The clash of personality with the other oldblood was something he'd much prefer to keep private.

There was a momentary pause. 'Thank you.'

'It's fine. We're outside of comfort as it is, need to make sure we get whatever ease we can. If I can help, I'll do what I can.' As the saurus spoke, his eyes lifted to the sky, observed the sun and took note of its position. 'Hmm, almost late.'

Despite his words, he paused at a merchant's stall, eyed a particular article displayed for sale. After a moment of clear deliberation, he fished about his person and eventually found a silver shilling which he handed to the merchant while pointing at a bag of small white orbs. Once the pair of lizardmen were walking once more, the saurus tipped one of the orbs into his palm and then deposited that same orb into his maw.

'What's that?' the skink asked, confused. The confusion was understandable, for it didn't look like any food, even by human definitions.

'They're called mints. The humans are convinced that they ease stomach pains.'

'Do they?' the skink asked curiously.

'Haven't tried. But they have an intriguing taste.' As the saurus spoke, he tilted the bag in silent offer.

A handful of moments later, the skink teased one of the white orbs from the coarse fabric of the bag and slid it between his teeth. Moments later, the skink's eyes were widened and he looked as though he couldn't tell whether to spit the mint out or endure.

'How do they turn coldness into a taste?' the skink asked after swallowing.

'Not a clue,' the saurus answered while rolling the mint about his mouth with his tongue, relishing in the clicking sound as the little orb occasionally connected with his teeth. 'As I said, intriguing taste.'

As he spoke, the pair turned from the street and to the Marienburg docks. It was cluttered, busy with dockhands all working their day away. In the waters at the edge of where the Manaansport Sea turned into the waters of the River Reik, a large sea vessel was making its approach, the bow of the craft pointed such that it was coming to the south dock.

The ship was noteworthy in its appearance. At a passing glance, it was comparable in size and shape to a trade ship as was so often seen taking up space at Marienburg's docks. A closer look would give pause, for while it appeared the ship was crafted from wood planks, as was the norm, a close eye would show that the planks were built upon a base of stone. Above the water lever, the pretence seemed to fade, and instead of being covered by wood, the builder had instead decorated the ship with a layer of volcano glass in intricate patterns.

It was almost like somebody had once seen the ships of Marienburg, but not understood why the design had been made as it had. Inexplicably though, this vessel defied expectation and was sea-worthy. This also was not an isolated case, for some of the more experienced dock workers who had been working those docks for the past two decades? They recalled that same ship, for this marked the third time it had berthed itself in Marienburg's dock.

The two lizardmen watched the ship pull alongside the dock and begin the process of lowering sails, sidling adjacent to the wooden planks of the dock. A pair of kroxigors were visible upon the deck, waiting to lower the long boarding plank. Once the vessel was utterly still, the ramp was lowered and the two crocodilians moved aside to make way for a skink in a lavish cobalt blue coat. The skink stepped off from the ship, orange eyes already meeting an important-looking human with greyed hair who was rapidly approaching.

'Dockmaster Schiffer,' the skink called out with a voice of good cheer and familiarity. 'Still ruling over your little fiefdom?'

The human's expression didn't change from the severity that had been etched on it even before the skink had called out with such familiarity. 'Captain Horeo.' His voice, like his expression, was akin to a sort of disapproval that one imagined upon the face of a particularly tired parent. The dockmaster held out a hand expectantly, the other clutching at a little leather-bound book.

The skink, Captain Horeo, made an exaggerated put-upon motion, eyes rolled skyward and an over-the-top huff, but didn't vocalise any complaints as he reached a hand to the inside of his heavy coat and pulled out a small pouch which jingled with each motion. He rested it upon the human's waiting hand.

'That should cover it, as usual.' The skink's tone was still friendly, borderline carefree, but an undertone of iron had emerged, a wordless warning not to try and change the rules on him. 'Bleeding me dry, Schiffer.'

Schiffer weighed the pouch in his hand for a handful of seconds, then gave a satisfied nod, deposited the pouch somewhere about his person and then plucked a quill from where it had been stowed behind his ear and scratched out a few words into his little book.

'Welcome to Marienburg, Captain Horeo. Enjoy your stay and may it prove most profitable for you.' Despite the words, the tone was still bland and full of disapproving sternness, as though he doubted the validity of his own worded hope.

'A pleasure, dockmaster.' Horeo didn't ease on the friendly tone but the iron underscore did fade. If anybody didn't know Horeo, they would think he was being utterly sincere. The saurus who had been watching the scene with some faint amusement? He knew the red-scaled skink.

Horeo noticed both the saurus and the skink that had been watching, made an exaggerated show of spotting them and approached, a hand held out. The saurus extended his arm in turn and the pair clasped the other's forearms in a show of camaraderie.

'Colonel Solin, it is a pleasure to be able to see you once more.'

The saurus, Solin, gave a slight bow of the head. 'And the same to you, friend.'

Horeo cast in intrigued eye at the red-coated skink with a sound of acknowledgement. 'Kin.' He then tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. 'Coadmit, correct?'

The skink started in surprise. 'You recognise me, captain?'

Horeo waved a hand in a dismissive motion and turned to face his ship. 'It might come as a surprise, but I remember every saurus, skink and kroxigor I transport to the Legion.' The captain paused a moment, and then pulled a rolled up parchment from within his coat. 'But enough reminiscing, you are here to pick up this summer's batch of new blood, hmm?'

Solin made a sound of affirmation, which Horeo heard. In return, Horeo called out to the deck of his ship, where another, similarly dressed skink waved down at him and then disappeared from sight.

'So, what do we have this time?' Solin asked.

'I'm getting there, I'm getting there.' Horeo huffed as though annoyed at the apparent impatience, though his tone remained light and Solin couldn't make out any trace of actual annoyance.

From the deck of the ship, there was the sound of a raised voice barking out orders. It took two minutes before there came the thudding of multiple footsteps. From the deck of the ship and down the boarding ramp came a large number of Children of the Gods. Skinks, saurus, and kroxigor came marching until they formed a trio of loose formations.

Half of the citizens and workers on the docks paused in their activities to watch the strange show of lizardmen disembarking the already strange vessel. The only ones who didn't give even a second glance were those who had seen this before, three summers ago when this same event had happened last. Well, the last time that it happened in Marienburg, Solin snorted at his mental self-correction. Usually, they didn't get the luxury of having actual docks for the procession that was occurring.

Solin stopped himself from shaking his head when he saw his kin, still clad in the traditional garb of crude-looking—to young race eyes at least—armour, feathers and in a couple of cases a cut of fabric that almost looked like a loincloth.

Once it appeared that everybody had gathered up, Captain Horeo unrolled his parchment. 'We have here… skinks. Sixty of them.'

Once he spoke the number, Horeo lifted his eyes and looked to the gathering of skinks, silently counting out as though to double-check that they were all there and accounted for.

Solin also counted. His eyes narrowed as he noted a discrepancy, but held his tongue for the moment to let Horeo finish. He also noted that the skinks in question had all been spawned destined for life in the Legion. Instead of the typical fin-like crest so often seen on skinks, these had all spawned with natural feathers decorating their crests. Marshal Ingwel had a name for the apparent mutation: raptor-skinks. Fitting, they did share that look with the feral wildlife back home.

'Saurus, forty.'

Again Horeo paused to quickly count and fact check. This time, Solin's own count was exactly as was recited. Nothing to note about the appearance, no mutation, these were simply saurus who had been selected or had volunteered, depending on how advanced the geas was in each case. At least a few had that look to them that suggested the geas was starting to wear off.

'Skink artisans and crafters, seventeen.'—Pause—'Kroxigors, seven.'

Horeo paused again. This latest pause was longer than was needed to count out what was very clearly only seven kroxigors, and then he lowered the scroll and gave Solin a look that the saurus was vaguely able to identify as sympathetic.

'And one skink priest to become the new major.'

Solin was barely able to hear the sharp intake of breath from Sergeant Coadmit. He was too busy taking a step back as though recoiling from a blow to his breast. It took thirty, maybe forty seconds before he was able to shake a fogged haze from his mind, and then his eyes zeroed in what had to be the skink priest in question.

The skink was turquois in colour, and wearing what Solin was now able to remember as being the traditional garb for a skink who had been touched by the Old Ones and gifted with the ability to manipulate the winds of magic. He was also the only skink of this batch to have the standard fin-crest. The priest appeared uncomfortable at the oldblood staring at him, for he shifted awkwardly and averted his eyes as though by not seeing Solin then Solin wouldn't be able to stare at him.

'You knew this was coming,' Horeo said, though he had softened his voice as low as he could and still be heard by Solin. That to go to that low a volume required shifting his words to Saurian rather than Reikspiel was an indicator of seriousness, for Horeo, like Solin, was one of those who had a hard time switching from playing the role to going back to acting a normal lizardman.

'Doesn't change things.' Solin gave the answer in kind, then exhaled and turned to Coadmit, raised his voice to normal levels and switched back to Reikspiel. 'Sergeant, take the new blood to our camp outside of Marienburg. Let Major Ralc'teeh and Captain Yen'ayes know that their new… students have arrived.'

Coadmit hesitated a moment, his eyes drifted to the newly arrived skink priest, then back to Solin. 'And the new major?'

'Well we're not leaving him here. Yes, take him too.' Solin snorted. He then looked again to the skink in question. 'Ey, ey, you. Priestly-boy. Follow Coadmit here, do as he says and I'll sort you later.'

The priest didn't look overly reassured but managed to acknowledge that he had been given an order by the oldblood and looked to the red-coated skink for instruction, despite the natural hierarchy being that as a priest, it was typically the other way around.

Coadmit didn't look overly enthused at his sudden temporary position of authority, but he stepped forward, positioned himself so all of the newly arrived lizardmen could see him clearly and called out an instruction for them to follow him. It didn't take long for the strange procession to march away and disappear into the labyrinthine streets of Marienburg.

'Always fun watching new blood arrive, all innocent,' Solin commented idly to Horeo, who let out a hum that said he had heard, but not much else. 'Life in the Legion gives enough experience quickly enough most tend to stop looking at everything with that weird awed look before they see their second summer with us.'

Horeo clicked his tongue, and put a hand on Solin's arm as the oldblood made to turn. 'We're going to a tavern.'

'Are we? Don't you have some more duties to tend to?' Solin didn't make any reproachful tones, just genuine curiosity.

'I can sort that later. I just paid the city enough of those coins they so love that I can stay docked for a six-day if I wanted. It has been three summers since last I had a chance to chat with my friend, so Sotek can come take me away himself before I give up a chance to do just that.'

'I'm fairly sure Sotek has better things to do than deny you a chat with me,' Solin said, his posture relaxing, shoulders dropping. 'Now Ulric on the other claw might do so.'

'Hang the human gods—they have no jurisdiction over me.' Horeo's tone returned to his friendly timbre and a clear laugh could be heard. 'Just give me a second to get something and let Sahls'dedepp know he has the boat while I'm gone.'

Solin nodded, allowed the crimson-scaled skink to vanish back up the ramp and aboard his vessel. It took five minutes for Horeo to reappear, this time carrying a small chest tucked beneath his armpit.

'What's that?' Solin asked in mild curiosity.

'How do you think the few coins you Legion fellows actually do carry come to be? Besides, I can't really do my bit in the same way you do. Trade loosens tongues on docks where's I can actually make land.' Horeo shook the chest once, causing a rattling as the contents were disturbed. 'The humans are weirdly fixated on some of our stuff.'

'It's the gold. Humans are attracted to the shininess like some of the birds around Madrigal,' Solin retorted. 'Since when do we trade away anything?'

'I'll show you when we're at the tavern.' Horeo did an exaggerated double-take at the building that he had been guiding the pair to. 'Ah, here we are. The Drunken Griffon.'

Despite the sign hanging over the door having changed in the last three years, the depicted griffon having changed into what was quite clearly a depiction of Emperor Franz's griffon, Solin recognised the tavern as the same one that Horeo had stumbled across last time the pickup had been in Marienburg. That had also marked the moment where Solin had learnt that even the Children of the Gods could get drunk. Horeo had been such a jolly drunk. So jolly he'd spent a good few hours dancing about with his breaches on his head.

'Classy place.' Solin's mouth couldn't give a sardonic smirk, but his voice certainly did the job as the pair entered through the door.

'No disrespect, they love me here.'

'No, they found you hilarious. And it was years ago so they've probably forgotten you.'

Horeo stuck his tongue out, as though he were a human spawnling, but quickly stopped in favour of giggling and parked himself at a nearby empty table, rested the chest on its surface. Solin sat himself opposite.

The tavern wasn't busy, likely due to the time of day. There was a fire in the hearth, which was a little surprising, considering it was currently summer, there was already heat enough that most humans were comfortable without. Maybe it was for the benefit of any non-human patrons who stepped into the premises—Solin couldn't say what an elf's heat tolerance was. Or a dwarf. Or most races for that matter. It was simply something which had never come up before. He was only aware of human resilience to frigid temperatures because he had been to Kislev once, not long enough ago. Why any race not afflicted by mutation would willingly linger in such a cold realm was beyond him.

Other than the two lizardmen and the two members of staff, there was a trio of elves in one corner whispering in hushed tones that actually made it harder to ignore them than if they'd simply murmured. And there was a dwarf and a human at the table as far from the door as possible. The human was clearly black-out drunk, only conscious through sheer stubborn will, all the while the ginger-mohawked dwarf stared at the two reptilians with a look of utter bafflement before he then peered at his tankard with the most suspicious look Solin had ever seen anybody give an inanimate object.

'What can I do ya for?' a female Halfling asked, appearing at Horeo's elbow before Solin had fully sat himself. If she was surprised at the unusual customers, she gave no indication. 'Ey, aren't you that fellow that got drunk and danced about half nekkid a few years ago?'

Solin snorted, tried to hide his amusement but failed so spectacularly that Horeo's resultant glare at him looked less like he was cross, and more like he had been mortally wounded.

'Ale for me,' Horeo said to the waitress once he realised that the wounded eyes look did nothing to stir sympathy, and waved a hand at Solin. 'And whatever he wants. On me. Not that the green cloaca stain deserves it.'

'Bretonnian brandy,' Solin spoke before she'd even moved her eyes to him. 'Whichever flavour, not picky.'

Once the Halfling had disappeared, Horeo slid the chest toward Solin and motioned for the saurus to open it. Solin did so, and peered questioningly at the contents. It was full entirely of various items of their people. Items such as a ceremonial headpiece of a skink priest, golden bangles, and even a few armour plates. Solin looked to Horeo, took note of the amused glaze to the skink's eyes, and then returned to looking at the items.

It took longer than Solin was proud to admit before he realised. They were indeed items that would very rarely be given away… except these were not crafted to the standard that would be actually worn and used. When he voiced his observation, Horeo chuckled lowly.

'These are the results of our artisans and crafters when they are still learning their trade. For us? A waste, not worthy of being used, but too much effort to melt down and start anew. For the humans? They love the stuff. I get their coin, I can buy any hearsay in a tavern using said coin, or buy resources to send back to Tiamoxec, and so far I've gotten us more than we've given away.'

'You fit right in here,' Solin said with a chuckle, accepting the cup of brandy the returned Halfling offered him. 'Shall we call you the new merchant prince of Tiamoxec?'

'Hah, no. Won't be making such a good trade this time.' Horeo's voice turned sour.

Solin leaned forward. 'What? Why?'

Horeo turned his head to look in the direction that Solin believed that his ship lay. 'Pirates attacked us. Your new blood got a taste of combat before they even got to you. You couldn't see it, but I need to fix up before I can leave.'

Solin let out a soft curse in Saurian. Vulgarity always felt more potent in their native tongue than when expressed with Reikspiel. In Reikspiel, vulgar words were just words that had a meaning that had been twisted to a negative association. Saurian vulgarity was made from words that had no direct translation and yet poured feeling and concepts into those blunt sibilant syllables in a way that could never be done with the human tongue. Strange how the only times I slip into Saurian is when I'm swearing. 'How bad?'

If the answer was that it had been particularly bad, the future of the Legion being bolstered by sea arrival would quite likely be indefinitely put on hold, and they'd have to return to the early days of waiting for new blood to arrive by quite literally walking the continents.

'I think they've been noticing me for a while, they were waiting. Didn't get a good look at them, but I think it's those undead pirates that have been harassing our Lustrian brethren.'

Solin leaned back in his seat, took a sip of the brandy and savoured the taste of blackberry. 'I suppose it's a good thing they can't follow you back to Madrigal.'

Horeo's eyes sharpened in vicious delight. 'Nothing saying they haven't tried in the past.'

There was a reason that instead of oldbloods, or even priests, it was a skink chieftain who captained the ship, and that a second chieftain was the first mate. The isle of Madrigal was surrounded by particularly territorial tsunamisaurs. It was quite possibly the only reason that no map had any indication of Madrigal's existence. And by extension, the existence of the temple-city Tiamoxec. Even Marshal Ingwel's personal map didn't have the isle marked down. Solin doubted that Horeo's map was any different in that regard.

The only reason they were able to have a ship enter and leave Madrigal's waters was because Horeo had spent decades of his existence as one of the handlers who worked exclusively with the water-based creatures, and the same went for Sahls.

Should both Horeo and Sahls die at the same time, the ship would be trapped outside of Madrigal, unable to pass by the creatures lurking in the deep. The only way the crew would be able to get home would be to travel by foot to an outpost hidden away on the mainland and pray that one of the triumvirate was awake and able to have them transported back through magical means.

It was a risk they took every time they sailed.

'I have an idea going forward, it's…' Horeo trailed off, delaying himself by taking a swig of his drink, the smell of which made Solin think of fire. 'I don't know if Annat'corri will go for it or not. It could be resources that can't be spared. And he might not want us getting into a feud with the undead. If we stop giving them a reason, they'll leave us be.'

'That's nonsense.' Solin huffed in irritation. 'Last we heard from Lustria, those vampires had desecrated Axotl. They know our temples are full of what they consider wealth to be stolen by all means available. A "feud" with them already exists.'

'But right now it's limited to Lustria.' Horeo countered, but then leaned back, conceded the argument that he wasn't really invested in to begin with. He'd already made it clear to Solin that he agreed, considering that he had an idea, just wasn't certain of the reaction of the one authority who could either breathe life into it or cut it short. Horeo took another swig of his drink. 'Annat'corri actually heard from Lustria recently.'

'Oh?' Solin tilted his head.

Horeo shrugged. 'It sounds like there are stirrings in the air, aspects of The Great Plan in motion. Stirrings that Mazdamundi is taking seriously, he sent Kroq-Gar to the Temple of Skulls.'

Solin straightened, eyes widened. 'Kroq-Gar is in the Kingdom of Beasts?'

'Either that, or he's on his way there.' Horeo shrugged, though it didn't hide the look in his eyes, a look that Solin knew was mirrored in his own eyes. Their kind weren't often prone to hero worship. Kroq-Kar was something of an exception. There was not a lizardman in existence who wouldn't answer the call if Kroq-Gar made a rallying cry.

Solin shook his head, returned clarity through that haze of hero worship, eyes now narrowed in thought. 'We haven't heard of anything happening in the Southlands that would warrant Mazdamundi sending Kroq-Gar that way.'

'Nobody has, and we weren't told why by anybody that might know. At this point, all we can do is watch and see how things go.'

Solin tapped his fingers on the tabletop while he dwelled on the thoughts that were rising to his mind. 'Ingwel will be interested to hear of this, but unless he heard something more then we're probably going to stay here in the Empire's provinces for now.'

What he didn't go on to say was that there was an underlying nervousness that would be felt by the entire Legion regarding how Kroq-Kar might react to their less than traditional methods. Best to avoid an unnecessary meeting.

'What about you?' Horeo asked after a silence where he continued to sip at his ale. 'Any news and hearsay to share?'

The saurus gave a shrug with a single shoulder, eyes narrowed in thought. Unconsciously, one of his hands tapped at his right breast, felt the texture of the parchment hidden beneath his surcoat, his record of everything he heard that was of interest. Experience was a keen teacher, everything was noted. Noted and then given to the right hands.

'Mostly just the usual.' He explained in a conversational tone. 'When I split off from Ingwel, he was following up on something in the eastern edges of Stirland, but it sounded like another case of bandits and marauders. Keep hearing about how our Lustrian cousins are chasing off Empire colonisation efforts. A Bretonnian crusade—as if that's ever new—to the Southlands. Chaos incursions against the Border Princes, and probably some against the Empire but we haven't yet come across any evidence of that. However, there has been a… lot of gossip about Kislevites fleeing south.'

Horeo made a sound of aroused curiosity and leaned forward as though to better hear. 'Kislevites fleeing? I've no experience with them, but aren't they the stubborn type?'

Solin nodded. 'That's why it stands out. These are the same people who have held back the hordes of the Chaos Wastes without a complaint or a plea for help. They just grit their teeth and push back. I'd never heard of any Kislevite fleeing anything and here we keep hearing about them fleeing across the border and yet no news of Kislev falling. Nothing to suggest there is any reason for them to abandon their homeland. It would be as though our kin began to flee Lustria for no apparent reason.'

The skink hummed thoughtfully. 'That is… confusing.' He tilted his head. 'I wonder…'

Whatever it was he was wondering, he elected not to say. Solin had a faint idea of what it was going through the skink's head, but chose not to think too much about it. It had been proven in the past that trying to predict events based on little certified fact never ended well. At least, it never ended well for Solin.

He downed the last of his brandy and made to stand, but paused as Horeo reached forward and grabbed his arm.

'Solinaraxl.' The use of his full name had Solin focus on Horeo intently. 'Go easy on Bonaeaix.'

Solin's head tilted in confusion. 'Who?'

'The priest. The new major.'

'Oh.' Solin paused, reminded himself that there was a skink waiting to be officially introduced and made into the Legion's latest major. 'He'll be fine.'

Horeo gave a very deliberate and sarcastic 'Hah,' which had Solin reward him with an irritated glare. 'Just give him a chance.'

'I'm not going to hurt him.' Solin let his offence at the notion colour his voice.

Horeo stared back at him, eyes narrowed and searching into Solin's soul. Finally, his fingers relaxed, and he pressed a small pouch with the familiar jingle of coin into the oldblood's palm. 'I mean it. The poor little spawnling just got thrown into a feral aggradon's nest.'

Solin chuckled at the comparison, weighing the coin purse curiously. It would satisfy the Legion's few monetary needs easily enough. Rare were the times they even could spend coin in barter exchanges. 'Legion isn't that bad.'

'I still wasn't talking about the Legion.'

Solin stood, waving a hand over his shoulder as he made his way to the exit. 'He'll be fine. As fine as life with us allows us.'

Once outside, Solin pulled his bag of mints from the inside folds of his surcoat and absently slipped one into his mouth as he considered his options. Enjoyed the cold that wasn't actual cold.

With the new blood arrived and under his care, he was to start moving eastward. The plan was to reunite with the other half of the Legion in either Hochland or Talabecland. However, it felt wrong to move so far without doing some job or another. Sun was still high, plenty of time to check around for any merchant caravans headed in the same direction that he was going. Merchant caravans that would be willing to pay the bargain price of rumours and gossip, or any materials that they might be able to spare.

It was always peculiar how merchants were more willing to pay with their goods than they were with their coin. Even when in doing so they actually lost more than if they'd paid for their services with that same coin they clutched to with such a tight grip. But rumours and hearsay were more important right now, which would help secure a job.

Again, just needed to find one headed in the right direction.

'O'er the hills and o'er the main,' he sang softly, though kept his voice to himself. If the nearby citizens of Marienburg wanted to hear his singing, they'd better be paying for the privilege—he was no bard out to sing for an audience. 'Past Bretton, Karak and Reik's domain.'

And he disappeared into the streets, in the way that only Marienburg would allow an eight-foot five saurus oldblood.

 

Departing Marienburg
​

The Old World - Marienburg Outskirts
—

The caravan was quite a sight to behold. Cathayan merchant caravans, while not unheard of within the Provinces, were still a rarity. The Ivory Road connected multiple realms, spreading trade across numerous destinations over the course of months or even years.

But this particular caravan was different from the norm for Ivory Road expeditions. This caravan was on the return trip, headed from Marienburg, where all but the dredges of their wares had been bartered away, purchased by those who found the commodities of the Far East to be strange, exotic, or just pure luxuries difficult to acquire elsewhere. Again, the fact that the caravan was moving east and north to return home wasn't itself unusual, what made it so was how it was accompanied by a large number of lizardmen.

Most people of the Empire had never even heard of the lizardmen of Lustria, so it wasn't even the fact that they were garbed and armed with black powder weapons that made the sight so unusual to those few travellers who passed them on the roads to Middenheim. It was just the presence of bipedal Lizardmen, some riding atop large saurian creatures with deep, thunderous footfalls.

Other than a handful of these thundersaurs that were able to walk on just two legs, they all pulled behind them wagons or carts of their own, clearly not a part of the merchant caravan, but instead the caravan of these lizardmen.

The marching Lizardmen had the Cathayan caravan surrounded in a protective shell, eyes trained on their surroundings. Even if it was a case of being hired simply because both were going in the same direction, a token act with a shrug of "strength in numbers", they were still going to be passing close to territory claimed by the forest goblin tribe calling themselves the Bloodfeathers. And that spoke nothing of the usual recurring menace of orcs travelling in roving mobs looking for a scrap or loot.

In some ways, the threat of orcs had been diminished by bards who'd chosen to use the greenskins as bumbling fools working for the actual threat. That was mostly true of those bards from the Kingdom of Bretonnia, who seemed to relish belittling those once vanquished by their King Louen the Orc-Slayer. For those who actually had firsthand experience with orcs, those bardic depictions were far from the truth. Up close, an orc was actually a scary, dangerous threat that defied expectations. Thankfully, the true nature of orcs and their Waaaghs was accepted by those who lifted a blade for whatever reason: defence of home, patriotism, or coin.

Within one of the wagons being carted by a stegadon, there was a skink. This skink didn't wear any form of uniform. In fact, were any of the Cathayans to notice this skink's existence, they would no doubt comment on the fact this silver-scaled skink was wearing women's garb. If the skink knew that detail, he didn't show any care for the matter.

At that moment, this skink was leaning on a table covered in sheets of fabric, absently twirling a gold bangle in his hand, eyes fixed upon another skink. This other skink had been stripped of his priest regalia, all now tucked into one of the various chests that were stacked to one side.

For Priest Bonaeaix, soon to be Major Bonaeaix, he was feeling strangely exposed with how the other skink stared so intently at him. It felt like he was not a person but instead a slab of meat at the barrios back home. It wasn't helped by the other two Lizardmen—a third skink and a saurus oldblood—at the flap that led outside the wagon's canvas covering, both also looking at the naked priest.

'So why am I outfitting this one?' the skink in the dress asked with a put-upon tone.

The saurus sounded apathetic when he spoke the following words. 'Boney here needs to look the part of a major.'

The silver skink shot a look at the saurus that Bonaeaix translated as mild concern. 'Did we know we were getting a new major?'

'No.' The single syllable didn't come out as a hiss, if only because it lacked an "s" to drag out.

The silvered skink huffed, eyes briefly rolled in a manner that Bonaeaix translated to exasperation. 'Ok. New major.'

The skink in the woman's garb moved to a nearby pile of fabric, and without looking pulled free a set of stone-grey breeches and tossed them at Bonaeaix. 'Don't worry if they don't fit,' he said while moving to another pile, pulled a shirt free, and repeated the act of throwing it at the priest in what felt like a most disrespectful manner. 'Just trying to get a sense of how they'll look on you.'

'Marz.' The oldblood's voice caused the tailor to still, midway to yet another pile of fabric. 'Not the coat.'

The skink—whose name was apparently Marz—gave a dour look at the saurus. 'It is still a part of the uniform, is it not? You haven't had me come up with some new uniform for the Legion.'

The oldblood shook his head and looked to the skink in the red coat. 'How do you feel at the idea of anyone skipping the two seasons it took you to earn your coat?'

Sergeant Coadmit hesitated for a moment and then sent an apologetic look Bonaeaix's way. 'I would feel annoyed. I worked to earn it, my cohort all worked to earn the right to wear our coats. We would tolerate it, but it would chafe.'

Bonaeaix wanted to feel betrayed, but instead felt disappointed, but not much else. The oldblood looked to Marz with his head tilted in a silent gesture of "See what I mean?". In turn, the tailor grunted and gave Bonaeaix another appraising look, clearly adjusting his thoughts.

'Is it the colour? Or do I need to find something else entirely? I don't have any of the plate cuirasses that Mort's regiments like on hand, and they are even more protective of their uniform than you redcoats.'

Coadmit answered. 'It's not the colour that's a problem.'

Marz hummed thoughtfully, but it was the oldblood who spoke up next. 'A jerkin or a red waistcoat. Keeps the look of the rank and file's uniform while being different enough to not annoy anybody, and lets him have the chance to earn the actual coat later.'

Marz gave the saurus a look of equal measure annoyance and agreement. 'Solinaraxl... there are moments I despise you. You clearly understand young-race fashion, and yet you insist on wearing that surcoat and looking like some amateur bard's depiction of an adventurer.'

Solin's eyes narrowed into a smirk. 'I have a timeless look, and you're jealous I can pull it off.'

Marz muttered a choice phrase in Saurian that loosely translated into calling Solin the waste remains of a carnosaur that was then buried in dirt. Solin's amusement didn't fade in the slightest. With a sigh, the tailor unburied a waistcoat from yet another pile of fabric and this one he handed politely to Bonaeaix. 'Let's see how that looks.'

The priest managed to pull on all the garments. They were oversized, however, all hung loosely on his frame, but Marz seemed to like what he saw.

'I can work this.' His head tilted. 'Still missing something.'

'Sword.' Solin's voice was flat. 'Just give him the one in that chest.'

Marz stilled, didn't even blink. 'You are certain?'

'What use is it in there? The sword finishes up the human expectation of an officer. Something about nobles and their right to arms and duels.' Solin's eyes pinned Bonaeaix to the spot. 'Even if Boney is the type to hang back and only use magic, he'll still look the part for clients. We can work on his communication skills later.'

That marked the second time that the colonel had referred to Bonaeaix as "Boney". He wanted to protest, but then a single look at the saurus had any courage to do so fade away.

Marz gave a single nod then moved to a chest that was virtually buried beneath yet more fabric, pulled it open with no thought for the now scattered cloth, and removed a sabre and its scabbard from the inside. He didn't hand this one over to Bonaeaix though. He instead held it up in such a way that to his perspective it was next to and partially covering his view of Bonaeaix.

Bonaeaix's eyes narrowed as he took in the blade, still covered as it may be. It looked well worn but cared for. It was being passed on, though why it needed a new owner, he wasn't certain.

'Yes, yes, this works.' Marz glanced at the saurus and redcoat skink. 'Both of you be gone now. I need to work.'

Both skink and saurus turned to leave. As they did so, Bonaeaix noticed Coadmit tap the colonel on the arm and murmur something just quiet enough to escape his hearing. The oldblood nodded and both vanished outside, leaving Bonaeaix with Marz.

Marz mumbled something under his breath and approached Bonaeaix holding a pair of scissors in one hand and a length of fabric in the other. 'Well now, Boney, let's get to work, hmm?'

'Why does the oldblood keep calling me that?' Bonaeaix asked. Thankfully, he managed to keep his tone from sounding like a whining mewl as he asked the question. 'Why did you call me that?'

'Get used to it.' Marz chuckled. 'By the month's end, everybody will be calling you Boney now that the colonel has started.'

'Did I do something to offend?' The question was asked in a quiet, contemplative, if wary tone. Bonaeaix felt a little ashamed at how nervous he felt. When the tailor raised an eyebrow ridge in confusion, Bonaeaix nodded his head toward the flap that the other two Lizardmen had departed from. 'Solinaraxl.'

Marz gave a small 'Ah' and seemed to consider his answer. 'No, you have not done anything to offend Solin. The nickname is just one of those little conformities. Solin will be the first to admit that he's picked up on some habits that he can't shake off.'

'It's not just the name thing. Nickname. He looks at me like...'

There was another 'Ah' from Marz. 'No, you did nothing wrong. You just have the misfortune of taking the place of our previous major. Major Yade-To was much liked within the Legion and especially the regiments under his domain.'

Bonaeaix tilted his head in interest, easily recognising the name. He hadn't realised that he was a replacement—and for one of the original members of the Legion alongside Solinaraxl, Ingwel'tonl, Iycan'ceya and Moretexl. Everybody back in Tiamoxec knew the name. 'What happened to him?'

He hadn't even been aware that Yade-To had passed from this life. Though that wasn't too surprising. News from the Legion tended to be sparse. It wasn't that those within Tiamoxec never heard of their distant kin, but that Annat'corri and his attendants only shared tales of the successes, possibly the slann's way of being passive-aggressive. It was hardly a secret that before Tiamoxec fell out of contact with their Lustrian cousins, the other slann had... opinions... about Annat'corri and the Outland Legion. Even within Tiamoxec, some shared opinions with those distant Lustrian slann.

But Marz was already shaking his head. 'No, I'm not talking about it. Just accept that you are taking the place of somebody deceased and move on.'

Bonaeaix huffed out a breath and then peered at Marz with some bemusement, recalling his lessons on warmblood culture. 'Why are you wearing a dress?'

Marz rolled his eyes upwards. 'I'm an artisan, not a fighter. I don't have to wear the uniform.'

'That's… not what I asked. Why are you wearing a dress? Is that not for women?'

Marz's eyes didn't lower, but somehow he projected a touch more annoyance. 'Despite the name that the young races have given us, we are not men, any more than we are women. I don't need to conform to some arbitrary cultural rule that says just because some human felt the need to call us Lizardmen that I am to be shut out from certain clothing choices.'

Bonaeaix raised his hands in a warding motion. 'I'm sorry.'

'And anyway, it's not a dress, it's called a kilt!' Marz huffed, apparently blind to the apology. 'I get asked that often enough that it's gotten old. Idiots. I thought that at least my kin would understand. We all know full well that we are lacking a certain part of the anatomy required to be either-or. But no, it seems that in our conforming, we've picked up some bad habits. If I wanted to wear a dress, I have every right to wear a dress. But I am not! I am wearing a kilt, for Tepok's sake.'

As he ranted, Marz waved his hands erratically, which meant that a pair of scissors were being waved erratically. Bonaeaix gulped, legs tensed to flee if the tailor advanced any closer while his rant was ongoing.

I suppose it's a sore point for him.

It was then that Marz's rant drifted to questioning why humans had even declared dresses to be a feminine form of clothing when it wasn't that long ago men wore skirts as a fashion choice. That some still wore skirts as a part of their armour, which was why the original armour design that the Legion had adopted had included skirts. Marz would know, he was quick to point out in his rant.

Bonaeaix wondered if it was too late to run back to Marienburg and beg Captain Horeo for a ride home.


*


That night, the caravan set up camp on the outskirts of a small village along the Middenheim road. It was the sort of village that barely qualified as a village, not even having its existence marked on any map. None of the towns or villages along the long stretch of road between Marienburg and Middenheim were marked on any map. After Salfen and all the way to Wouduin Tollstation, the map would have one believe there to be no sign of life.

In reality, the only purpose the villages along the road served was to act as resting points for travellers going to and from Marienburg.

The villagers didn’t bat an eye at the merchant caravan. The strange jade warriors were old news to the jaded peasants; the caravans of Grand Cathay were a semi-regular appearance that they had long since gotten used to. The contracted guard detail, however, did warrant a second and even a third look.

Solin ignored the baffled look from what passed for a town guard in this quaint little village—a pot helmet, a wooden shield that looked as though it had been passed down through generation after generation.

And yet, Solin thought to himself, that is still more than most Bretonnian peasants are allowed when sent to fight and die. He quickly shook the thought away, reminding himself that the last experience he'd had with any Bretonnian was not indicative of the kingdom as a whole. The kingdom had been around for at least a thousand summers, despite their laws and code of chivalry, which were so lopsided that one had to wonder whether the nobility were afraid of an uprising.

If they were, those same nobles were strangely blind to just how much wood they were adding to that stove. Then again, illiterate mobs untrained in wearing armour or using any weapon heavier than a rapier? Even if they rose up, that would be a rebellion quickly put down.

Sometimes it felt as though the only thing Solin liked about Bretonnia was their brandy.

After clearing the thoughts from his head a second time, unwilling to dwell on the western kingdom, Solin slipped into the inn. He'd been told by one of the jade warriors, shortly after they'd stopped moving for the day, that the caravan master was looking to talk.

Interesting, considering the caravan master had been willing to have one of his subordinates make the deal to hire the Legion as extra protection in his stead.

Inside the inn, he was offered a tankard of cheap ale. When asked, it appeared that the man he was to meet had chosen to buy him a drink for their chat. That was interesting. Either the caravan master was looking to get into Solin's good graces with a small bribe, he wanted Solin drunk, or he was just playing good host. Considering that Solin had yet to speak to the man, he couldn't predict which of those three possibilities was true. After a moment of consideration, he accepted the drink.

As soon as the ale had been placed into Solin's hand, a Cathayan approached. He had a shaved head but also sported a thick beard. The man was dressed in a vibrant yellow tunic that looked to be made from silk, while his pants and undershirt looked to be made of white cotton. Boots curled into a point at the toes. When Solin had spied him briefly earlier in the day, he'd also worn a tall hat and a cape of shimmering white and yellow silk, though he'd apparently chosen to remove them for the talk.

The last detail that Solin really noticed before the warmblood started speaking was the wrinkles. This was a human who had lived a long life. Long by human standards at least—Solin likely out-aged him by a good few centuries, unless he was one of those with dragon-blood in his ancestry. The saurus didn’t yet know if that actually affected the longevity of humans.

‘Ah,’ the human intoned, voice less accented than the Shugengan who had been the go-between for them back in Marienburg, but set at a tone where he wasn’t so much speaking as intoning his words. It had more than a passing resemblance to Marshal Ingwel when he wasn’t softening his voice for the young races’ benefit. ‘Colonel Solinaraxl, I presume.’

Solin dipped his head respectfully, ignored the rest of the inn’s patrons all starting in surprise at the deep voice being projected. ‘I presume that you are the caravan master?’

‘Correct. Luao Tee. You wished to be paid in gossip and materials for accompanying us to Middenheim?’

‘That’s the fee.’ Solin confirmed with a small nod, secretly hoping that he wasn’t about to have to argue contract details that had already been agreed upon.

‘In that case, I am willing to give you an advance fee with the gossip and pay the materials at job’s end.’

‘If that is how you wish to do this,’ Solin answered softly, taking a sip of ale to hide how relieved he was. The Cathayan probably wouldn’t have noticed, but tales of the immortal dragon rulers in Cathay meant that if anybody could read lizardmen expressions, it would be this man born of a realm ruled over by immortal dragons.

The caravan master gave a slight smile. ‘Passing on gossip costs us nothing, yet has value enough to you that you would risk life for it. We’ll pay you in what we have heard since we have no way of knowing if it is something you already heard through other sources.’

Solin shrugged a single shoulder. ‘That sounds reasonable.’

Luao Tee’s smile dipped. ‘What have you heard of Kislev of late?’

‘Not a lot,’ Solin admitted. ‘Just a lot of rumours of fleeing refugees.’

The caravan master nodded with a hum that managed to vibrate Solin’s ribs. ‘Understandable. Not even the famed Kislev force of will can fight nature itself.’

‘“Nature”?’

‘Yes. It turns out that their winter hasn’t yet passed. This is a fact. We passed their lands on the way to Marienburg.’

‘Cold summer,’ Solin mumbled, giving a slight shiver at the thought.

‘Oh, it is worse than just a cold summer. This marks the seventh summer that this winter has endured.’ Luao Tee had a smile as he spoke those words, clearly pleased that he was passing on something which had value, as this was very definitely the first time Solin had heard of this.

‘What is Ursun doing?’ Solin asked after he recovered from the shock—and the ale that slipped down the wrong way—and organised his thoughts, rapidly recalling everything he’d learnt about the northern nation over the centuries.

‘That is where truth and hearsay start to mix. It would appear that the Kislev God-Bear has not been seen for any of those seven years. Indeed, there are some who claim Ursun has abandoned his followers.’

‘Gods don’t just abandon the source of their devotion,’ Solin replied to that with a sharp shake of the head. ‘Gods are predictable in that respect. With so many other gods in the world, having to build faith anew… mortals don’t care for new gods, even when they aren’t mutually exclusive. There are still arguments here in the Empire between those who worship Sigmar and those who choose to worship Ulric.’

Luao Tee made a sound that Solin was able to translate as being haughty snootiness, he quickly recalled that the immortal dragons that ruled over Grand Cathay claimed to not be gods, and supposedly looked down upon those gods that other realms worshipped. It wasn’t too much of a surprise that such disdain was passed down to their subjects. ‘I agree with you. But that still leaves the question of just what has happened to the God-Bear.’ The caravan master gave a shrug. ‘Other rumours are just as preposterous.’

‘This is valuable news to us, if for no reason other than the context it gives.’ Solin shook his head. ‘This is valuable enough that you don’t need to pay more.’

Luao Tee laughed, a loud boisterous laugh that rattled every bone in Solin’s body such that he wondered whether this was some new Cathayan weapon being tested on him.

‘I told you, colonel, hearsay and gossip cost us nothing. It doesn’t feel right to make such an exchange without some material cost.’ As he spoke, he held out a hand.

Solin nodded, understanding that there was an element of cultural honour at play. He hadn’t enough experience with the culture of Grand Cathay to know of the nuance to their system. Hopefully it wasn’t too much like the Bretonnian chivalry. If Cathayans felt business transactions needed a material component to pay for labour, he wouldn’t complain.

Not that Cathay and those born of the far-eastern empire didn’t have their own brand of flaws. In Solin’s experience, no young-race empire or realm was without a myriad of flaws and issues. Some were just better at hiding those flaws.

He clasped the forearm of the caravan master, didn't allow any of his internal thoughts to show through. 'Thank you.'

Once they had released each other's forearms, the caravan master gave a slight bow. 'A dear friend once sung praises of you, colonel. Tales of how it was you and your Legion that had his caravan survive the trip across the World's Edge. I feel we have been blessed by Mui-Lahn's coming across you.'

He clasped the forearm of the caravan master, not allowing any of his internal thoughts to show through. ‘Thank you.’

Once they had released each other’s forearms, the caravan master gave a slight bow. ‘A dear friend once sung praises of you, colonel. Tales of how it was you and your Legion that had his caravan survive the trip across the World’s Edge. I feel we have been blessed by Mui-Lahn’s coming across you.’

Solin vaguely recalled the moment being referred to. It had been fifty winters ago, while hunting a band of orcs alongside a pair of dawi with an unresolved grudge, Solin had encountered a Cathayan caravan that had the misfortune of getting caught in the wrong place at the wrong moment. He’d intervened, saved the caravan, and escorted them to the nearby karak before resuming the hunt for the orcs.

Solin gave a mild answer in acknowledgement of the event in question, even while he thought about what he had just learnt, along with what news he’d gotten back in Marienburg.

Stirrings in the Great Plan, Krog-Gar being sent by Mazdamundi to the Southlands, and now we hear of Kisev's patron god-bear going missing, leaving his followers to freeze to death. No wonder we've heard of so many fleeing south: if they aren't freezing, they're starving to death. Stubborn need to defend their home does not conquer snow and ice, no matter how much they like the two as part of their cultural identity.

Wonder what their Tzarina is doing... is she trying to find a solution, or has something else taken her attentions? Can't think how she would be reacting, I've never met her. Ingwel might have at some point, he's spent more time in Kislev than I have, he might have chanced a meeting.

At that moment, somebody approached looking at Luao Tee. 'Are ye the free company? The ones whose accept rumour as coin?'

The Cathayan chuckled and pointed at Solin as the last of the ale was drained from his tankard. 'He is the mercenary leader.'

The villager paused to examine the saurus with an expression that bordered on incredulous. Nothing unusual, humans often seemed to think those not looking like them were victim to lesser intellect. The choice to wear clothing helped, but wasn’t a perfect shield against such biases. Sometimes, just sometimes, there were those that ignored the clothing to focus exclusively upon the face. It was tiresome, but it happened.

'Colonel Solin of the Outland Legion.' Solin greeted, placing the empty tankard down and turning to fully face the villager.

The human visibly shook his head and inhaled. 'We need to hire ye for a small task.'

Solin looked to Luao Tee, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged, silently communicating that whatever happened next was up to him.

'What's the job?'

The villager inhaled again. 'There is a farmstead to the east, a half-day ways off the road. We'd like you to check up on the farm.'

'Is there any reason you're concerned? Or that you can't just send a runner?' The saurus crossed his arms and tilted his head as he tried to puzzle out why this villager was asking a mercenary company to perform what seemed like a small chore but little more.

This time it wasn't an inhale, but a tired sigh that escaped the villager's lips. 'Those passing by have been talking about attacks along the road. They din't think it were greenskins neither. We need to know if Siegfried is still safe. We can't live without him.'

Solin's eyes narrowed in a frown. It didn't look to be a jest of poor taste, the villager's expression of concern was too real. 'Tell you what, bring me some ink and a quill, I'll consider that advanced pay and I'll have some of my troop check out the farm for you.'

The villager nearly sagged from the relief that he was suddenly radiating. 'Thank you. That farm is this village's main source of food and trade, if it burns, we'll have nothing.' So said, he sprinted from the inn with a shouted promise to be back shortly with quill and ink.

'Sounds serious.' Luao Tee's voice once again had the bones in Solin's body rattle.

'Might be nothing though, just a panic because the farmer missed his due date.' Solin tilted his head back in thought. 'But better safe than sorry.'

The villager was back mere minutes later holding a quill and a small pot of ink. Solin accepted them and rested both items on the table in front of him then pulled two sheets of parchment from a pouch at his hip. He began to transcribe what Luao Tee had told him, then repeated the same word for word upon the second parchment.

'Ok, sorted. We'll check out your farm. '

'Thank ye.'

Once the villager had disappeared, Luao Tee watched as Solin gathered up the two sheets of parchment. 'What now?'

Solin stood. 'Now? Now I have to go tell fifteen of my skinks that they've been selected to go check out a nearby farm for peace of mind of mind of these villagers.'


*


The newly named Major Boney followed after Coadmit. The redcoat had paused on finding Boney at the fire, had taken in the uniform that he now wore before he gave a trill of approval. It was after that he told the new major that Colonel Solinaraxl had requested him.

They found Solin at the edge of the encampment, looking over a map with a bemused look. Another thirteen skinks stood nearby, stood in that way that meant they were waiting for instruction. Boney noted in a small corner of his mind that, including Coadmit, only five of the skinks actually had muskets on their person. He himself didn’t have one.

Solin looked up as Boney and Coadmit approached, rolling up the map. His eyes lingered upon Boney, seemed to assess him from top to bottom, then back to top.

‘Hat?’ Solin asked with something in his tone that Boney wasn’t able to make out.

The major tapped the circular brim of the hat that Marz had added at the last second with a playful smirk and comment. ‘Tailor Marz felt it would help me look the part.’ It had also been a way for Boney to still carry the feather from his old headpiece, a reminder to himself of his previous status as a priest. A reminder of where he had come from.

He knew even before boarding the ship to leave the Madrigal Isle that he was expected to adapt, to conform to the standards of the warmbloods. It had only been after he was dressed like one of those warmbloods that he’d realised that he needed at least something of his time prior to the Legion to ground him, remind him of his origins. It was silly, but the yellow and green feather that had taken place of pride on the traditional headpiece of a skink priest? It simply worked as that grounding reminder.

He had also managed to sneak the neckpiece of his old regalia beneath the linen of his shirt. It was a comforting weight, but served a purpose different from the feather. It was what Bonaeaix had focused on when manipulating the Winds of Magic, more so than any staff. That had been the argument that had convinced Tailor Marz to allow him to keep the golden neckpiece.

Solin’s eyes rolled skyward, seemed to examine the constellations that were just beginning to be visible. ‘Of course he did.’ His eyes went back down to the skink and narrowed. ‘But he is right. And it’s more sensible than Iycan’s flatcap.’ The last sentence was spoken in a rueful, put-upon tone tinged with exasperated fondness.

After ten seconds, Solin muttered something too quietly for Boney to make out and stormed forward. Bonaeaix back-pedalled unconsciously, eyes widening and heartbeat racing. Solin paused, concern flitting across his eyes before he resumed moving, but now at a noticeably less purposeful pace. It almost looked as though he were approaching a feral aggradon. Once he was within arm’s reach, his arms lifted, reaching to Boney’s head.

Bonaeaix watched with wide-eyed nerves as the oldblood grabbed the wide-brimmed hat and folded one side up, pinching his fingers at the resultant crease for several seconds before then stepping back and examining the resultant look of the hat with one side folded up and remaining that way.

'There you go, now you look the part, Boney.' Solin nodded with a look of satisfaction to him.

Coadmit moved so that he could examine the folded hat. ‘It’s a good look. Keep it, even after you earn the coat.’

Solin grunted and waved a hand in a motion that suggested that he wanted the pair to now move to stand with the other thirteen skinks. Once they had joined the others, the oldblood looked to them with a serious expression.

‘Sorry to say, you fifteen aren’t going to be resting with the rest of us. I have a job for you. Something simple,’ he hurriedly added, looking toward Boney—best just get used to it then—and shaking his head. ‘I’m not throwing you into the thick of it, major. Something simple to let you get adjusted and learn about those under your command before you start leading entire regiments.’

The oldblood lifted the map he’d rolled up previously and handed it to Boney, who accepted it and resisted the urge to immediately unroll it and start examining. He might have resisted the urge, but he still focused on that particular urge and not the desire to flinch away from the larger lizardman.

Solin continued speaking, stepping back so that he could address all fifteen assembled skinks as one. ‘There’s a farm a half day’s travel from here. The village has hired you to go check up, make sure they’re safe. There have been attacks along the road and this village is understandably worried about their source of food and trade.’

‘Greenskins?’ one of the other skinks asked.

‘Apparently not, according to other travellers passing through. But they never spoke of what it was. Worst case, beastmen—we aren’t that far from the Drakwald. If it isn’t greenskins, it’s beastmen. Best case, rogue humans.’

‘What do we do once we’ve reached the farm?’ Boney asked.

‘That’s up to you.’ Solin’s voice was stern. ‘If it’s safe, then all you have to do is meet back with us at the next village—it’s been marked on that map. If it’s not, judge for yourself if you need to run back to us and ask for help, or intervene on your own. If the farm is gone, run back here, tell the villagers here, and then move on to catch up with the caravan.’

Boney nodded a single slow nod. He understood now, this was also a test of his ability to fit into the role he’d been given. This wasn’t a role he could afford to make mistakes in, not when those mistakes could cost lives depending on him. One bad decision and it would cost lives that needn’t be lost.

He wondered idly if that was part of why he had only been given skinks to command. It could sometimes get difficult to tell how advanced a hold the geas had over saurus when they weren’t yet scar veterans. Back at Tiamoxec, Boney had seen the effect the geas had on saurus, had made a comment and then watched as the saurus moved to obey what hadn’t even been a command. A comment about being hungry had seen a saurus rush to go hunt some food.

Even freshly spawned, at least skinks had the ability to question, to use their judgement. It felt like a natural choice for Boney to be commanding skinks only for his first test of command.

‘Sergeant Coadmit, you are the major’s attendant. Give him advice. Help him in any way you can. Help him become the major he needs to be.’

Coadmit gave a nod. ‘I understand and will do so.’

There was a satisfied grunt from the oldblood. ‘While you are leaving now, this isn’t a rush. Feel free to set camp partway so that you arrive during daylight. Humans tend to react better to meeting during the day. Well, I look forward to hearing from you on your return.’

It was as much a dismissal as any other that Boney had heard. He turned and looked at the fourteen skinks apparently now under his command.

‘All right, let’s move out.’

 

Attack on Tallow Farm ​

The Old World - Off the Middenheim Road
—

The sun had risen above the distant horizon but wasn't yet halfway to reaching the peak of the sky when the fifteen skinks finally started the final trek of their march to the largely isolated farmstead. They had marched halfway to the farm, then set camp for the night before waking and resuming the trek at daybreak.

The day was shaping up to be a particularly hot one, not a cloud to block the summer sun from blazing down its heating light upon those walking the uneven and hilly terrain. For a human, it might have been uncomfortable, sweltering even. But for the Children of the Gods, it was a pleasant warmth that reminded them of home. Madrigal was a hot locale, ideal for those the young-races called lizardmen.

Boney had taken the colonel's words about humans preferring to converse in daylight to heart.

The major was still getting used to moving with a sword strapped to his waist—it was an unfamiliar weight. The scabbard seemed to bounce with every step he took, rattled and knocked against his tail. It wasn't until one of the skinks who was carrying a sabre rather than a musket had mentioned that he could use his tail to pin down the sword that he found reprieve from the consistent tapping. He tucked the scabbard's length beneath his tail and continued to march.

There was a sense that, other than Coadmit, the skinks weren't quite certain what to make of their new major. They could probably sense that he was younger than a priest usually was when they took a commanding position. He was old enough that he could be a cohort alpha—a sergeant to use the Legion's terminology. But as priests went, he was still young enough that he should be serving within the Tiamoxec temple, learning under Annat'corri's attendants.

Joke was on them, he was the oldest that could be spared for the Legion. For the past three centuries, there hadn't been nearly as many skink spawned with the touch of the Old Ones as there used to be. It was news that might not have reached the Legion, no need to give them a source of worry about something beyond their control after all.

'Major,' one of the sabre wielding skinks spoke up after hours of not a word spoken.

Boney gave a sound of acknowledgement, turned his head enough to see the one who had spoken.

'Why are you so nervous around the colonel?' It was asked with an innocent ignorance.

Boney shook his head, had to momentarily fight off the chill at the thought of the oldblood. 'It's nothing.'

'That's not nothing,' another skink said. 'You looked like he was a dread saurian on the hunt when he approached you.'

'It was not that bad,' Boney argued, hated how his voice almost squeaked at the end. He was a skink, not a dratted skaven.

'Sorry to tell,' yet another skink decided to enter the conversation, 'but you looked just like a skaven when faced with a fair fight.'

Boney shot that particular skink a dirty look for the comparison. 'I'm not nervous around Solinaraxl.'

'No, you're not nervous. You're scared of him,' The one who'd started the topic said with a tone that brokered no argument.

'Do I have reason to be scared?' Boney asked.

'No.' Coadmit gave the answer with a very resolute voice. 'So long as you don't give him cause to. Which you won't.'

'Doesn't stop the fact that he was shivering when Solin approached to fix up his hat.' That same skink continued to argue.

'Solin didn't exactly give a good first impression when he learnt that we had a new major,' Coadmit rebutted. 'Can you tell me that when you first arrived to the Legion you'd not be wary around any of the oldbloods if they looked at you like a feral carnosaur guarding its nest?'

That at least seemed to silence the speculation. Boney gave a thankful look toward Coadmit, who shrugged and continued to march with his eyes set forward.

In truth, it wasn't strictly the oldblood that made Boney nervous. Solin had just managed to breach his guard enough that his nerves showed around him. It was the saurus in general. There were some who had outgrown the geas—who didn't appreciate having limited free will before that moment that they'd aged or experienced enough for it to wear off.

It had been one bad experience to taint the well for Boney, who might be able to hide it but had looked at every saurus since that moment with suspicion. It stood to reason if he could hide how he felt, what was to say that the saurus around weren't also able to hide how they truly felt.

On one claw, Boney was actually rather thankful that Solinaraxl was open in his not-quite disdain. It meant that his feeling was open, visible. Boney was still nervous of the idea of being near the oldblood, but at least the nature of the oldblood's feelings was open.

Alas, Boney elected not to share his feelings. He knew it was partially irrational—if saurus were prone to feeling as that one scar-veteran had been, their race would have likely collapsed long ago under the weight of such resentment. So he didn't share because he was not interested in being mocked for such an irrational feeling of nervousness around his larger kin.

The scar-veteran had ended up meeting a grisly end—ignored the warnings of the skinks charged with caring for thundersaurs and upset a pair of carnosaur who had recently laid eggs. It was a warning that had applied to all of them, not just the saurus population; now it was a cautionary tale—a reminder that while they might not understand the emotions behind those who birth their young, be it live or through eggs, they didn't need to understand those emotions to understand that any perceived threat to their young was to provoke a furious vengeance upon the perceived threat.

Do not get between a mother and her offspring. It was something observed even in the wild: with feral wildlife hunting prey, a predator would back away before knowingly going near a mother and her spawn.

Boney chose to change the subject. 'So why do only five of you have muskets? '

It took the major a full two seconds to actually remember the name of the ranged weapon used by the Legion's skinks, but he accepted that it would be something he'd get used to quickly. There were no muskets upon the Madrigal Isle, and while part of the learning process required before being shipped to the Legion taught of the wood and metal firearms, it was still different being near them—needing to accept them as part of the new normal.

One of the sabre-carrying skinks gave a chuckle. It wasn't mocking, deriding, or anything of the sort—just a slight amusement at the confusion. 'While us redcoat skinks have become known for carrying muskets, we don't all use them. Same as back on Madrigal, we didn't all use bolt-spitters or javelins.'

Another of the skinks followed up with their own input. 'And the muskets take a lot of practice before we're allowed to carry them outside of supervised practice. It takes two seasons for us to earn the uniforms. It can take twice that before we're given permission to carry muskets.'

Boney remembered the comment Coadmit had made about how the idea of his skipping the process of earning the red coat would be a sore point for the Legion's rank and file. He assumed that it was a similar issue for carrying the young-race weapons.

A third skink snorted softly. 'And even among those of us allowed to carry them? We have a limited number. The crafters and artisans do what they can, but we're never going to have enough to arm every last skink that joins the Legion.' He paused, tilted his head, and then chuckled. 'That's also why, despite the differences from our traditional kin, saurus don't usually use the muskets and stick to the fighting up close that they've always done.'

'"Usually"?' Boney asked.

Coadmit answered. 'I heard that some of the saurus have gotten to use them, but those were less than normal moments where Ingwel or Solin had to make use of what they could in the moment. While harsh language is the ranged weapon of choice for our saurus kin, it is difficult for sword-wavers to fight things that are flying out of reach. Hurt feelings don't drop monsters to the ground.'

The mental image had Boney laugh. He was laughing hard enough that he missed the satisfied look that the other fourteen skinks shared with each other.

Boney's laughter was halted when he heard the skink that was furthest forward call out a warning. 'I see smoke.'

All mirth vanished—not just from Boney but from all fifteen of them. A column of black smoke rose from what looked to be just the other side of the next hill. All the other skinks turned to look at Boney with expectant gazes. It reminded him that he was now their leader—the one to command them until they returned to the rest of the Legion, where Solin would be the one in command once more.

'Sabres with me, we'll move on ahead,' he commanded, felt himself fall into a calm state where all outside stimuli were faded from recognition and hyper-focused on the matter at claw. 'Muskets follow behind, use the hill's peak to watch.' He paused, considered what he knew on what he'd been taught about the Legion and how it worked, then turned to face the nine sabre-wielding skinks. 'Spread ourselves so we don't block the muskets' view more than we have to.'

Apparently, he had made the right choice—none of them argued or protested that he'd made an error. In the quiet part of his mind that was clouded over from things to only register once everything was calmed again, he noted that he needed to learn names after this was finished—he had been forced to address them by what weapons they were holding.

He reached the top of the hill at the same time as the skink who had first noticed the smoke. Down the other side, he could make out about five human buildings clustered together with a scattering of other buildings distant from those five, yet still a part of the same collection, and there were fields that had been fenced off—the ground within either growing vegetation in straight rows that had nothing to do with nature or nothing but dirt which had been turned but yet to actually grow anything.

This must be the human's farm.

The smoke was rising from one of the buildings—a fire slowly consuming one wall and a part of the roof, indicating that this wasn't a controlled or wanted blaze. From the hill, Boney couldn't make out anybody, be they human or otherwise, but that didn't mean they weren't there. Somebody had to have started the fire.

He turned to the skinks lining beside him, a gap of a foot between each skink so as to not block the ranged support. 'March down, call out if you see anyone or anything.'

He was rewarded with trills of acknowledgement, and they began to make their way down the hill in a slow, controlled march, sabres pulled free from sheaths and scabbards. Boney rested his hand on the hilt of his own blade, fingers coiled around the grip—a momentary breach of his internal focus had him wondering if he had the right to pull the sword from the scabbard. There was history to his blade, he could feel it. It might have even belonged to the one he had replaced. He could simply focus on his Old One granted gifts, but it felt wrong to carry a blade and not even have it ready to be used should the need arise.

With a gasping intake of breath, he fought against any doubts he had and yanked the blade free of the scabbard. Colonel Solin had told Marz to give him the sword—it might be a bigger offence to not use it. And with the sword now in hand, his hyper-focus was no longer intruded upon.

The first sign of life they encountered was as they passed by the invisible line that marked the edge of the farmstead's property line. It was near an old, decrepit-looking windmill that even to Boney's untrained eye was in need of renovation. But the wings spun, so presumably the humans of the farm were willing to put up with it for now. As they entered beneath the shadow of the tall structure, a human came sprinting down the dirt path from the direction of the majority of the buildings.

The human was dressed in simple garb, his tanned skin was a pale shade, and eyes were wide with frantic fright. He stopped abruptly, the fifteen skinks looking from one to the next with a manic desperation. Boney wondered if the human was about to mark them as threats—they were other after all; it would not surprise him. He was pleasantly surprised when the human seemed to get over the lizards after he visibly examined the clothing worn and came to some conclusion in his head.

'We're under attack, run for our lives!'

And with that shouted declaration, he continued to run, managed to easily slip through the gap between Boney and the skink to his left. Boney didn't begrudge the human his choice. Humans were ill-equipped for fighting unless they were dedicated fighters. Better he flee than feel bold enough to fight and get in the way as a consequence.

Boney felt a momentary spike of irritation that they weren't even told just what was attacking. Beastmen? Greenskins? For all that he was aware, Tzeentch had gotten bored of playing puppet master over the world and personally come down to harass farmsteads into feeding a secret addiction to bovine milk. Screaming that there was an attack was not helpful.

Now that Boney and his cohort were on level ground, he needed to reorganise. 'Muskets in front. Sabres behind, keep the gaps, let the muskets retreat behind us if the enemy gets close.' Again, there was no critique of his command so hopefully he was on the right track with his leadership.

They moved slowly down the dirt trail, eyes open for any sign of what was apparently attacking the farm. They got their first look at the threat soon enough. It wasn't beastmen, orcs, or even human marauders.

'Undead?' Coadmit muttered in momentary confusion.

Shambling corpses moved towards panicked humans who did their utmost to get around them. While the moving dead were slow, there were a lot of them and it was starting to look like they were herding the humans towards the middle of the five most clustered buildings.

'What are undead doing here?' another skink wondered.

'Attacking,' Boney answered without thinking. He was rewarded with a snort of amusement that was quickly suppressed back into a cautious alertness. 'Protect the humans.'

With the three-word command given, the six skinks with the muskets shouldered their weapons, took careful aim, and fired. After the quintet of explosive retorts, five of the walking corpses fell to the ground—one with its head now in several hundred fragments upon the dirt, one with an arm missing from the shoulder, one missing a leg from the knee down, and the other two with large chunks of their torsos simply missing.

The sound of gunfire got the attention of everybody in the vicinity, living and dead. The farmers and their families had a mixed reaction as they registered just what their saviours were, while the dead seemed to pause as if contemplating the fact they had just been shot at. If that was indeed what they were doing, they apparently deigned not to care and simply continued to shamble toward whatever the nearest living entity was.

With the threat being something that didn't care to retaliate against active threats, Boney had to make a choice. He hadn't the ability to bait the undead into leaving the farmers in favour of his cohort, which meant to protect the farmers they were going to have to engage.

'You, you, and you.' He pointed in turn to three of the sabre-wielding skinks. 'Stay with the muskets, Coadmit take charge. Focus your ranged fire at the masses while any loose threats or any that decide to focus on you will get cut down by the sabres. The rest of you'—that last "you" was spoken with a general gesture toward those six sabre-equipped skinks he hadn't motioned before—'are coming with me. We're going to the humans and protecting them by making ourselves the barrier.'

It was something that would only work because these undead weren't acting with any cohesive strategy—they saw a human, they lurched toward that human. If there was any actual organisation to the undead, Boney would have been very tempted to call off any attempt to intervene in what was happening. He'd tried to count the number of corpses but lost count at the forty mark. And that was only the ones that he could see.

'They're easily distracted,' he noted as he watched one of the corpses switch target in favour of another human that ran past it just slightly closer than the initial target had been. 'And they are slow. We keep moving, get close, distract and retreat, then cut down any that are far enough that we won't chance getting surrounded by the others. Any objections?'

There were none. Thankfully. Of everything that Boney had learnt, basic methods of fighting against a swarm of shambling corpses was strangely absent from those lessons he'd been given.

He did have a weapon against the tide of undead, but the one lesson that hadn't been missed was the human suspicion of all things magic. Even in the Empire of Man, where there was an official institution, the peasantry were still less than favourable. It wasn't something that would outright prevent him from using his abilities, but it was enough for him to relegate such to an "only if running out of other options" strategy.

He led the charge, followed closely by the six members of the cohort that he'd motioned to accompany him. The first undead they reached, he swung his new sabre, managed to cut through rotted flesh and brittle bone, removed an arm, and had the corpse fall to the ground with a rattling groan that no corpse had the right to be sounding out. Behind him, one of the other skinks stabbed the body in the head. Apparently, that was enough to destabilize the magic keeping it animated, and it switched back to being an ordinary corpse of the non-walking variety.

That was reassuring. There had been a part of Boney worried that whatever had animated the dead wouldn't release its hold on them.

A shambler approached a child who screamed as she fell to the ground in her frantic effort to retreat from the undead abomination. Boney reacted quickly, sprinted forward and positioned himself between the dead and the child, held the blade up in what he hoped was a proper guarded stance for a bladed weapon. His first ever swing of the sabre had been—and he'd be the first to admit—a fairly lucky blow. There was a difference between bladed—edged—weapons, and the clubs typically favoured by his kin. For one thing, there was only one edge that was actually lethal.

The shambler hesitated once the existence of something other than its target registered within whatever passed for its mind. Then it lurched forward, arms outstretched aimed for Boney. The skink ducked beneath the grasping arms, swung his sabre. This time he wasn't so fortunate—it wasn't the bladed edge that met rotted flesh but the flat side of the weapon.

It might not have cut, but the sudden force of the blow still had the shambler stumble unsteadily, which gave time for another skink to intervene and decapitate the undead. The corpse fell, wasn't even given the chance for a death rattle. But Boney ignored that, saw another three shamblers making their way toward them and then turned his head to look upon the child.

'Go, go!'

The child didn't need to be told twice. She clambered back to her feet and ran, calling for her mother.

The skink who had decapitated the corpse adjusted his stance, yellow eyes fixed upon the approaching trio of shamblers. 'I have the one on the right.'

Boney nodded, his grip in the hilt tightened. At an unspoken signal, both lunged forward.


*


Gidul hadn't been sure what to make of the new major. First impression had been that the younger skink was bafflingly timid. He hadn't been joking about the fact that Major Boney's reaction to the oldblood approaching him had been to shiver from nerves. He had dropped the matter quickly once Coadmit had pointed out that being target to a negative first impression of the colonel would probably be enough to startle even a saurus still under the geas into unsteady nerves.

However, once the situation had shifted into defending defenceless human farmers from the stumbling dead, the major had shifted, changed from the slightly awkward skink who clearly felt the fact that he was the newcomer that needed to find a way to integrate. In his place was the commanding presence of a skink priest, a major. He gave clear orders and he was moving to fight by their side, rather than lead from behind. And despite not having the intimate knowledge that came of experience, he was clearly trying to account for what he knew of the muskets when he ordered the formation he had.

But then Boney had shown that he still had much learning to do when he swung his blade all wrong. Thankfully, rotted and decayed flesh meant that there was no risk to the blade, it flexed at the impact but didn't snap, and the shambler had stumbled from the force, allowed Gidul to finish it off.

No doubt, once they were reunited with the other half of the Legion, Colonel Iycan'ceya would take the new major under his wing to learn to make the blade dance, to sing in his hand.

But that was for another time. Gidul blinked, and as if that simple act were a signal, he and the major dashed forth. Gidul neared his chosen target, ducked under a surprisingly quick swipe from the shambler, swung his blade in an upward cleave that disarmed the undead abomination, then redirected his blade to carve through its torso. The rotted, maggot-filled flesh gave no resistance. The shambler dropped to the ground in three distinct pieces.

He redirected his attention to the shambler that had been in the middle of the three, took note of just how close it was. The shambler turned to look upon Gidul with its vacant milky eyes. Gidul hissed lowly, and pushed himself forward, slammed his shoulder into the shambler with enough force to send it to the ground with a moan that didn't convey any emotion to the situation.

Boney, finished with his target, lunged and stabbed his sabre into the undead's skull. Despite the length of edged metal firmly lodged into its forehead, the undead groaned again and started to sit up. Started to, but Boney, with a look of disgust—not an altogether unreasonable look to have when faced with walking corpses—twisted his blade. The skull splintered and shattered, and the corpse finally stilled.

'Disgusting,' Boney muttered under his breath, but his eyes were already darting side to side, taking in his surroundings. Good, Gidul approved silently. He's not fixating, he's thinking.

It gave him a measure of hope that Boney would live up to his responsibilities as the Legion's newest major. He had been thrust into a place where he had to think because if he didn't, it wouldn't just be Boney suffering his own mistakes, it would be those entrusted to his care. He would still need watching, which Gidul admitted privately was likely why the colonel had made Sergeant Coadmit the major's personal attendant. That was a good choice, in Gidul's mind. Coadmit had long been having difficulties adjusting, something to take his attention, to take his mind from how much he was clearly chaffing at the Legion's "conformism" would do him favours.

It would be a pity to see Coadmit get transferred over to any of Mort's regiments.

Boney managed to cleave another shambler down, actually managed to swing with the sharpened edge being the point of contact. After a moment, the major glanced at the nearby buildings, eyes clearly appraising for some purpose. After two seconds, his eyes returned to the ground and any shamblers that might make a threat of themselves.

There was an echoing gunshot, and another shambler flew back, bone and maggot-infested gore bursting free from the newly opened hole upon the undead's body. Another shambler was cut down by another skink, who leapt with an acrobatic grace which landed in a roll, and a second shambler cut down in one motion.

It looked as though they'd almost cleared out the shamblers; naught but a few lingering walking corpses remained.

'How good are we at climbing human buildings?' Boney asked. Gidul couldn't tell if he was the intended recipient of the question or if it had been asked in general. Still, he gave the answer quickly once he body-checked and decapitated another shambler. 'Depends on the building. These ones? Easily.'

It wasn't a boast. The farmstead's buildings were wooden structures that weren't completely flat vertical planes. There were plenty of handholds, and their claws were durable enough that they could easily climb even without them.

There was a bark of gunfire, and a nearby shambler fell to the ground while its head decorated the ground in a wide five-foot spread in several dozen fragments. The scent of gunpowder was starting to burn his nostrils, but it wasn't unpleasing to Gidul. Maybe once, but time had long since numbed him to any unpleasantness that the odour might once have brought. Now it was a scent that his mind associated with his kin, with the Legion at work.

Boney wasn't quite so adjusted, his nostrils twitched repeatedly, flaring and compressing as his body tried in vain to dispel the scent. Despite his unconscious reaction to the smell of smoked black powder, Boney made a vague gesture at the buildings. 'Muskets, climb to the top of the buildings. Get us a look at them.' Boney had raised his voice; it wasn't a shout but it was a commanding projection, though with a slight wobble to it that for those who cared to listen, told that he wasn't quite confident in himself to be commanding strangers yet, something that would change given time.

Gidul nodded in approval. Boney had clearly noticed the same thing that Gidul had—the shamblers had no ranged offence to them; once the muskets were on the roofs, they'd be safe to fire down at the walking corpses without fear.

The shamblers didn't even seem to acknowledge the buildings as anything other than something to move around, an obstacle.

This actually begged the question of what started the fire on that one building. Even if the shamblers were so inclined to start the fire, they had no means to do so. Gidul made a silent mental note of that, a reminder to bring it to Boney's attention if the major hadn't considered it himself. It might be Coadmit's explicit duty to coach the major, but it was in all their interests to help the young skink grow into his role.

Around them, the skinks armed with the muskets clearly heard the order given. From where Gidul was, he could see Sergeant Coadmit sling his musket over his shoulder and then sprint for the building nearest to him. He leapt, and the claws on both hands and feet stabbed into the wood. Once certain that he was solidly attached to the wall, the skink scaled the wall with the same ease that any of their kin would the trees of Madrigal.

The order to protect the musket-carriers as they climbed turned out to be pointless, they were able to climb the structures with speed enough that by the time the sabre-wielders reached the walls themselves, their charges were already at the top.

From their new perches on the roofs of the buildings, the muskets were fired off and it was clear that while the skinks in question were trying to be prompt, there was no longer a rush that indicated that they were desperate to reload before any threat might use the opportunity to reach them whilst occupied. Downside of only having had five of the ranged combatants. Double that, then staggered firing lines would have made for a more comfortable experience.

'Get in the buildings, shut your doors,' Boney outright shouted this time addressing any of the humans that might still be out in the open. 'Keep them shut until we say it is safe!'

Hopefully, the humans would be smart enough to take good advice for what it was. A good way of making sure they survived and also kept them out from under the Legion's feet. Not that there were many undead left. Another few barks of gunfire, a couple more deceased walkers left bereft of head or limbs, and it appeared they had cleared them all.

'Coadmit,' Boney called toward the roof that the sergeant in question had climbed onto, 'what do you see?'

'Another three-score of them. Just the walking corpses, nothing else.' As he spoke, Coadmit fired his musket and there was a trill of satisfaction. 'They aren't swarming. There is no order to how they move. They'll be on us in minutes.'

Boney gave a chirp of acknowledgement. 'All sabres to me.'

At his command, all nine of the skinks not armed with muskets approached and came to stand before the major, eying him with anticipation. They were as a consequence gathered up in the middle of a cluster of four of the buildings.

Their positioning meant that there were four approaches that the shamblers could make to get at them. Though, Gidul glanced back the way that they'd arrived, they don't seem smart enough to circle fully around. So maybe only three?

Boney examined their surroundings, eyes narrowed in deep thought. 'Three to each, or no, wait,' he mumbled, more so to himself than for the benefit of those near him.

Moments later, he let out a clicking sound and pointed to two of his subordinates then moved his finger to one of the approaches, the narrowest between two buildings close enough together that they were almost touching. 'You two stand your ground at that approach.' He repeated the motion with another three skinks and then the wider space between the two buildings opposite. 'You three on that approach.'

Gidul anticipated the next and pointed at the last of the gaps between the buildings that was in a direction that the shambling dead might attack from. 'The rest of us on that one?'

Boney nodded, eyes narrowed in thought. 'I'll be on that one as well.' It was mumbled as if even as the words left him, he was trying to think of any reason why he shouldn't be.

Gidul's eyes lingered on the artificial canyon formed by the four buildings. It wasn't exactly vast but it would keep the shambling corpses from surrounding the small force with any measure of ease. There was still one point to make though...

'You do remember that we're skinks, not saurus?' he asked Boney, didn't let anything that could be misinterpreted as accusation into his tone.

It was a very valid question. Saurus were always going to be hardier and more enduring than skinks. It made them better suited for holding ground and pushing back against an oncoming offence. Skinks, when put into melee combat, were less the ocean that their saurus brothers were, a danger that came if the enemy tried to swim too long they'd drown, or a wave that would wash away the enemy. Instead, melee focused skinks were akin to the wind, constantly dancing untouched, in and out of the guard of the foe, always moving. Even in melee, skinks were about skirmishing, not weathering the attack.

Boney cast a look to Gidul, not one of annoyance or irritation. Simply a silent appraisal. Gidul wondered if the reason for the examination was because the major was trying to work out whether Gidul's motives for the question were from a place of critique, or insubordination. The major didn't answer until the next gunshot.

'I know.' Boney didn't growl or snarl, his tone was an artful blandness. 'If we were facing anything else, I wouldn't be doing it this way. But what I can see is that these shamblers aren't a threat by themselves, not even for us skinks. But in number, we will have problems.'

Boney paused again as another gunshot echoed through the air. His hand rose up and tapped at his chest, two inches below his neck. The motion pressed the linen of his shirt down just enough that Gidul was able to make out that he wore something beneath.

'I need them clustered close. Funnel them, hold them back, I can purge them. But I will need you all to give me time.'

Gidul examined the major, tried to determine if this was a case of an inflated sense of power, underestimating the threat of the shamblers, or if there was a glimmer of truth, of whatever he was planning being a valid path to not just survival but victory.

He chose to put his trust in his new major. It was Boney's eyes. He had a look of certainty, but also of nervousness despite that certainty. He believed that he could take down the shambling dead, but it didn't stop him from worrying. So, not an inflated sense of power, else he wouldn't be nervous, and the same went for the idea of underestimating the threat of the shamblers. Why feel nervous of the threat you were underestimating?

Gidul moved to his position, held out his sabre in a defensive stance. To his right, the major did the same. Grip was tighter than it needed to be, there was a rigidity to his stance that screamed of inexperience with fighting. But he was putting himself right there in the place of danger alongside his kin.

Gidul didn't know what to think of this new major at first. But he decided there and then that he had potential. He just needed to survive long enough to reach that potential.


*


Boney inhaled. It wasn't an inhale to steady his nerves, he was still hyper-focused on only what needed attention to fight, win, prevail. A small corner of his mind acknowledged that later, once the combat senses faded, he would be feeling all sorts of emotions that were being locked away right then. Time and place, his subconscious knew best for both.

'Muskets, focus your attentions on any shamblers that circle to the side openings.'

He heard the acknowledgement, good. He wasn't lying when he said that he could remove the threat so long as they were pressed close, condensed instead of stumbling about without formation. Not that they'd get formation once they were channelled down into the corridor formed by the four buildings. But they'd be forced into a closeness that was actually better for his purposes.

Boney tapped his neckpiece again, through the shirt and crimson waistcoat. It hung low enough that despite the top of the shirt not being fastened, it was hidden from prying eyes. Exhaled, and as the breath left him, it was replaced with the sense of earthly limitations being shucked. Inhaled again, and those limitations were transformed as the Winds of Magic filled his lungs. His very being took in those winds, hungrily absorbed them, allowed them to fuel his mind and he became aware.

'Here they come,' Coadmit shouted out in warning.

Just hold the winds until the right moment. Boney tapped the neckpiece again, focused his mind, then relaxed all his senses.

The shamblers appeared, appeared at the opening between the two buildings and lumbered forward on unsteady feet, arms not outstretched but twitching in a manner that suggested they had enough awareness to them to know that they wanted to strike at the five skinks that they could see as they lumbered forward.

Before they got close enough for the skinks to start swinging, Boney chanced a brief look up at the roof he knew Coadmit had perched. 'Coadmit, tell me the moment the last shambler has entered into this opening.'

He heard the words of understanding, but couldn't make out just what those words were, as the first of the shamblers had reached arms length and now Boney had pressing concerns. He swung his sabre, hadn't gotten the angle right and ended up slapping the arm that reached for him with the broad side of the blade rather than cut the arm off with the edge. Still, it was enough to allow Boney to thrust forward, punctured through the torso with what would have been a fatal stab, were it not for the fact that the shambler didn't really need that particular lung anymore. With a hissed curse, Boney pulled at his sabre and grimaced as a flicker of disgust escaped the confines of where it was that his mind was locking away the unimportant feelings.

The not-quite bisected shambler fell backward, landed on another shambler, which ignored the body pushing against it and continued forward. This time Boney's swing was angled properly, the sharp edge cut through the moulded flesh of the undead's neck, cleaved through the rotted bone, and came out the other side. The head fell, the body collapsed.

Ducked a swipe from the next to near him. Even though the corpses looked like they would have no strength to their arms, looked as if their swipes would be weak and ineffectual, the magic to reanimate them had to have given them strength enough to kill, else what would be the point? No need to test it.

The blade came down upon that shambler, cut from its right shoulder and down and out at the left hip.

They weren't durable. It was as Boney had explained to the other skink, if they'd been fighting anything else he would have had to think of something else, some other plan because skinks were not walls. They hadn't, would never have the durability and the stamina of their saurus brethren. But these walking corpses that were already so rotted that the weapons of the skinks were cutting them down with no resistance whatsoever, well, he had his plan. It would work.

He leaned forward and thrust his sabre, punctured through the corpse's unseeing eye. Ripped the blade out, twisted around. Tail slapped the groaning corpse in the gut with force enough to send it stumbling back and tilting with no chance of regaining balance. It would have fallen prone, but the shambler behind it continued forward without pause, pushed it back upright.

More of the undead were started to push their way into the funnel, and the more that tried to do so, the more took up a smaller space. The "street" if it could be called such was becoming increasingly crowded with groaning, lurching corpses that should have remained unmoving but for whatever fell sorcery had deigned to reanimate them.

Two minutes. Boney would later wonder why he was so certain that that was the exact amount of time which had passed before Coadmit shouted out that all of the undead had entered into the already crowded corridor. It was both sooner than Boney expected, but also longer.

The major inhaled once more, his left hand gripped at his hidden neckpiece.

'Brace!' It was all the warning he could give. His fellow skinks wouldn't be harmed, but he wanted to be certain they didn't accidentally move, put themselves in harm's way.

Major Bonaeaix exhaled, and with that, he shaped the Winds of Magic, manipulated them, formed them to his desires. Around him, the air moved, gained strength and pushed. The skinks holding the line against the undead were untouched, the winds moved around them, at most gave a gentle caress before then picking up speed and strength, pushed against the horde of undead abominations, picked up any lose debris, any stones, even the used up spherical bullets fired from the muskets and hurled them at the horde, slicing, tearing even as the undead were shoved back and back and back. Decaying flesh was shorn from rotted bone, which in turn was filed away into naught but dust as the wind howled with the fury of the one who had commanded it.

When the torrential blast of winds finally died down, Boney panted, blinking away the feeling of withdrawal that came from no longer holding in and shaping the Winds of Magic. There was a chill which had nothing to do with temperature, but otherwise, all was well.

There was still fighting, but it was the smaller numbers of undead which had for whatever reason moved to the other openings. Nothing to worry over, they were smaller groups that tried to push through narrower passages, now facing a greater number of skinks, who could swap out and cover for each other. It was over quickly.

Boney felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up to see Coadmit, down from the roof and looking at him with a look of pride. 'Not bad.'

Boney chuckled. What else could he do to such an understated praise? Not that he cared for praise—he had performed his role as priest… as the major of this cohort. He had been touched by the Old Ones not so he could be given praise, but so that he could enact the will of the Old Ones, keep those Children of the Gods he could alive.


*


An hour later, Boney was getting his first taste of the other part of his duty as a major of the Legion: diplomacy.

Not that it was a difficult exercise this time. He wasn't negotiating payment, or trying to convince the farmers that the Legion wasn't a swarm of Chaos daemons. No, in this instance, he was just trying to get a picture of what had happened.

It turned out that the reason for the delay which had so worried the previous village hadn't been anything malign. It had simply been a case of weather delaying the harvest, which took priority. It was good fortune that the worry of the villagers had resulted in their coming to the farm to check in on them and arriving in time to fend off the undead.

It wasn't so simple as an unfortunate case of being in the path of roaming undead, as he'd learnt when he wondered aloud why the one building had been on fire.

'You aren't going to believe this,' the woman said, ignoring the hushes of another two humans. 'But it was rats.'

Boney blinked in confusion, shared a look with Coadmit, who was stood at his side. 'Rats?'

'Giant man-sized rats.'

Oh! 'Skaven?'

This time it was the woman who blinked, as did the other two humans nearby. 'You know of them?'

'Skaven are a blight upon the world,' Coadmit muttered.

Boney snorted in agreement. 'I've never encountered them myself,' he admitted though he quickly cast a questioning look at the sergeant, who nodded to convey that the Legion had. 'Heard stories. My kind hates them.'

Understatement. Skaven were arguably considered as being more despised by the Children of Gods than even Chaos could claim. Though, if the stories were true—and Boney had no reason to doubt—the hatred for the skaven was more of a personal nature than the hatred for Chaos was.

'What were the skaven doing?' he asked rather than dwell on his thoughts.

'They were rounding us up and dragging those they found away, to the south and east. They disappeared at the same time that the undead showed up.'

Boney clicked his tongue as he tried to think up any instances of being told about skaven and necromancy in the same sentence. None came to mind, everything he had ever learnt about the vermin was that they wouldn't bother with necromancy as it took away from what they saw as food. Another look toward Coadmit had him rewarded with a look of the same bafflement that Boney felt.

'Odd,' he finally muttered. 'You said they left when the undead showed? How so? Fleeing, or like they were working together?'

The human shrugged, looked apologetic that she couldn't answer. 'I was trying to avoid getting grabbed and dragged away. They were in a hurry, I can say that much. Once they started leaving, they ignored everybody.'

Boney hummed thoughtfully. 'They were taken south and east? Is there anything that way?'

One of the other humans gave a "hemm", his head tilted in though. 'Isn't that where the old burnt down church is?'

'Oh right, that old place.' The woman narrowed her eyes in recognition then turned back to Boney. 'It's more a chapel than a church. Greenskins burnt and looted it in my pa's pa's time.'

Later, while the fifteen skinks watched as the remaining humans departed the farmstead to travel to the relative safety of the nearest village, Coadmit leaned close to Boney.

'You did well, for your first chat with humans.'

'Really?' Boney tried to relax muscles that were so tense that it felt as though they were about to snap from the strain. 'Because I was panicking the whole time thinking I was about to say the wrong thing.'

'No, you did well.' Coadmit's voice tried to be reassuring. Tried, but Coadmit's voice had a stoic nature that gave little away even when it was evident that he was trying. 'You could have tried to ask after any reward: food, livestock, or material, but you focused on knowledge.'

'Is that good or bad?'

'Neither.' Coadmit paused for a moment to pull a rag from one of the pouches on his person and started to wipe at his musket. 'You decided that you wanted to learn more about what happened. And you asked questions, and in such a way that the humans gave you the answers without feeling like they were giving anything valuable.'

'Didn't learn much though.'

'We learnt that skaven are in the area, that they might or might not be involved with an undead horde attacking a farm and we know which way they've gone. What we do next is up to you.'

Boney stilled for a moment, ran those words through his mind and then looked to Coadmit. 'Aren't we supposed to meet back with the rest?'

Coadmit nodded. 'But, we have knowledge that might be time sensitive. If you decide to meet back with the rest of the Legion, then we will do so. If you feel we have to follow this opportunity, we will follow you.' Coadmit's eyes narrowed into a rueful smile. 'Welcome to being a major for the Legion. You have command.'

There was more, which went unspoken. A reminder conveyed by eye contact alone. The Outland Legion served a purpose.

Boney exhaled and looked at the rest of the skinks. They were all looking at him with expectant gazes. One of them was injured, not life-threatening, but it was enough to impact his ability to fight. Apparently an unlucky swipe from one of the shamblers had caught his elbow, now it was cradled close to his chest. Sensible thing would be to go back, meet with the rest of the Legion, pass on what he had learnt and then let the colonel make a decision.

But it was also as Coadmit had said, they weren't that far behind the skaven who had fled before their arrival, and who knew how long the vermin would be sticking around. It could be a chance to learn what they were doing in the area, or barring that, purge them.

'Are you able to move alone?' Boney asked the injured skink.

'It's my arm hurt, not my leg.' The skink didn't sound annoyed despite the wording. He had a mild undercurrent of humour to his tone, like he was just laughing off the fact he had been hurt.

'So if I asked you to run to meet up with the rest of the Legion?'

'I can do that.' The humour faded, replaced with self-directed annoyance. Clearly didn't care for whatever mistake he'd made that had gotten him hurt badly enough that he was being sent back. 'Am I passing on a message?'

Boney looked again at the assembled skinks, breathed in, thought for a moment, reaffirmed if this was the course he wanted to take.

'Tell Solin what happened here, that we saved the farmers who were still here to be saved and that we're tracking the skaven who were here before the undead. If he can send anybody else out to meet up with us…' He trailed off, gave a pointed look at the skink, who in turn gave an understanding nod.

'Church, or chapel, south and east of Tallow Farm.' The skink spoke the words in that way that indicated it was more about making certain they were committed to memory.

Boney clicked his tongue in thought. 'Might only be looking and then leaving. Skaven gather in numbers this cohort lacks.'

There were understanding trills from the others. Moments later, they were marching for their next destination.

 

Yard of Morr
​

The Old World - South of the Middenheim Road
—

By the time they located the husk of what had once been a chapel to one of the Empire’s various gods, the weather had changed. Clouds now blotted out the sun, giving an air of twilight even though there should have still been at least another two hours before the sun was due to set. Thick black clouds looked ready to begin a torrential downpour with little warning. There was an energetic pressure to the air—one that suggested that the oncoming rain was to be accompanied by a chorus of thunder and lightning.

Boney eyed the clouds with a small sense of trepidation. Intellectually, he was aware that not all storms were equal. But memories—not even distant ones—brought forth the maelstroms that could occasionally hit Madrigal. Within the temple-city of Tiamoxec, it was safe, but the surrounding jungle became a far more dangerous place than usual when hit by such a storm.

'If nothing else, the storm should make us harder to notice,' mused one of the sabre-wielding skinks—Hezcuc, Boney recalled his name.

Coadmit grunted from where he was walking at the back of the group, eye fixed on the firing hammer of his musket. 'Makes it more likely for us to have a misfire.'

Gidul gave a snort of amusement. 'And that's why I'm in no hurry to switch to muskets.'

'You sure that has nothing to do with almost shooting your own tail with a crossbow that one time?' Ohtix asked, with a tone that suggested he was aware he was poking a sleeping carnosaur with a pointy stick—he just didn't care.

Ohtix laughed as he ducked the dirt clump that Gidul threw at him, waved two of his fingers in a peculiar manner—a gesture to which Gidul returned the favour. Boney assumed it was a cultural thing that the Legion had picked up in the centuries they’d been wandering the warmbloods' lands—it wasn't something that was taught back in Tiamoxec as a necessity for life outside of the temple-city.

Boney chose to ignore the teasing banter going on with the other skinks—he chose instead to survey the old structure that still lay a ways ahead. After ten seconds of staring off at the ruin down the hill, Coadmit approached and held out a spyglass.

'Here you go.'

Boney blinked in surprise, not having expected to suddenly be handed the tool, but quickly nodded his thanks. He lifted the brass tube to his eye and enjoyed a clearer view of the chapel. He took instant note of the stone markers that matched what he had been taught humans used to mark their graves—all in neat rows. He sucked in a breath, then scanned the ruined chapel and the surrounding grounds. Human death rites were varied, but what he recalled from his lessons was that in this particular part of the world, the ideal was to be buried within a Garden of Morr. Burial in such a garden offered the body some modicum of protection from necromancers.

But as the lessons were quick to point out, burial within a Garden of Morr had a price, and not all could afford to pay that fee. The best protection a body might have otherwise was ignorance of where the corpse had been laid to rest. That or burning the body, but some humans had strange attitudes regarding the burning of their dead—like it was a mark of disrespect rather than a practical method of protecting the body of the dead from the perverse magics of necromancy.

For all that Boney searched the grounds, he saw no hint of a black rose. If this had once been a Garden of Morr, it no longer held the protection of the human death-god. The only good thing to make itself known to Boney was that the graves looked undisturbed. The walking dead that had attacked Tallow Farm had not come from these graves.

The bad news—because the Old Ones apparently felt a need to have the good be levelled out with bad—if the skaven were indeed involved with the necromancer responsible for raising the dead, they had just found a supply of bodies ripe for the necromancer's taking.

Boney voiced his observation and was rewarded with Hezcuc breathing out a soft 'Shit.' Boney pushed aside his confusion—if the word was Reikspiel, it wasn't one that he had been taught back home—and continued to focus on the chapel's grounds, looking for any hint of the skaven. A flicker of movement had Boney turn the spyglass just slightly, and he got his first ever look at a skaven.

It was a mangy looking creature standing at roughly four feet. Brown fur was matted and clumped together where it actually had any fur; large patches of its body were noticeably lacking, scarred flesh preventing the growth of new fur. It walked with a hunched posture, head twitching this way and that as though paranoid that at any given moment it was about to be attacked and mutilated.

'Sounds like a slave,' Coadmit hummed thoughtfully. 'A wretched creature even by skaven standards.'

'Rule of skaven—if you see one, add a zero.' Gidul crossed his arms, staring down at the chapel even though he wasn't able to see any detail without a spyglass.

'I know that much,' Boney said with a deadpan. 'I'm trying to find more...'

He trailed off as a new figure emerged, walking out from the tree-line on the opposite side of the chapel from the hill where the skinks were watching. The skaven slave clearly noticed the figure—it twitched and back-pedalled away from the newcomer. The figure stood still and observed the lone ratkin, head tilted.

A human? Boney realised, observing the newcomer. He was dressed in a chainmail hauberk and carried a kite shield in one hand—aren't heater shields the standard for the Empire? He couldn't quite recall—and a longsword was held in the other. Over his torso, he wore a tabard quartered into black and purple with the same four-box pattern repeated on the face of his shield, which also included a stylised image of an animal—a boar perhaps?

Boney hadn't seen many soldiers of the Empire. In fact, considering his understanding was that Marienberg wasn't a part of the Empire, he hadn't seen any such soldiers. But this figure went against the description he'd been given of Empire state troops. His first assumption—that maybe this was a Bretonnian—was quickly dismissed when he recalled that they wouldn't wear anything but plate mail while their lower classes couldn't use the longsword.

The human advanced, weapon and shield held in a manner that suggested he didn't feel threatened in the slightest.

Coadmit gave a low hiss of thought as Boney verbalised his observations. One of the sergeant's hands reached into one of the pouches at his back just above his tail, and he fished out a small leather-bound book which he quickly flicked open.

'Black and purple?' he asked with narrowed eyes. At Boney's hum of affirmation, Coadmit thumbed through the pages. 'How are the colours divided?'

'What is that?' Boney asked instead, gaze drawn from the spyglass to the small book. While he waited for an answer, he gave a brief description of the way the surcoat's colours had been split.

'Human politics is confusing,' Hezcuc explained in a low tone. 'The colours represent who they work for, but none of the Empire's main provinces use black and purple. I think. Could be a city-specific colouring or a noble's personal guard.'

'All sergeants are given a copy of that book so that we can puzzle through the confusion,' Gidul pre-empted the next question to come from Boney. 'Any colours we encounter from the Empire, Bretonnia, even a few of the elvish peoples.'

Coadmit flicked through another couple of pages and tapped a finger upon the surface as he eyed the information on display. 'The Efror Guard?' His observation came as a question. 'Used to be a city-state within Middenland before it was razed one hundred-twenty winters back. The count of Efror was killed during the siege shortly after he had his eldest son hung on charge of treason. The city doesn’t exist anymore; the Grand Duchies of Middenland and Middenheim never saw fit to rebuild.'

There was a momentary pause as the fourteen skinks let that detail sink into their minds. 'In-fighting?' Ohtix asked uncertainly. 'The Empire of Man hasn’t always been as unified as it is now. That this count executed his own son is… unusual. Humans are usually close to their spawn to the point of idiocy.'

'I’m curious why a human would be wearing the colours of a non-existent city-state,' Boney said as he returned his attention to the graveyard, watched through the spyglass. 'Do humans re-use old colours?'

He assumed that humans used the colours in the same way individual temple-cities had their own sigils. If the temple-city should fall, only those who survived and those serving under them used the symbol. Not that there were many instances of such. Zhotl was one of the few instances that came to Boney’s mind, though there were probably others that weren’t so well known.

'Sometimes, if somebody is trying to make a statement,' Gidul answered, head tilted. 'Like a claim to be an heir or successor, or a claim to be a reformation of the original bearers. It's not done often though.'

Boney hummed thoughtfully, mentally promising to ask to look through Coadmit's book at some point. None of what he'd been taught had covered the politics of the young races other than the broadest of details one needed to get by. A book that was apparently covering some of the finer details might be worth a perusal.

In the grounds surrounding the chapel, another skaven appeared. While Boney would never consider the new ratkin to be anything other than a mangy bag of fur and filth, the difference between it and the slave was clear. The grey fur of the newly appeared skaven wasn't so matted, and it was garbed in more than a simple loincloth.

The newly emerged rat gestured at the human. Its body language was, as best Boney could tell, agitated and cautious but not concerned. From the spyglass, Boney was able to see that they exchanged words. After whatever words were spoken, the human and the skaven he was speaking to turned, and both moved until they were hidden by the still partially standing walls of the chapel.

'What is going on?' Boney wondered aloud.

'Only way to find out is to get closer,' Coadmit answered.

Boney opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted as he felt something connect with the top of his snout. He briefly went cross-eyed as he tried to identify what had hit him but quickly aborted the attempt when another impact landed—then another.

Soon the rain was pouring down, heavy enough to dampen any other sound. Heavy enough that Boney had to raise his voice to be heard over the loud rhythmic pit-pat as each raindrop landed upon the ground. A glance toward the chapel revealed that the rain was thick enough to obscure their vision of the ruined husk.

'No better time than now.'

Boney led them down the hill, each footstep careful as the ground turned slick with mud—the grass and dirt incapable of drinking in the water as quickly as the rain delivered it. One misstep and Boney would find himself sliding down on his rump.

They managed to reach level ground with none of the fourteen skinks slipping, fortunately. The moment they reached the broken stone wall, which had once marked the edge of the grave's grounds, was punctuated with a flash of light followed by a distant rumbling.

Looked as though Boney had been right about the pressure in the air.

Another flash of light as a distant spike of lightning pierced through the air. Boney's eyes were instantly drawn toward movement briefly revealed in that moment—a silhouette visible through the curtain of rain. Boney quickly tapped the nearest musket-equipped skink on the shoulder, ignoring the unusual sensation of the soaked wool, then pointed his other hand in the direction that the silhouette had been.

Ohtix shouldered his musket, kept the muzzle pointed in the gestured direction even while he slowly walked, his eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what had caught the major's attention. Another spear of light illuminated the grave. Ohtix adjusted his arm and moments later pulled the trigger.

He didn't quite manage to fire at the same moment that the crack of thunder echoed through the air. But if one wasn't listening specifically for gunfire, one would simply dismiss it.

Ohtix reached for his pouch for a replacement bullet and gunpowder but stilled before he opened the leather bag, eyes lifted toward the sky, then he shook his head and adjusted his grip on the musket, readying it for use as a spear instead of a firearm.

Boney internally shrugged at that, assuming that the rain would make the reloading process more involved than it needed to be, though his inexperience with the weapons meant he wasn't certain of the particulars of that. Coadmit had commented the rain could cause a misfire—maybe it had something to do with that?

Progress was slow, with the rain hampering their visibility and the knowledge that there was an unknown number of skaven lurking around meant that it wasn't a simple trek through the graveyard. More than once, Boney had to stifle a curse as he stubbed a toe upon one of the weather-worn standing stones. The only balm to his pride was when he managed to catch the muttered barrage of vulgarity from one of the others.


*


Strat Rapidweaver watched with a disdainful interest-curiosity as the pretender warlord Snitun Deadfinger spoke with the man-thing. This was a venture destined to failure-doom and Strat Rapidweaver was looking forward to watching the schemes of Deadfinger—soon to be Deadbody.

But despite his awareness—his knowing—of how things would go-go, Strat Rapidweaver felt uncomfortable-nervous. Something felt wrong. The man-thing felt wrong-wrong and Strat couldn't work out why. He looked like any other man-thing—weak and ugly and pathetic and stupid. But the second that the man-thing had walked around the ruined building, the air had changed.

Strat Rapidweaver had not survived this long by not paying attention. Yes, everything and everyone else was weak-weak, but that weakness meant little if they put a knife in Strat Rapidweaver's back. So Strat Rapidweaver watched and kept his back facing away from those who would harm him until such a time that they turned their backs to him.

The man-thing had stopped talking and was examining the five captured man-things from the raid earlier. It was clear he was looking for something or someone in particular, and his ugly pink face was scrunching up and becoming even more hideous-disgusting.

Yes, the raid where the dead-things had intruded-interfered. Strat Rapidweaver tilted his head as he tried to puzzle out what had actually happened there. They had been rounding up the man-things when the first of the dead-things had appeared. At first, it had been assumed that they were an attempt by the man-things to protect themselves—to use their dead as protectors-defenders.

Such a waste. Would have been good food otherwise.

When the first man-thing had fallen to the dead-thing, the skaven had wisely chosen to leave, taking with them their bounty—slighter than it should have been but they weren't ready for a fight with dead-things.

The man-thing pointed to one of the captives. 'I'll be taking this one.'

Strat Rapidweaver flinched back. He didn't know what it was, but he knew—somehow he knew—that there was now a fresh new danger. The man-thing's eyes—something about them was cold, exuded danger in a way that had every instinct of Strat Rapidweaver crying out to run-flee. He took a step back, hands unconsciously reaching for the knives at his back.

'Yes.' Deadfinger nodded rapidly—idiot-fool that he was, hadn't noticed the danger in the air. 'Now you pay-pay.'

'No,' the man-thing intoned. 'I think not.'

The rapid nodding of Snitum Deadfinger changed to rapid head shaking. He jabbed a finger at the man-thing's chest. The man-thing stared at the finger jabbing his breast with an eye full of disdain. Strat Rapidweaver slowly circled himself so that he was behind the man-thing, slowly pulled his blades free and held them ready to defend himself.

But if it came to violence, Strat Rapidweaver was not going to stay-linger. He could feel the danger in the air and every survival instinct he had was screaming-crying to be gone—to flee-run.

The man-thing swung his sword. The edge of the blade cut into and through Deadfinger's arm—cut it free from the rest of Deadfinger. Deadfinger howled in pain and fury as his arm hit the ground.

'You nearly cost us dearly. The agreement was no unnecessary damage and then I hear about you trying to burn down a farm.' The human didn't raise his voice but it was certainly cold, with an anger that Strat Rapidweaver had heard only once before, and the aftermath of that anger was something that Strat Rapidweaver had long ago resolved to avoid being a part of if ever he witnessed it again.

'Not our fault-fault. It was the dead-things!'

The man-thing paused, brow creasing in a momentary confusion. During that instance of not outwardly paying attention, Deadfinger apparently got over the absence of his arm and yanked his sword free and lunged with a strangled sounding war cry—another reason that Strat Rapidweaver didn't think him a good warlord. What skaven in their right mind would ever believe him a strong warlord when his voice sounded like a man-thing babe?

The man-thing who had never stopped looking at Deadfinger swung his shield. The flat of the shield connected with the wild swing of Deadfinger's sword, but the motion didn't stop until the edge of the shield connected with Deadfinger's throat.

Deadfinger staggered back, sword falling from suddenly lax fingers, a choking gag escaping his mouth, his remaining hand clawing at his throat as if to ward off a hand that was strangling him.

The man-thing apparently didn't think that the damage inflicted was enough. He took a step closer, lifted his sword and slowly pushed the tip into Deadfinger's gut. Strat Rapidweaver watched as the man-thing's lips curled in a disgusted sneer, slowly and deliberately pushing his sword deeper into the would-be warlord's gut—twisting-turning the blade as he did so.

Still Deadfinger gagged, gasped, wheezed for air that didn't seem to want anything to do with him.

Once the man-thing's sword was buried nearly to the hilt, the man-thing adjusted his grip and started to pull it upward, slowly carving through Deadfinger's body. The sound of the meat being cut through was nausea-inducing even for Strat Rapidweaver—there was a difference between cuts at speed versus the slow, deliberately paced carving of Deadfinger's gargling body. Deadfinger was dead long before the blade finally exited out the side of his neck. No longer held upright, the body fell into the puddle of blood and entrails with a wet splat.

The man-thing stared at the nearly bisected corpse and then twisted his head to face Strat Rapidweaver.

Strat Rapidweaver did the sensible thing. He turned and he ran-fled as fast-quick as he could.


*


There was something wrong. Boney could sense it. It had nothing to do with his abilities with the Winds of Magic—no spell or invocation needed. He could sense that there was violence in the air. A tang of blood just barely tasted upon his tongue as he breathed.

He couldn't quite tell whether the way his cohort had tensed up was because they felt similarly as he did or if they were reacting to him. It changed little, though it slowed them further than they'd already been—a newfound paranoia overtaking them.

It almost felt like the very air was screaming at them to be cautious. A howling that had nothing to do with wind and rain. Wait that isn't the air... It only really dawned on Boney that the air had never sounded like that before moments before something slammed into him, sending him reeling back and slipping upon the mud. He found himself on his back, staring into the terrified eyes of the pale brown-furred skaven who was now laid on top of him.

He couldn't say for certain which of them was more surprised. Himself at being body-checked by a skaven or the skaven at running headfirst into a Child of the Gods.

The skaven wriggled, pulled its arm free from where it had gotten trapped under Boney's back and started to pick itself up, then stilled at the click of a musket hammer being pulled into the ready position. How the click was so audible despite the howling wind and rain, Boney had no idea. He just wished that whoever had pulled the hammer back had waited until he no longer had an oversized rat straddling him.

'Well well well...' Ohtix drawled out in an exaggerated manner. 'What's the warmblood saying? Look what the cat dragged in.'

'What-what?' The skaven squeaked, eyes drifting from one skink to the next with a terrified bafflement. 'Lizard-things? What-what?'

'Yes "lizard-things".' Coadmit looked nonplussed. 'Where are you running to?'

'No-no not running to running-fleeing away-away!' The rat's head pivoted around, no longer paying attention to the skinks in favour of trying to see through the curtain of rain.

'Save the questions for when he's standing on his feet,' Boney hissed, teeth bared to show his annoyance.

Ohtix's eyes crinkled in a grin—didn't even have the decency to hide his amusement. 'But that means he can run away from us.'

'Get. This. Disease-ridden. Fleabag. Off of me.'

Gidul, apparently feeling some sympathy for the major, grabbed the ratman by the arm and hauled him to his feet while Coadmit removed any weapons from the rat's person. No longer pinned down by the weight of the skaven, Boney stood with a grimace in disgust at the mud now painted all over his clothing.

'So rat-boy,' Ohtix began, still amused though he now hid that amusement from his voice. 'What are you running from?'

'Man-thing. Dangerous man-thing. Must flee-run!'

The skaven lurched forward in an effort to break free of Gidul's grip. He was successful when the skink's foot slipped in the mud, releasing the grip so that he could use that hand to brace himself and cushion his fall.

Boney lunged forward as the skaven made to flee, fingers encircling the wormlike appendage protruding from the rat and tugged it. The skaven gave a high-pitched squeak, stumbled back, hands rubbing at his rump and eyes no longer full of fear but instead indignation as he stared at Boney. That lasted only until Boney's fist met the rat's head.

Apparently, Boney was stronger than he'd realised or skaven were weaker than he'd anticipated. He'd only intended to stun the rat—instead he found the skaven's eyes rolling, and then it fell face-first into the mud.

'Huh,' Boney huffed in bemusement.

Hezcuc snorted. It was an amused snort, the kind that was telling of how the one doing the snort was trying to hide a laugh. Boney looked at the other skink in confusion. Hezcuc shrugged.

'Don't think anybody has ever tugged a skaven's tail before.' The words did nothing to hide the amusement in his voice.

And it really dawned on Boney that he had just willingly touched a skaven with his bare hand. A hand that now felt dirty like there was a slick, slimy substance coating his palm. With a strangled yelp, he rubbed his hand against his breeches, ignored the repetitive hissing guffaws of his fellows.

Once his hand no longer felt like it was coated in slime, he cast a look at the ratkin's unconscious body.

'So what do we do with fleabag here?'

Gidul hefted his sabre, intent clear. No need to question. Had it been anything other than a skaven, Boney might have protested—something about just killing somebody while helpless felt wrong—but considering it was one of the disease-ridden fur-bag spawn of the Horned Rat, the world would only be a better place for the deed.

Gidul was interrupted when the air was pierced by a new sound. It wasn't the rumble of thunder. It was higher-pitched and had nothing to do with nature.

It was a scream.

'Leave it,' Boney said, eyes darting toward the chapel. The structure was just barely visible now. No hint as to who had screamed or why. Nor was there any sign of the human from earlier. 'Think he was fleeing the human we saw?'

Even as he asked, he'd already started moving forward with a brisk pace, felt more than heard the others move behind him.

'Unless there's another "man-thing" around,' Coadmit answered.

Boney reached the chapel. It was in a sorry state, lacked a roof—long since burnt away by the orcish raiding party which had befallen the structure however long ago. One of the walls was missing and the other three were barely holding themselves upright as nature slowly tried to reclaim the land.

But even in its current state of disrepair, the chapel's ruins blocked vision of whatever was happening the other side from the skinks. Rounding the structure, they found a cage of rusted iron. Within were four humans—all male, all dressed in the simple garb of human farmers. The armoured human who Boney had spied earlier was nearby, physically dragging another human male—though the clothing on this one was different from those in the cage, more impressive than the simple farmer's garb of the others yet still simple enough to be practical.

Judging from the terrified expression on the face of the one being dragged and the way that the other four were still in the cage backed up as far as they physically could, this wasn't a rescue.

There was also a mess on the ground—a body laying in what Boney could only assume to be its own entrails and blood-stained mud. For a brief moment, he thought the body had been bisected but a second look had him note that it was still technically in one piece—only barely though.

He didn't know what exactly was going on. Why would the captives be scared of this one human? Why was he dragging away one while ignoring the others? Boney didn't know enough to feel any sense that letting the human leave was a good idea. He needed to know more—know what was going on.

'Stop,' he called out.

Behind him, he heard the clicks of musket hammers and from the corner of one eye, he could make out one of those weapons pointed at the human.

The human paused, head turned to take in the new threat. His eyes rested upon Boney and lit up with recognition. That recognition quickly turned into a hostile fury.

'You,' he snarled, lip curling and teeth bared. For a moment he looked less human—more like an angry aggradon.

'Have we met?' Gidul wondered aloud, though it was spoken softly enough that Boney only barely caught it.

The warrior didn't have his sword in hand, had sheathed it so that he could grab the one he was trying to drag away. He must have realised that he was at a disadvantage—his furious glower seemed to intensify, become ever more pointed even as he took a step back and lifted his other arm and the shield strapped to it.

'Get out of my way, you walking handbags, and I will allow you to live.'

Even though he was in a weaker position—technically unarmed and outnumbered—Boney still felt the potency of the threat sent his way, felt the shiver that wanted to crawl down his spine.

'Not until you explain what's going on.' Boney managed to speak the words without letting his nerves reveal themselves in his tone. But it had been a close thing—he wasn't about to deny that to himself.

'This man is a criminal charged with treason against the County of Efror.' There was a strained patience to the warrior as he spoke.

'He lies. He hides the truth behind claims of crimes that do not exist.' The man in the warrior's grip shouted out.

The warrior's eyes narrowed in a glare which was directed toward the man who started to struggle against the warrior's grip. His eyes rolled, and he slammed the broad side of his shield into the struggling man's head. The man fell to the ground, eyes shut in a pained grimace. The warrior's hand, now free, went to the hilt of his sword, pulled it from its scabbard with a swift, practiced motion. He didn't move beyond that, however—was content to face the skinks, shield and sword in hand.

'Are you planning to interfere with Efror justice?'

Boney narrowed his eyes, hand rested on the hilt of his sabre, though he had yet to pull it free lest it be taken as a threat. The muskets could be excused as defensive in nature, but pulling a sword free now could be taken as intent to use.

'There are four other captives of the rats and they aren't a priority?' he asked.

The warrior shrugged. 'Not my problem.'

'He hired the skaven, he's the reason they attacked our home!' one of the captives still in the cage called out.

'You don't know what you're talking about,' the warrior snarled at the cage, though his eyes didn't rest on any one particular captive.

'We heard you talking to that rat.'

'I repeat. You do not know what you talk of.' The warrior's tone turned commanding.

It wasn't subtle—Boney could tell it was an order to shut up and never speak of the event again. But what accompanied that dark, commanding tone was an oppressive feeling that seemed to charge the air, pressed down on everybody in a manner that the heavy rainfall could not. Boney had to shake his head to ward off the feeling of being hunted, and even then his nerves burnt with a sense of wary anticipation.

The warrior rolled his eyes skyward for the second time in as many minutes and sucked in a breath. His mouth opened, but no words were given time to leave, for a new sound pierced through the air, cut through the heavy patting of the rain against the mud. A cackling laugh.

When Boney turned his head, he took note of the skaven approaching—at least two dozen of them. No... More—the two dozen he initially spotted were the wretched-looking slaves. Behind them were the ones laughing mockingly as they approached, safely behind their slave barrier and dressed in more than ill-fitting loincloths and armed with more than just simple spears made from wood that looked half-rotted and ready to snap at the slightest touch.

The human warrior adjusted his stance so that his blade was pointed to the skaven horde. 'Step aside sewer-fiends and maybe you won't join your warlord in death.'

Despite the fury on the warrior's face, his tone was almost that of a bored blandness. His eyes went from one skaven to the next in silent challenge. There was a brief moment where the rats did stop their slow advance. It didn't last, as a clanrat in the back began to cackle and start jabbering. Boney ground his teeth at the high-pitched noise which apparently passed for a voice—wondered if his ears were about to start bleeding.

'Coadmit, shut him up,' Boney hissed.

Coadmit didn't verbally answer but twisted himself around and fired his musket. The clanrat who had been talking was thrown back with a strangled scream of pain as the bullet punctured through his skull, just about missing his eye. Judging from the wailing screams, the clanrat had survived. Though how long he would survive depended on whether or not the other skaven cared enough to nurse him back to health or not.

The wet schlick that came before the screams were cut short indicated that no—the other clanrats cared little for nursing their fellow back to health.

However, the effect of Coadmit’s gunshot was noticeable instantly. Where their pause at the warrior's threat had been temporary, now there was a reluctance to actually advance in light of potential gunfire.

The problem—they were still blocking any exit. Boney momentarily contemplated using the winds of magic, but when he breathed in, he could feel an absence of the energies needed. The winds had changed over the past few hours and he was left without the means for such an action.

His gaze went back to the cage and the captives within. 'Gidul, open the cage,' Boney ordered softly. 'We get a chance, we run, but we are not leaving them to skaven mercy.'

Gidul hissed softly in acknowledgement and slowly moved toward the cage. The warrior tilted his head enough so that it was obvious that he was aware of what was happening, but he also refrained from comment. After several moments, his attention turned once again wholly to the skaven horde.

'My men are near, and if I'm not back to them soon, their orders are to kill every last one of you.'

There was a chittering from the clanrats, indecipherable to Boney. Maybe he was hearing the skaven speak their own tongue or maybe they were just speaking so fast and at such a pitch that it may as well be a different tongue to Reikspiel. While they did so, Coadmit was slowly reloading his musket, trying not to draw attention to himself as he did so.

There was a loud creak while the cage opened slowly. The chittering stopped, and Boney felt the weight of about forty skaven staring. The warrior grimaced, the leather of his glove creaking as his grip on his sword tightened.

'Could you handbags be any more obvious?' he sneered.

'Wouldn't have been a problem if you'd left it open after grabbing your "criminal",' Boney hissed back.

The weight to the air pressed down as the skaven seemed to come to a decision. They started to advance again with a pace that meant that they would reach them in short time. There was nowhere to go—they had the ruined chapel at their back and the skaven had a speed to their gait that Boney had a feeling they wouldn't be able to outrun.

'CHARGE!'

Their salvation came when it was revealed that the warrior hadn't been bluffing. Dressed and armed identically to the warrior, a dozen or more humans appeared from the rain, charged at the flanks of the skaven horde. The slaves at the front of the horde, no longer urged forward by their supposed betters, stopped and panicked at the attack from behind.

Boney hissed loudly, and the five musket-wielding skinks fired a volley. It might have only been the slaves and not the clanrats to suffer the gunfire, but it was enough of a deterrent that they didn't decide to charge forward. A few broke from what passed for a rank and fled. Those that did were cut down either by the humans or by their own masters.

The warrior huffed with a smug satisfaction to his expression. He returned the sword to his scabbard and reached down to grab the human he had knocked out earlier... Boney watched with amusement as the supposedly unconscious human swung his leg out, slammed his foot into the knee of the warrior, and sent him reeling back with a pained yell.

Boney couldn't say what made him choose his next course of action. He watched as the man on the ground started to climb to his feet. He witnessed the warrior's expression twist into utter rage as he regained his bearing and started to move toward the man with an obvious intent for violence. And Boney acted.

The warrior grunted, air forced from him as Boney's shoulder met the warrior's gut, then the skink priest righted his posture while hooking one arm under one of the warrior's legs. The warrior's startlement shifted to a confused yelp as his feet were lifted from the ground, his body tipped forward until he found himself dropped head-first to the muddy ground.

The man the warrior had been so intent on dragging away had managed to clamber to his feet, blinking rapidly as he tried to work out what his next move should be. Boney's hand latched onto the man's collar and he tugged—not with such force as to trip up the human but to urge him into moving in a particular direction.

'I might have just made an enemy for your sake,' Boney hissed. 'So come with us now.'

The human didn't complain at being manhandled—allowed himself to be dragged toward the other former-prisoners and Boney's subordinates. Boney himself gave the scene another once-over. The warrior was struggling to his feet, his eyes clouded with the unfocused daze that often accompanied the immediate aftermath of being dropped on one's head. They had a moment to flee without anybody noticing. The skaven were distracted by the humans—they hadn't yet reformed any semblance of cohesion which would inevitably lead to their deaths if they didn't break and flee without being cut down.

'Circle around the chapel,' Boney ordered the former captives as a whole. 'Sabres protect them. Muskets watch behind us.'

Coadmit fired a shot at a skaven who broke out of the melee and had twisted their head around to notice them. The skaven dropped without any fanfare, and the gunfire further caused the remaining skaven to panic.

Gidul positioned himself to the immediate side of the tight cluster of humans, eyes roving left and right and back and back again. His off-hand rested on the shoulder of one of the humans—a silent gesture of reassurance maybe, but Boney noticed that it also allowed him to keep moving alongside the humans while not paying attention to them. On the other side of the human group, Hezcuc did the same.

They managed to circle the chapel without anybody seeming to notice, after which Boney pointed with his freshly unsheathed sabre in the direction of the hill from which they had initially arrived.

'Move.' With any luck, by the time anybody who cared noticed that they had disappeared, they would be hidden behind the still thick shroud offered by the rain.

They were at what Boney estimated to be about halfway through the graveyard when they hit trouble. Another swarm of skaven emerged from the rain, eyes instantly drawn to the collection of skinks and humans.

Boney hissed under his breath, turned to face them, felt half of the sabre-wielding skinks form up beside him to form a physical barrier between the ratkin and the human captives.

'Do not let them pass,' Boney ordered. It was a redundant order, but something about saying it aloud cemented the idea that they were going to keep the line and not let a single one get by.

The clanrats—no slaves with this particular swarm—charged with chittering screeches. Boney managed to block a swipe from a chipped and jagged blade that might have decapitated him. With his sabre physically holding back the blade looking to end him, Boney used his offhand to deliver a quick jab to the rat's stomach. The rat's eyes bulged in surprised pain, the pressure pushing against Boney's sabre eased, which in turn allowed the skink to slide his blade down the length of the skaven's weapon and then cut through the forearm attached to the hand holding said weapon.

The skaven screeched in pain, the sound cut short when Boney kicked out, sent the ratkin reeling back until it vanished amidst the horde still trying to swarm them. It didn't offer any respite—another rat had already taken that space with a thrust of the sword that only barely missed Boney's shoulder.

As they clashed, Boney and his cohort took a step back and then another. This was familiar even if the weapon Boney was using was different. This was a concept that even the traditionally armed kin back in Tiamoxec had, and the practice carried over. A fighting retreat—they just had to keep the line intact even as they slowly back-pedalled. They didn't need to keep the vermin from moving forward—they just needed to keep them from getting past.

Another skaven replaced one who dropped from a gut sliced open. That one lost a leg—was replaced. The next stumbled back from a knock to the head, would likely return once it cleared its vision, but in the meantime was replaced. This replacement had Boney's sabre thrust through the neck. The next lost an eye. The next was tripped and then trampled by the next while prone.

Any skaven that tried to circle around were cut down by musket fire.

How many of them are there? It was one thing being taught that the skaven swarm was exactly as it was called, a “swarm," but it was another to actually see for oneself and fight against such a swarm. Calling it a swarm almost felt like an understatement.

Where were they when I was looking for them earlier? The question almost came unbidden. He had other things to worry about than how he missed spotting a swarm of oversized rats. He knew—had been told—that skaven were prone to emerging as if from nowhere, that when they weren't swarming, they were good at remaining unseen. Like the scope of the term swarm, it was another thing that needed to be seen in person to truly understand just what was meant by that.

'There they are!'

The voice that shouted those three words had not been skaven.

It appeared that the human warriors had finished the first swarm and had caught up. The swarm suddenly had another threat from behind. Like with the first swarm, there was confusion from those at the front as those behind them were attacked. Boney took another step back in sync with his cohort. The skaven didn't immediately follow—chose to focus not on those trying to escape and only fighting to defend and instead chose to focus on those interested in being an actual threat.

Not that Boney was going to argue against good fortune going his way.

He breathed in, stretched his mind's eye for a sense of the winds of magic. Still but a trickle compared to hours prior. But maybe right now he didn't need to bring forth the full weight of the wind. He wanted to buy time. And with no guarantee that the humans wouldn't chase after his cohort after they were finished with the vermin, he couldn't just rely on them.

He sucked in a deep breath, pulled in what he could of the Winds of Magic, allowed it to surge through his body and then expelled it in a similar manner as he had back at Tallow Farm. Except this time he hadn't the energy to make it the lethal blast of the winds turned furious. There was nothing lethal about the wind's push this time. But it still had strength enough to push—to upset balance.

To bowl them down, cause those currently fighting upon slick mud to fall to the ground.

The confusion and the time that both the skaven and human warriors spent clambering back upright would be time well spent.

There were shouts of startled confusion, yelps of surprise as the winds pushed. Coupled with the rain swerving under the strength of the air's push, there was no way any of the vermin or the humans had stayed on their feet.

'Run,' Boney said with an urgent hiss.

As one, they turned and fled for the hill. Shortly after they could no longer see those they'd left behind, the curtain of rain, the sounds of violence were renewed—more precious time that they were not going to be wasting.

There was a quiet thought in Boney's head as they climbed the hill to reunite with the others. The fact that the dead hadn't made a show of themselves came to the forefront of his mind. Had they gotten lucky or... Or was this where the undead were from originally? Boney cursed internally that he hadn't thought to check for certain whether the graves had been disturbed—he'd make assumptions based on viewing from a distance. A best-case scenario was that the chapel and its grounds still had the protection of Morr despite the absence of any black roses and that the dead would be left undisturbed.

It was a note that Boney resolved to mention when they got back to the rest of the Legion. No more detours, he resolved while eying the captives. Not when we have people to protect, not when there's an apparent interest in at least one of them.

'We need to move quickly,' he spoke up. 'We're moving back to the merchant caravan and the rest of the Legion.'

'And the humans?' Gidul asked.

Boney cast a look at the five former captives for a brief handful of seconds and then shifted his focus exclusively to the human that the warrior had been so interested in. 'Coming with us.'

Four of the humans looked relieved though tinged with a slight uncertainty. Boney couldn't fault them. They'd been dragged from their farm by oversized rats, and now what looked to them like oversized lizards had just rescued them, but there was no debate on allowing them to go their own way. It could be interpreted as going from one jailor to another, but for the fact that the skinks had gone out of their way to protect them. That last detail should keep them from assuming the worst.

The fifth human just looked resigned but his nod was that of agreement. He would come and he wouldn't argue about it. Interesting.

They couldn't hear any of the violence from before, but whether that was the rain covering the noise or that there was no longer any violence happening, Boney couldn't tell at that moment. He breathed in through his nostrils and nodded his head in the opposite direction.

Without a word, they started to move.


*


Sigismund Auer, captain of the Efror Guard, surveyed the bodies of the vermin with a dour glare. His men gave him a wide berth as they made certain that each body was truly dead. A thrust of the sword into a body’s skull made absolutely certain that none were pretending death in an effort to escape or to stab the colour guard in the back.

‘No sign of the Lustrians, my lord,’ Sergeant Gerwin reported. He stood a respectful distance but, unlike the rest of the men, he wasn’t afraid of Sigismund.

Sigismund hummed. ‘They were wearing the clothing of men.’

Gerwin hesitated, head tilted. ‘I wasn’t able to see them. There were vermin between us at all times. Actual clothing?’

‘Red coats,’ Sigismund said with a bemused quirk of the lips. ‘Other than the one I assume to be the leader. It was very professional looking. I can think of a few nobles who could take lessons in properly uniforming their house guard from them. And five of them carried handguns.’

Gerwin’s eyes narrowed at the description. ‘That’s not normal for Lustrians, is it?’

‘Not those in the New World.’ Sigismund tilted his head. ‘But there have been tales of their kind wandering the Old World that fit that description. I believe the stories started in Tilea. Though the stories I heard don’t have them in coats but in an older Tilean armour style.’

The sergeant hummed in acknowledgement. 'They are Dogs of War then?’

‘A bit more than that.’ Sigismund rubbed at his chin. ‘Whatever they are, they took our wayward son. Send out our trackers—hunt them down.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Gerwin pressed his fist to his chest then turned to pass on Sigismund’s orders. He paused, however, as the captain spoke again.

‘While you’re out searching, look into any instances of undead attacking.’

Gerwin twisted his head around to give the captain a baffled look. ‘Undead?’

‘Something the rodent said. Claimed that “dead-things” were the reason the farms have been burnt down. I would dismiss it as an excuse, but why “dead-things”? Greenskins would have been more believable.’

Gerwin’s lips twitched. ‘They gave an unlikely story, so it must have a kernel of truth?’

Sigismund let out a huff of amusement. ‘In my experience, it’s the less likely tales that are more likely to be the truth. Why tell otherwise?’

Gerwin shrugged a single shoulder. ‘I suppose. I’ll have Cruniac look into anything “dead-thing” related.’

As the sergeant retreated toward the small camp the Efror Guard had set up, Sigismund turned his eyes in the direction the strange Lustrians had last been seen moving. No doubt they had changed direction at some point. He breathed in, took in the scent of the lands around him, the sound of rain pattering against the ground. When he opened his eyes again, he felt calm, his utter loathing for the world in general eased down to a manageable level.

For now.

 

Green Hill​

The Old World – Near the Middenheim Road
—

Boney flinched back as an arrow nearly caught him in the shoulder. He didn't even register the words that escaped him at the realisation—only barely was he aware that he warned that the hunters had found them. Again.

There was a bark from a musket, followed by Coadmit cursing softly. The only reason that Coadmit had ever let out any curses thus far had been those so far rare moments when he missed his shots, so Boney didn't turn to assess—simply acknowledged in the back of his head that the bowmen hunting them were still there and bows were quicker to reload than muskets.

The skink abruptly shifted the direction he was running in an attempt to throw off the aim of whoever might be lining up a shot at him. In doing so, he spotted the bowman. The archer was clad in simple clothing which was then covered by a leather coat in muted colours that unfortunately blended in far too well with the mud-covered fields. The storm from the previous day had at first been a boon—had made it difficult to be tracked down, for the rain washed away their tracks. But the moment the hunters had managed to catch them by chance that first time, the humans had been the ones with the advantage. Boney's hand latched onto the bicep of one of the humans that they'd rescued, pulled him abruptly to the side, spared him from the arrow which nearly hit him in the thigh.

‘Do we keep for the road or try to lose them in the hills?’ Gidul asked.

‘Road,’ Boney was quick to answer. ‘They will be drawing unwanted attention to themselves if they are seen trying to kill other humans. They cannot even claim us the villains if they kill the humans they're supposed to be rescuing.’

One of the humans gave an awkward guffaw at the thought.

One of the other skinks fired off his musket, gave a low sound of satisfaction before he then fell to the ground, an arrow having managed to pierce through his shoulder. Boney didn't hesitate to grab the downed skink, lifted him by his good arm and half carried and half dragged the other, at least until Gidul took the other arm over his shoulders—ignored the whimper as the movement disturbed the arrow still embedded within—and helped to move the injured skink.

‘Road should be just over the hill,’ Coadmit called out.

‘Then let's move faster!’ Boney called back. ‘Sooner we're safe, sooner I get to know why we're so wanted.’

As he spoke that last, his yellow eyes drilled holes into the human that these supposed Efror Guard wanted so badly. It had been made clear from the start that he was the target of these hunters, but the human had at first been reluctant to talk about the reasoning and then, as time went on, it was found that there wasn't a proper chance to actually stop and explain.

At least the human had the decency to look shamefaced, eyes wide and focused on the arrow now sticking out of the skink's shoulder. He grabbed the musket that had been dropped, carried it with him, but it was clear that he didn't know what to do with it, and considering he didn't carry any bullets or gunpowder, the most use it would get would be as a spear.

The supposed final hill between them and the Middenheim road wasn't a steep incline, but from hours of non-stop movement, it felt like the steepest hill that Boney had ever climbed. His muscles were aching from the constant use, his breathing was twice the speed it ought to be, coming in rapid pants as his body tried to fuel itself with what little it could get.

Reaching the summit of the hill felt like an achievement and the ground's levelling out was a blessed relief. For the barest of moments, Boney allowed his pace to slow, eyes drinking in the road below. Instantly, amber eyes focused on a small band traversing that road moving in the opposite direction that the Legion was moving—unless Boney's sense of direction had been skewed by his exhaustion, or the group was just that lost.

It wasn't a large caravan, certainly not the size of the Legion. It was about half the size of the Cathayan merchant caravan being escorted by the Legion. But—and this was the detail that had Boney feel equal parts relieved and worried—this wasn't a merchant caravan and their escort; there wasn't a single part of that caravan that wasn't part of an armed force.

The relief came from the standards. None of the standards that Boney could make out shared any resemblance to the Efror Guard. The most prominent standard on display depicted a sword pointed downward with an eclipsed sun behind it atop a halved background of blue and red. There was no sign of any boar and no black and purple colouring to be seen.

An arrow from behind was a reminder that they hadn't time to assess the potential of this caravan being a threat. With a startled oath and clenched teeth—that last arrow had been close enough that the arrowhead had successfully sliced a line through Boney's calf, though thankfully not deeply—the major started to lead the way down the hill.


*


Commander Morgan Bernhardt did not consider himself to be a complicated man. He fought for love of money and despite his place as a mercenary, he was still loyal to Reikland. Somewhere deep inside his soul, he still held onto those dreams of his youth—those dreams of becoming a knight of the Empire, of joining the Reiksguard.

He had long since accepted that he would never join the illustrious knightly order. By now he was set in his ways—ways that were not what the Reiksguard considered acceptable behaviours and mindsets for those considered for their order. The fondness for coin was but a small part of that.

But he would always remember the wishes of his youth, even when tinged with the bitterness that reality had dealt him. By now he would not change anything, even if he had the power to go back to alter the path his life took. It had been from that disappointment that he had found his true calling, had found those men who were now loyal to him.

If you were to ask Bernhardt, there was no finer free company than his Grudgebringers. How many other free companies, how many other Dogs of War could claim truthfully to have made a difference? Twice he had fought. Twice he had saved the Empire from threats before the Emperor had a chance to assemble armies to combat those same threats. While both of those campaigns had been financially motivated at the start, but that was the reality of leading an independent company of soldiers. Honour and good feelings did not feed the men.

Planting his standard into the rotted body of the Dread King had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life, despite how it had come after a battle with no financial gain. His critics could claim that his battle against the Dread King at the Black Pyramid had been about stroking his own ego, but there had been far more to that battle than making himself feel powerful—there were less lethal means to do that.

Alas, such campaigns were rare. As had happened after preventing Grey Seer Thanquol's scheme to use the ancient elven artefact known as the Menhir, shortly after his glorious victory, the majority of the regiments who had attached themselves dispersed, left for their own agendas, leaving Morgan with just the core regiments of his Grudgebringers and a lapse in high-paying jobs.

There was something grating about how, both times that he had led the Grudgebringers to a victory which had saved the Empire, the follow-up had been to go back to contracts for peasants and ale money.

However, Bernhardt had a feeling that they were due for another influx of high-risk-high-pay contracts in the near future. There was something in the air of late. Besides barely explainable gut feelings, there was also historic precedence. If experience had taught the commander anything, it was that the moment outsider regiments were attached to the Grudgebringers was when things were going to start getting interesting.

Having a regiment of halberdiers in the colours of Middenland join his company was doubtless the mark that suggested something was coming—the kind of something that would have him need the extra hands. The only thing missing was a wizard tagging along because of portents or visions or whatever excuse that a wizard needed to feel the need to attach themselves to a mercenary company.

The job at hand was only a simple patrol along the Middenheim road from Wouduin Tollstation down to Salfen and then back to Gorssel. Apparently, the mayor of Gorssel had been hearing reports of villages and farms along the Middenheim road being raided and had decided that Bernhardt was the man for a patrol and would be an appropriate show of defensive support for the little man.

Bernhardt's money was on greenskins being responsible. It was always greenskins. It was as if they had nothing better to do with their miserable lives than be a nuisance to the Empire. More than a nuisance to the villagers targeted.

‘Hold. Contact.’ The one to call out was Lieutenant Gunther Shepke, technically Bernhardt's second in command, though outside of battle that role was shared between Klaus and Paymaster Dietrich.

Bernhardt gave a shallow nod toward his fellow cavalrymen and urged his horse to trot a little faster to reach the front of their ranks where Shepke and his infantrymen were on point. There was no need for urgency as the word given wasn't the typical 'Ambush!' which seemed to happen far too often for Bernhardt's liking. But clearly there was a reason to halt.

‘What's going on?’ Bernhardt asked, vaguely aware in the corner of his mind dedicated to knowing where everybody under him was at any given moment, that Klaus, his one-time mentor, was approaching.

Shepke held out a spyglass. ‘See for yourself, commander.’

Bernhardt accepted the brass tube and held it to his eyes. He spotted the issue quickly. A little less than twenty figures had just reached the peak of the hills to the south of the road. Over a dozen of them were dressed similarly—it must be a uniform—and one was being carried by another two.

What gave Bernhardt pause was the distinctly less-than-human details marking them—they were as lizards yet men besides. There was a definite difference between these lizard-like men and the likes of skaven or beastmen. Based on the few experiences that Bernhardt had with the beastmen and their wretched ilk, the brayherds had an aura of the unnatural to them—a testament to their origins as Chaos mutants. Skaven, while lacking that same unnatural feeling, were still similarly vile, as if their rodent shapes could not hide the rotten hearts that beat within.

No, these lizard creatures reminded Bernhardt more of ogres than of skaven or beastmen. Not inherently evil, just different. Not that the ogres weren't capable of cruelty and evil—he had heard one too many stories about their eating habits to deny that—but it was not of the same all-encompassing evil that the former races were rooted in.

Bernhardt turned to Klaus, spyglass held out in offering. ‘What do you make of this?’ His voice lacked its usual biting tone. Klaus was one of few genuinely respected by Bernhardt—one of the remarkably few for him to make an effort to be civil with.

Klaus accepted the spyglass and lifted it to his single eye. ‘Huh, interesting.’

Bernhardt waited for the older man to elaborate and when ten seconds passed without, he let out a quiet ‘Well?’

‘Don't think they're a threat. One of the humans is carrying a firearm. I think they're fleeing something. The human keeps looking over his shoulder and the one being carried has an arrow in the shoulder.’

It wasn't the question that Bernhardt wanted the answer to, but he wasn't about to complain—it was arguably more important. As such, a silent look to Shepke had the lieutenant organising the infantry while Bernhardt himself called for Fletcher and his crossbowmen to ready up just in case whatever was chasing these lizard creatures was hostile to humans with nothing to do with these lizards as well.

The figures had reached the bottom of the hill and were now on the road proper. At that moment, the ones pursuing them revealed themselves. Bernhardt watched through the returned spyglass as a trio of humans reached the peak, bows in hand. Without any pause, the archers pulled back their arrows and let them fly. One of the archers then stumbled as one of the lizards had returned the favour, pointed the firearm in hand and pulled on the trigger. The archer that was hit stumbled but didn't fall, though was now clearly favouring one arm. And more archers started to appear at the hill's summit.

Below on the road, the ones fleeing had started to come toward the Grudgebringer's convoy.

‘They need help, Morgan. What do we do?’ Klaus prodded at Bernhardt. ‘They could be innocents being chased by huntsmen or they could be the reason we're being tasked with patrolling this road.’

Bernhardt hummed out in acknowledgement. More archers were appearing at the hill's summit, lining up with clear intent to use the height to rain arrows down below. There was a part of him that wanted to say that it was none of his business and that he should therefore keep out of it. But he also recalled how offering aid had benefited him in the past, whether it was through pay, through more men joining under his banner, or even just forewarning of issues that he was going to face in the future.

He could be abrasive to those that annoyed him, but never let it be said that Bernhardt went out of his way to burn bridges that didn't need burning.

With his mind set, he looked to Shepke. ‘Get over there and give them cover, get them back here. If these archers want to pick a fight with us, well... they'd be the fools who missed the cannon.’

And there was little doubt that Sureshot had already angled his cannon for the hill. Sureshot was reliable in that way.

Shepke cast Bernhardt a look in silent question of whether the commander was certain of the course of action they were to commit to. It took all of two seconds for them to have a silent conversation, after which the lieutenant gave a single sharp nod.

‘Move out, shields high. Protect the redcoats.’

‘Hmm, catchy name.’ Klaus sounded vaguely amused.

‘Only works if that is actually a uniform,’ Bernhardt remarked lightly, even as he eyed the hill in silent contemplation. Just steep enough that my cavalry won't reach them before being shot down, and since I still don't know the details, I'd prefer to avoid killing them.

Shepke led the charge, his men close behind, their large circular shields held overhead to protect them from any arrows that might come from above. With the positioning of the archers, that was all of them.

There was a distant shout from the archers but they were too far for any words to be made out with any clarity. The tone was clear though—annoyance at the interference. Bernhardt could see one of the archers redirect their bow toward the majority of the Grudgebringers, whether with intent to use or to be an unspoken threat Bernhardt couldn't tell.

‘Fire a warning shot, get them to back away.’ He called the order toward the cannon.

Wolfgang Schwartzkopf, better known as Sureshot by the rest of the Grudgebringers, gave a reply. It wasn't a reply given verbally; instead it was through deeds. In this instance, the deed was a cannon blast that slammed into the hill nearby the archers. The shot rocked the land and at least one archer stumbled as the ground quaked at the cannonball's impact.

Below, Shepke had reached the group being fired at by these archers, had formed his men into a ring surrounding them whilst their shields remained aloft.

‘You might have made an enemy today, Morgan.’ Klaus didn't sound approving, but nor did he sound disapproving. Maybe he'd learnt not to question Bernhardt's wisdom when it came to giving aid, or maybe it was simply a case of not being worried about some time limit imposed by an enemy they were in pursuit of.

‘Maybe,’ Bernhardt agreed ambivalently. ‘Or we just made an ally.’

Klaus snorted, his eye remained affixed to the archers. When the archers realised that they could no longer hope to hit the redcoats and the humans with them, they seemed to be at a loss as to what to do. At least they were no longer letting arrows fly, and after the warning shot with the cannon, they didn't seem interested in trying their luck with the remainder of the Grudgebringers. Thirty seconds they stood shaking their fists in impotence before they finally vanished down the other side of the hill, out of sight of the Grudgebringers.

Bernhardt dismounted his horse, absently patted the creature on the side of its head once he was on his own two feet. ‘Let's go see who we just saved and whether they are willing to thank us in turn.’

Klaus let out a breath of air through his nostrils and hummed in thought. ‘I'll go fetch Dietrich.’


*


Boney wasn't quite sure what to make of this turn of events. At first, it looked as though the plan was starting to work out. There were witnesses—they weren't immediately hostile… and then the first arrow had nearly punctured Boney's neck. Coadmit had fired a retaliatory shot in response, but now it was clear that these hunters cared not whether they were seen.

Boney… might have just cost the group their lives. The archers had height, had a clear line of sight. It wouldn't be long before another arrow caused injury. He was aware of his one hand soaked in the crimson lifeblood of his fellow skink. His leg stung with a dull yet burning pain from his own near miss.

So Boney was slightly taken aback when a group of the humans from the passing caravan began to run forward with their green and white shields held aloft. They circled Boney and his retinue and then held their position. Whether it was to prevent any escape or not, Boney couldn't say for certain. While their shields were held in defence, they could be protecting themselves more than those in the middle of their formation.

One of them, the apparent leader of this cohort, scowled at them, sunken eyes narrowed with a contemplative glimmer. ‘Stay in the ring and you'll be safe.’ His eyes drifted to the injured skink. ‘We'll offer medical assistance if you need it.’

‘You're quick to help us,’ Boney remarked before his mind could catch up and say that questioning charity was a bad idea.

The human's lips twitched into a bemused smirk. ‘Thank the commander for that.’ Then his lips straightened back out. ‘Just stay in the circle. I'm sure the commander would love to question you once you're safe.’

‘You make that sound so ominous,’ Gidul huffed in a weak laugh.

So it was that these swordsmen in their green and white uniforms escorted the fourteen skinks and the humans under their care back toward the apparent safety of their marching column. It was clear right away who the leader of this band of human warriors was.

He stood tall and proud, black facial hair trimmed into a neat oval shape around his mouth—the hair on his head was hidden beneath a chainmail coif—while his brown eyes glimmered with a sharp intelligence as he looked upon the skinks before then resting upon Boney with nothing given away as to what he was feeling. He was clad in a warrior's garb, the breastplate he wore storied yet polished not to a glossy sheen but enough to show a level of respect that armour was due while his arms and thighs were covered by the chainmail he wore beneath the plate. As if to mark him as the leader, he wore a long cloak of rich blue colouring which billowed to the breeze in the air. The shield he carried had the same design as the infantry who had protected them from the hunters—a sword upon a half-and-half backdrop but coloured blue and red rather than the green and white.

‘Well, well, what have we here?’ The man's voice was low, almost projected a sense of bored disdain, but his eyes gave away the lie to that, even if they revealed nothing else. He was examining them too intently to be so dismissive in actuality.

Either that or Boney was really, really bad at reading humans, which he sincerely hoped wasn't the case. A lifetime of picking up on the subtlest of cues that his kin gave away—it would be embarrassing to then not be able to read the body language of the typically far more open and less subtle humans.

Boney also took note of how the human had addressed him. Seemed that the comments about his dressing different marking him as the officer were accurate. As if that realisation was a trigger to his awareness, Boney lowered his spare hand from where it had started to fiddle at the brim of his hat still firmly atop his head despite the day he'd just been through.

Boney opened his mouth to give an answer—hadn't yet worked out just what that answer would be—when another human appeared. This one was older and had a more worn-down look about his apparel. Not a warrior, though like the leader, the eyes held a cunning—the sort that an expert hunter would have, the type that hunted through traps and trickery. Despite that cunning look to his eyes, they were more easily read than those of the leader. On spotting the skinks, he paused, eyebrows lifted, then lowered into a contemplative frown, then lifted again.

‘Lustrians? Here in the Empire?’

Behind Boney, Coadmit gave a soft grunt and he turned his head to look at the sergeant. ‘We are not from Lustria any more than you are from Araby,’ the sergeant grumbled, eyes rolled in exaggerated annoyance.

Boney couldn't help but blink, somewhat surprised at the comment. Coadmit noticed his attention and gave an amused wink.

The newcomer seemed similarly taken aback. ‘Then what should we call you?’

Coadmit snorted. ‘The other name you humans use. "Lizardmen" works.’

‘Descriptive,’ the leader drawled out, eyes briefly moving to the older man in silent conversation. ‘So what brings "lizardmen" to the Middenheim road, being shot at by archers?’

‘They were protecting me.’

As one, everybody turned to look at the man who had spoken. He was still clutching the musket he'd picked up, though by now he must have been aware that he couldn't fire the weapon. On seeing Boney's eyes rest on the wood and steel weapon, it was as if its existence was comprehended, and he thrust his arms out, offering the weapon back to its owners. Boney accepted, even though he had no clue how to use one himself, lacked the means to arm it anyway.

‘Protecting you?’ The human continued to drawl with words, and his arms were crossed over his chest. ‘From what exactly? Brigands?’ As he asked, his eyes lifted back to the brow of the hill from which they had arrived. Boney followed his gaze, half expecting to see the hunters still lingering. There was no sign of them.

‘Try skaven and undead, and those humans wherever they fall into things,’ Boney answered.

‘The Guards of Efror,’ Coadmit reminded.

‘Efror? As in the city-state? Efror no longer exists,’ the older human interrupted.

‘They were wearing the colours,’ Boney explained while recalling the explanations on human identifying choices. ‘Black and purple and an image of a boar.’

The older human tilted his head in contemplation and then nodded slowly. ‘That would match the old Efror colours.’

‘Efror, Dietrich?’ the leader prodded.

‘Efror was a city-state around the time of Magnus the Pious,’ the older human—Dietrich apparently—explained in that slow manner that suggested he had to really dig into his brain to remember whatever he knew. ‘By all accounts, loyal to the Empire but was later burnt down. No effort was ever made to rebuild.’

‘Fascinating,’ the leader drawled.

Another human, this one lacking hair atop his head and a patch covering one eye, cleared his throat. ‘I'm less worried about a no-longer existing city sending its guards after a man and more about the other two things you said. Skaven and undead?’

Boney looked at this human and spoke clearly. ‘I was sent to check up on a farm that a nearby village was worried about. We arrived to find the farm being attacked by undead. Later, the residents of the farm told us that a small number of their people had been dragged away moments prior by skaven. We tracked them to the ruins of a chapel, maybe one of Morr, where we found skaven, their prisoners, and the warriors wearing the colours of Efror.’

He really hoped he had said that properly. He must have—the three humans gave each other significant looks. The leader let out a huff.

‘We were patrolling the road due to word that villages had been raided, but no word of by whom. I had assumed greenskins, but undead and skaven?’ He let a slight grin lift his lips, then, on realising that he was grinning, quickly smothered his expression into its neutral state. ‘It has been a while since we've had to kill skaven.’

Dietrich shook his head in bemusement, then returned his eyes to Boney and his skinks, seemed content to ignore the five humans who were with them. There was a new recognition within his gaze. ‘What are your plans going forward?’

Boney quickly answered with a question that he already knew the answer to. ‘You didn't happen to pass by our Legion and the merchant caravan they're protecting, have you?’

That recognition turned instead to satisfaction. Apparently something in Boney's word choice had answered an unspoken question. Despite that, Dietrich shook his head. ‘We haven't passed any travellers going in the opposite direction. If you think we will cross paths, you are welcome to join us as we travel.’

The leader cast a scowl at Dietrich in a silent war of words unspoken, which somehow Dietrich won despite the imposing nature of the leader—something eye-patch apparently noticed, for he had to quickly hide an amused smirk behind one hand.

‘Yes, you can march with us if you are going in the same direction. Safety in numbers,’ the leader finally said, as if he hadn't just been silently argued down and that it was all his idea to begin with. ‘I'm Commander Bernhardt of the Grudgebringers.’

Coadmit let out a soft grunt, the sound one that Boney recognised as recognition, but when Bernhardt cast his scowl upon the sergeant, possibly misinterpreting the sound, Coadmit simply commented, ‘Sounds surprisingly Dawi for a human group.’

Eye-patch chuckled. ‘It does, doesn't it?’

Bernhardt's expression didn't soften, instead redirected his gaze to the bald human, pointedly ignored the guffaws of the white and green clad warrior who had led the infantry to rescue the skinks and a few of the other men who had made no effort to disguise their listening to the conversation.

Bernhardt seemed to register the fact that everybody was listening; his scowl deepened and was redirected to everybody at large. ‘Why are you all standing around? We are burning daylight. Get the company moving.’


*


Solin surveyed the ruins of what had once been one of the many nameless hamlets along the Middenheim road. Beside him, Caravan Master Luao Tee made a rumbling sound in his chest as he likewise observed the damage.

'What is your opinion on this... destruction?' Luao Tee asked.

'Not skaven. Not orcs either.' Solin crossed his arms.

'What makes you think that?' Luao Tee's voice wasn't judging. The only thing that leaked into his tone was curiosity.

'No bodies.' Solin gestured to the surroundings with one hand. 'Orcs aren't the type to clean up after themselves—we'd see a lot of dead bodies in their wake. They aren't patient enough to hunt down each and every person either, not unless they think they'll get a fight. As for skaven? While they might drag away prisoners to be slaves, might drag away some bodies for eating... no, they'd still leave some evidence of their passing.'

'Which leaves the undead that your man...' The Cathayan paused, visibly considering the word he'd used as he tried to judge whether Solin felt offended at the choice. When Solin simply raised a brow ridge, the human continued. '...The undead that your man reported attacking Tallow Farm.'

Solin gave a slow nod. 'Depending on the undead and their reason for attacking, the absence of bodies makes sense.' He paused and tapped one foot against the ground while his tongue flicked in and out of his mouth in rapid succession. 'This was recent.'

'What makes you think that?'

'The ground is still warm, and I can still smell the smoke despite the storm two days ago.' Solin's foot tapped the ground again, though his tongue had stopped flicking. 'It's possible that the skaven attacked and then the undead finished the job. The residents of Tallow Farm claimed that the fire there was because of the skaven before the undead showed and scared the rodents off.'

The Cathayan's arms crossed and his head bowed in consideration. 'That leaves the question of why the dead follow behind.'

A single shoulder lifted into a shrug and Solin hummed in thought. 'I can think of at least one reason.'

Luao Tee rumbled a sound that Solin translated into a non-verbal query. The oldblood gave another look to the hamlet's ruins, then turned to move back to the caravan train.

'Have you much experience with undead?' he asked as they walked. At Luao Tee's sound of a negative, Solin continued. 'Depending on the necromancer in question, they'd be taking every body they can find so that they can be added to their strength. Let the rats do the dirty work, then any survivors will point at them; meanwhile, the undead stay unnoticed and continue to build strength.' He gave another shrug. 'That's my prediction anyway. I couldn't say for certain without knowing the motives and power of the necromancer responsible. Fighting undead is a level of misery I hate, and if Nagash is real, I really want to have "words" with the cloaca stain for his role in creating necromancy.'

The pair—and the dozen jade warriors who had been in a loose-ringed formation surrounding them the entire time they'd been separate from the caravan train, not that Solin had any delusion that they cared for his safety—passed by the invisible line which marked them as being back within their caravan. Luao Tee's posture relaxed ever so slightly now that he was in what he perceived as a safe zone, though his eyes still darted left and right.

'How does one fight such a threat?' the human asked.

'Depends. My "man"'—Solin allowed some amusement at the term to show; it wasn't as if Reikspiel had a word that was better used in the same place other than using the breed of the lizardman in question—'said that they encountered walking corpses but nothing elaborate. Maybe skeletons, he didn't say. If that's the extent of the necromancer's ability, then take him out and the walking dead become the properly dead.'

'No word yet from the rest of that group you sent out?' Luao Tee wondered aloud.

Solin's amusement faded to be swiftly replaced by a sliver of worry. It had been three days since he sent his newest major out to check up on Tallow Farm. It was supposed to be a quick and easy task to ease the skink into life in the Legion. The next day, one of the skinks accompanying Major Boney had returned injured but whole. The skink had reported what had happened and then added that Boney had elected to investigate the reported church or chapel or whatever it was that lay in the direction that the skaven had apparently skulked off toward at the appearance of undead interfering with whatever nuisances they were up to.

Now he was torn between pride that Boney was so clearly adapting to his new role and tanning the skink's hide when he returned for making him worry so much.

Three days since he had sent Boney out. Two days since he got word that undead and skaven both happened to be lurking in the area. Two days of everybody in the caravan being on alert, expecting trouble which had yet to reveal itself.

Honestly, Solin doubted the skaven would cause direct trouble for the caravan for the simple reason of numbers. The rodents were skittish even when they had an advantage. Any skaven that happened to see the merchant caravan and the accompanying guard detail would be seeing half of the Outland Legion. Even only half of the Legion was still not an inconsiderable number of saurus, skinks, and kroxigors, never mind the thundersaurs and aggradons. So unless there was something very wrong with the Empire's latest infestation problem, then Solin couldn't imagine that the caravan would have much of a problem from that front.

Marshal Ingwel had a dream of one day having the Outland Legion number in the range of ten thousand. Not likely to happen for a long time, and once numbers hit that point, the Legion would likely be split into two legions independent of each other. If that happened, Solin was already saying it: he was un-volunteering himself for the part of marshal of the second legion.

He barely tolerated the role of colonel, a position that he had found himself pressed into back in the early days. Sometimes... oftentimes... he missed the days when he was an independent agent for Tiamoxec, the days before the Outland Legion.

He quickly cut that train of thought before he started remembering details that were better left for moments he was alone or with his spawn brother.

As Solin was about to call out for the caravan to start moving, a sound pre-emptively cut him off. It was like a roar of thunder, like that of the storm which had assaulted them the other day. But there was no flash of lightning, and the thunderous boom held a quality to it that was definitely separate from nature's own fury.

This was the fury of man. Man's fury and innovative nature in finding newer and deadlier ways to express that fury. Oh, the Dawi could make their claims to gunpowder; even the Cathayans liked to point out that the Empire of Man had based their rocket weapons off of Cathayan fireworks. But at the end of the day, the humans of the Empire had taken that gunpowder and they had worked to make ever deadlier weapons.

What was it that the one emperor had said nearly two centuries ago? The Empire was strong through faith, steel, and gunpowder. They had embraced that ideology, and Solin had utmost respect for these humans who seemed so weak to the threats of the world, and yet they endured through the combination of those three things.

Luao Tee stilled with his hand hovering by his horse—he had been about to mount up when the sound had echoed the air.

'Was that a mortar?' he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

'Imperial grand-cannon, I believe. If it had been a mortar, we would have heard a follow-up by now.' Solin gave his answer in a bland tone, head tilted as he waited for any more booms. The absence of a second blast was telling. 'Hmm, must have only the one. Not a state army then; they typically have multiple batteries to a unit.'

Luao Tee didn't ask how Solin knew of the Empire's military practices, not that Solin felt inclined to share details about past campaigns that the Legion had gotten involved in. Instead, the caravan master looked contemplatively in the direction that the boom had erupted from.

'Whatever is going on, they are in our path.' He made the observation with a similarly bland tone as Solin had just used.

Solin nodded in agreement with the assessment. He clicked his tongue and pointed at a random skink sergeant after checking that the skink in question was a musketeer rather than a sabre skirmisher. As he opened his mouth, another thunderous boom echoed the air.

'Get your unit, all of them. We're going to check out what's going on.'


*


Hopefully, the archers had enough sense to not reappear now, what with an orc mob making itself known.

‘Orcs!’ he called out the moment he saw the first hint of the green tide charging down toward the Grudgebringers.

What he didn't speak aloud was the niggling doubt at the back of his mind as he realised just how many orcs were charging them. He had little doubt as to the quality of those under his command. But quantity was a quality all of its own. Charging toward his company, that was a lot of greenskins.


He ignored all doubt, pushed it aside, packed it into a proverbial sack and dumped it into the same distant corner of his mind that he usually left his mental baggage.

‘Shepke, cover the cannon.’ He raised his voice as he gave his orders, steeled his tone. ‘Fletcher…’

He didn't have to finish. The blonde corporal called out an affirmation and was already organising his crossbowmen while gesturing wildly toward the oncoming tide. Bernhardt was thankful for that. Fletcher had experience enough that he could be trusted to not need a fresh new order every other second, unlike the halberdier unit who had only had a single battle working with the Grudgebringers so far and therefore hadn't the chance to learn how best to work in cohesion.

With a rallying war cry, Bernhardt lifted his sword, the very blade for which the Grudgebringers got their name. ‘Charge!’

He heard the crack of gunfire. When he turned to see the source, he took note of the lizardmen he had rescued earlier positioned around Dietrich's wagon and not moving far. Even the ones not using the muskets refused to move more than a few metres from their ranged companions. He wasn't about to complain; a little extra protection for the paymaster's wagon was never a bad thing.

With a shout, Bernhardt had his steed gallop, joined up with the rest of his cavalry unit and took point at the tip of the spear formation, leading them into a charge through a cluster of orcs who were running far enough from the bulk of the mob that there was no risk of getting swallowed by the green tide.

Bernhardt snarled, teeth bared and lips parted in an almost bestial manner as he swiped his sword to one side, managing to cleave through an orc's skull. The greenskin fell, hopefully dead, but orcs had an annoying habit of surviving wounds that really should be lethal, so Bernhardt wouldn't have been surprised if at some point in the next few minutes the orc got to its feet and continued to fight.

Unfortunately, one downside to riding as cavalry was that he couldn't exactly stop to skewer the body for good measure. He couldn't reach once the body was prone, even if he were to have his steed still itself long enough to perform such an act. Fortunately, his stallion didn't still—had been trained too well. For a mounted swordsman, stilling oneself was not conducive to surviving. Riding atop a horse made one a bigger target for anything with any semblance of brains. And while orcs didn't appear to use their brains often, they weren't lacking those brains. And if an orc knew how to do one thing, it was fight.

His horse broke free of the throng of orcs, moved almost without prompting from Bernhardt toward the nearest of his fellow cavalrymen. As the stallion galloped, Bernhardt tightened his grip on Grudgebringer, focused on that feeling of energy that rested within the sword. Using the magical properties of his weapon had long since become second nature to him. Where once he had difficulty, now he nary needed to concentrate on the act of pulling upon that power from within the sword, then pushing back in so that it was expelled with fiery effect.

A group of orcish archers screamed out in surprise and pain as Grudgebringer brought fire to their loose formation—a fiery sphere which hit the first orc and split into a v-shaped cloud which washed over and captured the greenskins within a flamed shroud that burnt and seared and immolated.

His men's cannon barked as it released the iron ball held within. A group of particularly big orcs were bowled down by the passage of the cannonball, but despite the efforts of the Grudgebringers, it didn't look like they were cutting down enough of the orcs to give them a second thought about continuing to press the attack.

His cavalry smashed through the cluster of orcs, trampled them under hoof, cut them down and in short order they had emerged the other side of the small mob. With a roared command, all of the Grudgebringer cavalrymen rallied up and reformed on him. Meanwhile, his eyes scanned for another weak crack in the mob where he could best apply some pressure.

Again, he was the tip of the spear to puncture through the enemy ranks. In he went, crashing through the orcs, sword slicing while hoofs trampled, often accompanied by his projecting a powerful sphere of flame from his blade which was launched into the thickest gathering of greenskins he could see and then back out the other side of the still reeling orcs that yet remained from the charge.

That was the pattern—the tactic that had worked so well in the past. While the foe was still moving towards the stalwart wall that was formed by Shepke's infantry alongside any other units picked up, Bernhardt would lead his cavalry to chip away at the tide, always careful about his angling lest he find himself charging into a horde with no way of escaping.

Once the orcs slammed themselves into Shepke's wall, it would be a simple matter of hammering into the back of the wretched creatures while they had no escape.

Bernhardt's world briefly turned sideways, a feeling of vertigo capturing his mind. Once his wits had come back to him, he realised what had happened. His stallion lay on the ground, releasing feeble sounds of pain. The source of such pain? A crude orcish arrow was firmly lodged within the horse's left eye. Doubtless, the horse had bucked at the sudden agony inflicted upon him before stumbling.

With a grunt, the commander of the Grudgebringers clambered to his feet, lifted his shield and blade, and faced the orcish mob. On foot, there was no way he was willing to turn his back to the greenskins. Couldn't use the magical properties of his sword—no matter how practised he got with using it, there was always a time after use where it did not respond to his efforts. There was probably an explanation for that, but knowing wouldn't make it any less true, so he had never really questioned this period of cool-down.

An orc charged at him, must have thought him weakened now that he was removed from his horse. Bernhardt was quick to argue to the contrary: Grudgebringer was quite the cutting remark which had the orc lose his head at the swift rebuttal.

Another scan of the battlefield had Bernhardt curse softly. He was on the opposite side of the mob from his own men. That one cavalryman that he had been moving toward before he had been forcibly dismounted had long since charged again into the fray, unaware that the commander was nearby. That would change quickly once the rallied cavalry noticed his absence; they would no doubt seek him out. But that might be too late.

Rather than dwell on the ill fortune of the moment, Bernhardt adjusted his stance and tapped his blade against the large circular shield his men favoured. He could see a small number of orcs reacting to the sound of his shield being rapped upon, ugly faces twisted into gleeful grins as they charged for him.

Morgan Bernhardt was born to fight as a part of a cavalry unit. He led and fought on horseback. But it was a mistake to think that just because he had been forced from horseback that now he was weak.

He trained with Shepke and the men regularly. He did not shirk in his self-care. On foot, there might be better fighters, but that did not mean that Bernhardt could not fight.

He charged the orcs charging him. Managed to block an overhead strike with his shield, he then swung Grudgebringer into the back of that same orc's leg, cut through muscle and tendon. Thrust his shield forward, slammed it into the ugly sneering face of another orc. His heel came down upon the ankle of another, followed up with a second shield-bash that had the howling greenskin stagger back and trip as its ankle folded beneath the orc's own weight. Drove his sword into the gut of another, praised the fact that these greenskins did not wear heavy plate armour.

But it was quickly apparent that he was going to exhaust himself before the orcs exhausted their numbers. And even with the direction he was moving, he would not reach his own men for safety in numbers.

He didn't take the time to feel anything other than anger at the orcs for their attack. He let that anger fuel his next few sword swings, where flesh was cut asunder under the ministrations of his blade. When he felt the energy within Grudgebringer come back to a boil, he pulled and pushed at it, hurled the flames at the largest group of orcs he could make out.

A mace slammed against his shield, the force behind it enough to numb his arm. In spite of that, Bernhardt managed to block a second blow, then a third. Unfortunately, that third blow not only numbed his arm further, it also caused him to stagger back. With his shield arm hanging limp from fatigue and vibration-induced numbness, the commander raised his blade, ready to lunge at the orc the moment he saw the opportunity.

Everything seemed to still for a moment. Bernhardt knew that it wasn't the case, but as a new sound vibrated the air, it felt as though everybody had stopped mid-action, waiting to identify that new sound.

It was... a horn?

And then something new entered the field of battle. Bernhardt had never before seen the like that now charged down the Middenheim road toward the battle. They were definitely part of the same race as those whom the Grudgebringers had picked up. They were even dressed in the same red coats. But there was also a distinct difference—these ones were larger. Where the ones that called themselves skinks had a height that could be likened to shorter humans if they were to straighten their postures, these ones would tower over any man even with a slouched posture. They rode atop reptiles that were larger still, snarling bestial creatures which charged on two hind legs.

Once they neared the orcs, who seemed momentarily stupefied by the sudden appearance of snarling reptiles charging at them, those creatures leapt, soared through the air, then came down upon the orcs in a furious storm of teeth and claw and blood while slender sabres swung with an artful care that Bernhardt, a born cavalry commander, couldn't help but admire. Swinging swords from horseback was not as easy as those who had never tried seemed to believe. Either riding atop those raptors was naturally a better fit for sword swinging, or the lizards with the sabres had trained.

One of the riders neared Bernhardt, who adjusted his stance, uncertain as to whether he was about to face a new threat. To a small measure of his relief, the rider ignored him in favour of cutting down the mace-wielding orc who had come so close to ending Morgan Bernhardt's life. The raptor that the lizard-like man was riding chuffed at Bernhardt. Its orange eyes examined him before then dismissing him as a non-threat.

The lizardman atop the raptor swung his sabre at another orc and then held out the hand not holding the weapon toward Bernhardt.

‘Get on,’ the lizard-like man growled.

With those two words, Bernhardt made the assumption that the hand was an offer to help him mount the creature to ride behind. With his choices being to accept or to hope to get back to his own men by foot while still suffering the numbed arm, Bernhardt chose to grab the offered hand and allow himself to be pulled up to ride behind the lizard.

It was not comfortable. The lizardman had a thick tail that tried to dominate any space that might have existed, but the lizard seemed to be aware enough of his extra appendage to move it so that Bernhardt at least had the space to be seated. It was a slight blow to his pride to be riding in such a manner, but without his own horse—likely it had succumbed to the wounds by now—if he was being offered a quick return to his own troops to rally, then he wasn't about to argue. It was better to have a slightly bruised pride but be alive to suffer it than be too dead to appreciate the lack of bruising to that same pride.

Once he was mounted, the lizard clicked his tongue which seemed to be the urging needed to have the raptor start running. It was very different from riding horseback. Bernhardt didn't like it. It felt nowhere near as smooth as horseback; the motions caused from the creature's running were less a calm wave and more a frantic bobbing.

However, he ignored his feelings on the matter and chose to focus on swinging Grudgebringer at any orcs that the raptor came near as it moved, choosing to focus on the left side of the raptor while the rider swung his sabre at any orcs to the right.

As they circled the battlefield, charging at any groups of orcs that had splintered from the main bulk of their mob, a new choir of gunfire hit the air. This wasn't the scattered one-off gunshots of his guests. This was a full-on volley fire. Bernhardt twisted his head around and took in the sight of multiple formations of lizardmen. These ones looked more like the skinks that had joined up with the Grudgebringers prior—three lines of these musket-carrying skinks, twenty gunners long and four ranks deep. The smaller lizards fired their guns in volleys, then as they reloaded, they would crouch low to let the ranks behind take aim and fire.

Bernhardt was actually impressed. When he'd spoken with Boney's subordinates, they'd mentioned that their musketeers worked best in large numbers where they could time volleys such that in ideal conditions it was a near-constant storm of gunfire. While they might not quite match the handgunners of Nuln, it certainly seemed that these lizards had taken lessons from whatever source they could.

In short order, Bernhardt found himself back at the closest thing that the Grudgebringers had to a front line in this battle. The infantrymen momentarily started at the raptor that suddenly appeared in their midst, but were quick to relax as they recognised their leader riding as a passenger.

‘Morgan.’ The voice that called his name was easily recognisable. Klaus pushed his way forward, his single eye narrowed with concern. ‘I saw you go down—are you alright?’

Bernhardt slid down from the raptor's saddle and gave his one-time mentor a stiff nod. ‘I'm in one piece.’ As he spoke, he peered behind Klaus to the wagon which Klaus was charged with protecting. Inside, Paymaster Dietrich would be waiting out the fight.

Klaus identified Bernhardt's concern. ‘He's fine. The greenskins haven't managed to get past the infantry.’ The old veteran then looked to the lizardman rider who was surveying the battle with a critical eye. ‘And I thank you for returning our commander to us in one piece.’

The lizard huffed, the sound lightly tinged with amusement. ‘I was passing by.’

‘And I suppose it has nothing to do with wanting to get your missing number back?’ Bernhardt asked, a slight element of sarcasm leaking into his voice.

The lizard blinked in momentary confusion, then brightened. ‘You have seen our missing squad?’

He pointed Grudgebringer at Dietrich's wagon, directed the lizard's attention to the smaller reptiles around it.

‘That's a relief. The colonel was getting worried.’

‘And where is this colonel of yours?’ Bernhardt asked, feeling his lips tug downward at the idea of a leader not leading by example.

The only reason that he wasn't still out there was the absence of a horse and his retinue. To correct the latter, Bernhardt pulled his horn from where it rested at his hip, blew a distinct tone which his cavalry would recognise as an order to rally on him at the designated spot. The designated spot was always behind the infantry's line so that they could organise without interruption.

As if to answer Bernhardt's question, though, the storm of gunfire halted as the horn reached his lips. Once he had finished blowing into the instrument, Bernhardt turned his head to find the source of the sudden absence of gunfire and he spotted another of the lizardmen approaching, one that had just walked past the gun-lines. This was the biggest lizardman yet. While he wasn't dressed in the uniform of the others—almost looked more like some would-be adventurer—something about him gave Bernhardt pause. Morgan Bernhardt hadn't survived thus far by not getting a sense of other people and creatures and just how dangerous they were.

While this lizardman strolling so casually toward the battle didn't outwardly appear like much more than was already clear upon his subordinates… he was dangerous. Bernhardt remembered the time that he had met Gotrek Gurnisson and had just known that the slayer was quite possibly the most dangerous entity he had ever met. He didn't know if it was the way the dwarf had carried himself, if it had been a look to his eye or just some empathetic sense that had no real basis on anything other than gut instinct, but he had known that if he were to ever get into a fight with Gotrek he would not be walking away afterwards. That feeling had become a proven fact cemented by how Gotrek had shortly after their meeting gotten into a fight with a dragon without hesitation and had come out not looking any worse for it.

While Bernhardt didn't quite feel that this lizardman was at that same level of danger personified as Gotrek Gurnisson, this colonel was still within the same league. This was the type of warrior that could turn the tide of battle by simply being there.

‘He's actually taking to field himself?’ the cavalry-lizard hissed in surprise. ‘He must be annoyed.’

The lizard stopped walking and rested his left hand upon the hilt of the blade sheathed at his back. Even from a distance, Bernhardt could tell that the lizard's eyes had narrowed.

‘You all want a fight? I think you're all too pathetic. You orcs couldn't fight a featherless chicken, never mind a real fighter!’

Whatever Bernhardt was expecting, it wasn't for the lizard to shout a taunt at the orcs, worded in a way that even their dim brains would understand.

It was very clear that the lizard was aware of the effect his words had. Somehow, despite having no facial expression, the large lizardman was just radiating a sense of satisfaction. He knew he'd insulted the greenskins.

There was that strange moment of silence, a sensation of the very world pausing to take in what had just happened. The orcs had clearly heard the insult levied at them, most if not all had hesitated a fraction of a second before those who were pushing against Grudgebringer infantry were forced to refocus on the fight they were already committed to. Those that weren't forced to continue their fights all turned so as to see just who had dared to question their ability to fight.

There was a cry of ‘Waaagh!’ from a number of orcs who then charged at the lone lizard. The lizardman didn't react, just watched them near him and waited—waited until that last moment when they entered his reach whereupon he pulled his blade from its place at his back—revealed it to be the single largest Zweihänder than Bernhardt had ever seen, a blade of shimmering celestial azure—and he swung it in a downward arc which had the nearest orc turn into two halves of an orc. Without any pause, the lizard took a step forward, redirected his blade's swing so that it never slowed but circled back up and then came down on the next orc. Again, the greatsword circled back up and this time swung in a horizontal left-to-right, then up and back into a downward right-to-left which cut down more orcs before they even managed to get close enough for their own weapons to reach the one that was killing them.

The entire time, the colonel—this large lizardman—never stopped walking forward. Even when no orcs were actually close enough to be cut down, his blade never ceased its movement. He just took the moment for it to pick up speed until the platinum hue of the blade became a blurred figure-eight.

More neared, and each that entered within a ten-foot radius were cut down without a moment's consideration. One orc managed to back-pedal before the blade could cut it down and seemed to believe itself smart enough to see an opening if the grin that overtook the orc's ugly face was any clue. The blade continued its cycle and that orc lunged forward, managed to duck beneath the blade and swung its own axe. For a short moment, Bernhardt believed that the orc had managed to cut down this lizardman, but the orc missed as the lizard pirouetted around the crude weapon and his tail slapped against the orc's gut with enough force that the sound of the impact was audible across the field of battle and over the clash of weapon and shield that originated from those orcs still engaged with Shepke's men.

The orc doubled over, no longer weaving around the still-moving blade, swiftly became victim to a cleaving cut that left the head rolling away from the body. That blade hadn't ceased its motion even as the lizardman had dodged the axe with the grace of an Altdorf ballet dancer.

Even those orcs that had enough sense to try and circle around and attack from behind found their efforts for naught. If they weren't shot down by the muskets lining the background, the colonel widened his sword's arc so that it circled around him, pivoted a neat ninety degrees with the slash, cut them down, and then in the swing going in the opposite direction, swivelled back to his original facing. Always, no matter what variation he had to make to cut down whatever an orc tried in order to get near him, he would return back to the original figure-eight afterward, always knew when all that tried to circle him had been cut down.

Bernhardt wasn't a fan of zweihänders or flamberges. He was a born and bred cavalryman, born to ride into combat with a far more sensibly sized blade in hand. It didn't help that his experiences with imperial greatsword regiments hadn't instilled much of a sense of appreciation. Even that time period when he had had a unit of the famed Carroburg greatswords under his command, they had left him underwhelmed when compared to the reputation they held. They had been brave men, yes, but Bernhardt would have favoured Shepke's unit of sword and shield infantry any time. The Carroburg greatswords had used their blades to great effect, he would never deny that fact, but they still swung those two-handers with barely any more finesse than a swordsman would an arming sword. They were still a cut above the rank and file of the Empire's state troops, but for all their skill they were brute force infantry where Bernhardt had expected more.

But here and now? One didn't survive as long as Bernhardt had without at least getting an appreciation for witnessing those who had mastered their chosen style. This lizardman—this colonel—he made the zweihänder in his hands sing. He was a walking example of what the Empire's greatsword regiments aspired to.

The lizardman ceased his zweihänder's movement. The blade came to a standstill, rested upon its owner's shoulder. It was an oddly relaxed stance that he had adopted as he stared at the orcs who had yet to charge him. ‘Where're the real fighters? I only see gnoblars here—no orcs to be seen.’

There was a clear bristling at the insult. Finally, the orcs seemed to part and allowed passage for a large overly muscled greenskin who stomped forward, horned helmet slightly askew as if it didn't fit properly on its head. The warboss—for that had to be who that one was—snarled and hefted a great big axe with spikes jutting out of the bladed edge.

‘Who dah ya thinks yew are ya lizzie git? I'z Warboss Wohag. I iz da biggest and da stronkest.’

The lizard looked distinctly unimpressed. His nostrils twitched, his tongue briefly flicked out before his head then shook in clear bemusement. ‘The most unwashed as well.’

‘Yew thinks ya's can fight me?’

‘Well,’ the lizard started, head tilted and tone amused. ‘Probably. I don't have to though. Thanks for standing still. It really let my skinks get a good look at you.’

Words spoken, and an un-worded order given. The three firing lines of skink musketeers fired their weapons. The warboss might have been the biggest, might have been the strongest, might have even been the meanest, but that wasn't a good shield from sixty bullets. Bernhardt couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped his lips. He didn't know what he was expecting. A duel perhaps, where the colonel showcased that dangerous aura he carried in a face-to-face one-on-one capacity. Instead, he'd just mocked the odour of the warboss and allowed his ranged units to take advantage of the fact the orc had just stood there to exchange words.

Maybe it wasn't the most honourable way of going about things, but Bernhardt wasn't about to argue the results. If there was anything left of Warboss Wohag, he couldn't see it beneath the indignant mass of orcs who seemed to take insult at their warboss being killed off so anti-climactically. Or they were just insulted that they hadn't thought of it first—who could say?

The lizardman colonel silently stood there and stared at the orcs in silent challenge, his zweihänder still rested upon his shoulder in a deceptively casual posture. Bernhardt could see, however, the way the lizard's grip didn't ease, could just about make out the way those crimson eyes didn't stop moving back and forth to track every potential threat.

Another volley of gunfire from the lines prompted the orcs into motion. They could posture all they wanted, but the firing lines would just enjoy the easy targets. They charged, screaming that war cry that no orc Bernhardt had ever encountered hadn't taken the opportunity to scream at every moment they could.

They charged, and in reply the lizard pulled his sword free from where it was rested and readied it, allowed them to come to him without himself charging them. Not that Bernhardt felt he needed the momentum of a charge—that lizardman had proven that already. He vanished from sight as the green tide reached him, blocked by an angry green wall.

Now that he wasn't watching the lizardman colonel, Bernhardt turned back to his men, took note that even the orcs who had previously been pushing against Shepke's infantry had backed away in favour of the lone lizard who had so insulted whatever passed for honour among the orcs. Or they'd just taken the insults as an invitation for some up-close and personal brawling. His mind was already filling with glee for he easily saw the opportunity for what it was.

‘Shepke,’ he called out, careful not to project his voice too loudly. ‘Fan out around them and crush the greenskins.’

As his lieutenant disappeared to hiss out his orders to the swordsmen and the halberdiers, Bernhardt turned to the cavalry-lizard who had pulled him from the fray.

‘Feel free to smash the orcs wherever you get the opportunity.’ He worded it as an optional choice; his tone suggested otherwise. The lizardman might not have been one of his Grudgebringers, but Bernhardt was the ranking commander here and while the colonel was in the thick of combat and unable to give commands, then he was all too happy to fill that role even for guests.

The redcoat-clad lizard looked down at him from atop his raptor, and his eyes crinkled in ever so slight humour. ‘Aye, sir. Happy to oblige.’

Strange how I seem to get more respect from outsiders than I do the nobility of the Empire. Bernhardt snorted and then called loudly, ‘Somebody get me a horse.’

‘Charge.’

‘To the death!’

By the time he had mounted up a new horse, the rest of his cavalry unit had rallied up near him, gave him the chance to return to the formation. The orcs were already being smashed into by the combination of Grudgebringers and these lizardmen. It almost—almost—made him feel sorry for the greenskins when he was once again the spear point that was thrust into the slightest of openings.

Then, once again, Grudgebringer conjured its flames, burnt a swath away.


*


Solin didn't pant as he walked over the bodies of the dead, with half an eye watching the human warband as they gathered up their injured and their dead. Surprisingly few dead for how many orcs had been attacking. He didn't pant; he didn't show any sign of the exhaustion that he failed to feel.

An orc, missing an arm and one leg bent the wrong way at the knee, groaned. It might have been pain—sometimes Solin wondered whether the greenskins were capable of feeling pain.

Was it a mercy kill as his blade punctured the orc's head, stabbed into the brain and inflicted damage that even the hardiest of orcs could not live from? Or was it simply pest control, the same as if they'd been fighting certain overly large rodents? Orcs were certainly a form of pests that needed to be controlled and rooted out.

Too bad it felt like orcs were more stubborn about being removed from wherever they set up than even the most parasitical of insects. Just about as annoying to kill as a cockroach to continue with that same comparison.

Another orc on the ground, wheezing with a breath that whistled with each inhale, met a similar end. Looked like that one had been hit by one of the muskets; the wound in the chest looked about right for a gunshot.

It had been an hour since the battle had ended, with a quarter of the orcish mob routing as it dawned on them that they had gotten into a fight that they could not win. In that time, the Cathayan caravan had resumed its movement along with the Legion, so even as the battlefield was scoured by those actually involved, the caravan and its protection detail were passing them by. It was a long process.

A horse trotted up behind him. Solin ignored the newcomer for a moment, checked that another orc was actually dead first. Only after he was certain that there was no chance of getting his ankles cut by a stubborn orc that didn't understand it was supposed to be dead did Solin turn to face the one to approach, finally sheathed his blade across his back as he turned.

The goateed human atop the horse was examining him with sharp, cunning eyes. It was the same kind of cunning that marked a survivor—one who knew what it took to live through the worst that could be thrown at him. Solin supposed they might have that in common.

‘Commander Morgan Bernhardt of the Grudgebringers,’ the human introduced himself.

‘Colonel Solin of the Outland Legion.’ Solin nodded in acknowledgement as he spoke.

Bernhardt continued to examine him, so Solin continued to examine Bernhardt in kind. It took ten seconds before the human huffed out an amused breath. ‘We found some of yours the other day—a Major Boney and his subordinates.’

Solin felt tension leave his body at the comment. ‘In good health?’

Bernhardt grinned. ‘Thanks to us. Seems they have picked a fight with the Efror Guard.’

The tension that had just left Solin returned tenfold. ‘Efror?’

‘That is what the colours marked them as, apparently.’ Bernhardt's eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘You know something of Efror.’

There was a sarcastic laugh that couldn't be held back. ‘Not as much as I should considering I was under the impression Efror doesn't exist any more.’

Bernhardt's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed again in consideration. ‘You know of Efror's history.’

‘City-state burnt to the ground during Leopold's reign.’ Solin shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Near as I can tell, they barely count as a footnote in the records of the Empire's history. Marienburg buying its independence tends to be more often remembered. And cursed.’

The human gave a low hum then changed the subject. ‘According to your major, there are skaven and undead roaming the countryside.’

Solin accepted the switch of topics easily. ‘The merchant caravan I'm guarding hasn't seen any of either, but there is a burnt down village a small ways down the road. It was recent, and there were no bodies, which tells me that the undead looked to bolster numbers.’

Bernhardt nodded, with eyes hardening, softened only slightly by a token of gratitude. Information exchanged could save time or lives and this human clearly understood the value of that. ‘I'll have to finish my patrol route, but I'll pass on the news to the mayor of Gorssel and anybody else we meet on the path. What of you?’

‘We continue marching toward Middenheim with the merchant caravan we were hired to protect, where we then join up with the other half of the Legion.’

There was a pause from the human. ‘The "other half"?’ he repeated, then cast a look at the passing formations of skinks and saurus. The progression had yet to have even half of its length pass the pair and it had been a good long while since they had started to pass the Grudgebringer's hastily erected camp.

‘We didn't choose the name "Legion" because of the sound of it.’ Solin allowed a touch of humour to reveal itself. ‘We number as a Legion by the Tilean definition.’

Bernhardt visibly swallowed down a lump in his throat, but his eyes glittered with equal measures respect and envy. ‘How do you manage the upkeep? Even on retainer, that many regiments…’

Solin laughed and shook his head. ‘Trade secret, commander. It's not easy, and I don't envy Marshal Ingwel that job.’

Bernhardt leaned forward, lip twitching. ‘Very well, keep your secrets. I owe you for your timely arrival. This could have ended very poorly for my men and I.’

But Solin was already shaking his head. ‘Don't worry about owing us. We would have run into those orcs ourselves even if we'd kept back. We were doing ourselves a favour; you were the fortunate collateral.’

Bernhardt actually allowed a small laugh to be heard. It was short, almost short enough to be mistaken as sarcasm, but there was an element to it that suggested to Solin that the man just didn't typically laugh—hadn't in a long time.

‘Honesty? That's a rare currency. But I must insist.’

With the slightest of huffs, Solin's eyes narrowed into a grin and he internally decided that he was going to take the opportunity while it was presented and held out a hand, palm open. It would change the subject away from the idea of anybody owing favours. ‘By the way, it's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Bernhardt. I heard about your campaign against the Grave Lord. I'm impressed. Not bad for a warmblood.’

He made certain that his last line was given lightly enough that it was impossible to be mistaken as anything other than an attempt at humour. He was reasonably certain that Bernhardt took it that way as his frown was undermined by the open amusement in his eyes. ‘I see. So you've heard of me?’

‘We listen out. A mercenary army who marched to a certain death but then returned victorious twice? Tales like that the bards love to sing of.’

As he spoke, Solin spotted a small group approaching. Fifteen individuals, fourteen of whom were those skinks he had been so worried about previously. Boney noticed Solin looking at him and there was a slight stutter to his next step, eyes momentarily widened, then back to normal as he hid away whatever it was that Solin was making the young major feel. It had been so brief, so slight that Solin doubted the fourteen individuals with Boney even noticed. Though judging from the look Sergeant Coadmit directed at Boney, at least that one had noticed.

Solin waited before addressing them, eyes taking in their state. All were dirty, clothing so covered in mud that the red dye on the coats was barely visible. Could barely even tell what colour scales these skinks were supposed to have. Then his gaze went to the sling that one skink was sporting, the wince of pain that couldn't be hidden every time the arm within that sling was jostled even slightly. Other than the slinged arm, all were covered in cuts and scrapes but nothing else with any seriousness—no more cause for concern.

The final detail that he chose to examine closely was the human that the fourteen skinks had formed a ring around. Though looking at the stances of the skinks, this was only partially a protective barrier—the way that there was always at least two eyes on the human at any given moment suggested that they didn't want him to decide to leave them. So protective custody, though the custody part of that was loose enough that he must have done something to gather a modicum of trust.

‘I see you've all been on an adventure,’ Solin remarked lightly, didn't move his eyes away from the odd one out.

‘Undead, skaven, humans and now orcs.’ Boney recounted with a tone that was supposed to be light. Supposed to be, but it held an element that said he was forcing the calm. ‘I haven't even been here a week… is it always this busy?’

Surprised by the question, Solin burst out laughing. ‘Not usually. Tends to be a lot more walking to destinations with little happening unless we cause it ourselves.’

That was true enough. The protection detail with the Cathayan caravan was supposed to be a quiet job that just happened to allow them to travel to their desired destination profitably—had become profitable simply with the caravan master's advance. At most, Solin had expected maybe one encounter where the Legion would need to flex its might; the size alone was usually a put-off for mere brigands.

Too bad orcs were the types least likely to be deterred by size of the enemy force. And Boney hadn't even had the strength of overwhelming numbers to back him up for what was supposed to be a simple job.

‘So who's the human?’ Solin asked.

Boney opened his mouth, was about to answer, but he was cut off when the human in question spoke.

‘My name is Robert Fenchel, ward of Count Norbert von Feyerabend of Efror.’

 

Briefs and Intelligence​

The Old World – Near Middenheim Road
—

Captain Sigismund scowled as Cruniac knocked lightly upon the doorframe and then entered the room without waiting for a reply. Cruniac approached with a queer expression on his face; Sigismund could already tell he wasn't about to like what he was going to hear.

Cruniac was a scrawny man despite his occupation giving him the strength that should have prevented such a build. Dark blonde hair so dark it was almost brown, grey eyes, and a neatly trimmed moustache. Rather than the style typically favoured in the Empire of letting the facial hair grow out into thick, ropey layers, Cruniac had his cut to a wispy style and never allowed any follicles to reach even a half-inch, though his actual hair was allowed to grow out but was pulled into a controlled ponytail that was usually hidden beneath his coif.

‘It seems that the rat wasn't lying,’ Cruniac started while he absently ran a thumb across his moustache, then motioned toward the nearby window. Outside, the village was barren of all signs of life outside of the recently arrived Efror Guardsmen. ‘This isn’t isolated; undead have been attacking the villages. No bodies left in their wake. At a guess? Somebody is trying to build an army.’

Sigismund's expression deepened; the hand constantly resting upon the hilt of his sword tightened, the leather of the glove covering that hand creaking from the pressure. Cruniac didn't change his facial expression, but he did take a step back, which allowed him to be out of reach of Sigismund if the captain were to draw his sword. Not that he would—Sigismund wasn't in the business of killing his own men, certainly not over something that wasn't their fault to begin with.

He was plagued by a constant rage and hatred, but he tempered that rage into something useful; he didn't let it control him.

‘How many villages?’

‘Not as many as it could have been,’ Cruniac admitted with a faint tone of relief. ‘One of the attacked farms was saved by a passing mercenary group hired to check up on them. The survivors then warned one of the villages, and they sent a runner to pass on the word, and another was sent to Marienburg. Knowing Marienburg's leadership, they'll send patrols out if for no other reason than to brag about doing a better job than the provinces at protecting the road. Then a mercenary band came from the direction of Middenheim. They seemed to have been warned themselves, but I wasn't about to ask questions.’

‘Probably warned by the Lustrians.’ Sigismund couldn't help but grumble that last sentence.

‘My lord?’

‘The lizards that escaped with our... problem... They stumbled across those same mercenaries—the Grudgebringers—who then took them under protection for a time. Ulric was clearly smiling upon them—they were then aided by those lizards against an orc horde that picked a fight with them. The Lustrians that we saw were part of a larger group.’

‘How large are we talking about, my lord?’ Cruniac's tone turned contemplative, likely trying to puzzle out a plan of attack should the need arise.

Sigismund ground his teeth. ‘Large enough that they outnumber the Efror Guard in its entirety.’

Cruniac blinked in shock. ‘Are you certain?’

Sigismund cast a dour glare at his subordinate. ‘Our scouts lost count in the range of a few hundred... seems that those red coats they were wearing made it difficult to count them properly.’ The last part was mumbled with a disdainful irritation before he then returned to speaking at a normal volume. ‘They believed they were looking at over a thousand of the overgrown pests. So I am as certain as I can be based on reports.’

Cruniac frowned, turning his head in the rough direction of Middenheim. ‘Do we have a problem?’

‘We are going to have to leave the brat be for the time being. I am not getting into a war with a legion of Lustrians who decided to modernise themselves into a civilised example of their race.’ Sigismund paused, taking in the indignity of the knowledge that these Lustrians were more advanced than the Efror Guard, who had no handheld firearms and only limited access to mortars. ‘For now, we focus on the undead. Their timing is suspicious.’

‘Suspicious?’

‘Fenchel has a bout of insanity and decides to flee in the dead of night after nearly killing the chaplain. Then the undead make an appearance attacking a farm that he had taken refuge in. If the rats hadn't found him for us, he'd be dead already.’

‘You don't think this is a coincidence.’ It wasn't spoken as a question, and Cruniac had a concerned look.

‘What were the odds that undead happen to attack the farm where the very person we're hunting was?’

‘The undead did strike other villages first, but... they changed direction very abruptly.’

Sigismund inhaled a deep breath and nodded once in quiet resolution. His fingers drummed against the pommel of his sword as he organised his thoughts. ‘I’m going to have Gerwin take the men and continue tracking the undead, try to track down the source. You and I’ll go back to the keep, ask the count if he knows why undead would be roaming around. A mass of undead doesn’t appear out of nowhere, and if it wasn’t chance that had them attack the same farm Fenchel was at, then he ought to know.’


*


‘My name is Robert Fenchel, ward of Count Norbert von Feyerabend of Efror.’

Solin had heard the words, and his nerves turned to ice. His mind’s eye conjured up images of a time past over a hundred summers ago. Memories of a city in flames, of a church fouled, and a mass of the mad and the twisted. He almost felt the blood running from his side whilst he endured the mocking laugh of a man who had deluded himself into believing that he was doing a favour to the world.

He barely recalled the minutes after the young human had given his introduction. He knew in that detached way that one recalled overhearing news that wasn’t relevant enough to linger that he had given more words to the commander of the Grudgebringers, knew that he had gone back to the front of the caravan, and was even dimly aware of more pleasantries exchanged with the Cathayan caravan master.

But conversely, it almost felt like he’d blinked his eyes, and weeks had passed in that short span of time.

He was aware of everything, but still, the eye of his mind didn’t want to relent, insisting on gazing upon the visions of the past.

‘This world is sick,’ he had been told. ‘End Times are coming; we can only delay it so often before the ruination reaches inevitability.’

It was the rationale of a man driven mad not through the machinations of any of the Ruinous Forces but through human fragility. The only good thing that could have been said was that even in the throes of such madness, he had still absolutely despised Chaos.

That man had stood there, skin waxy and his face gaunt, stature thinned not through any ailment of Nurgle but of his own devising. In spite of an appearance of frailty, his stance had been strong and powerful, his blade held at the ready. A blade that had already bit into flesh and dripped red in silent taunt.

‘I have seen the future. There is no place for us, only an end once our world is sundered and gone, destined to be replaced with armies of gold across the realms.’

Solin shook his head, frantically trying to dispel the memories before they could really start to swarm his consciousness. It was Marz that eventually distracted Solin from the waking dreams of those times past.

The kilt-clad skink artisan approached him with a large hollowed horn in hand. Once Solin registered the smaller reptile’s presence, Marz placed the horn into the oldblood’s hand.

‘What’s this?’ Solin squinted suspiciously at the horn.

‘Bugman’s.’

Solin took a cautious sip, eye fixed upon Marz. The skink hadn’t been lying—the horn indeed had been filled with Bugman’s famed brew. His eyes narrowed in pleasure at the taste; nerves that had been taut ever since he had been reminded of Efror’s existence finally relaxed.

‘I thought we used up the last of Bugman’s?’ Solin asked in a mild tone. It had been at least two summers since the job that had seen them paid with a keg of Bugman’s finest ale. Hardly enough to last a terribly long period, and regrettably, there had not been enough that the entire Legion could get a share. As a means of being fair, portions had been given as rewards for three seasons, after which Solin had heard no more.

Marz gave Solin a wan look. ‘I kept some stashed away for occasions. You look like somebody just told you that they had burnt Tiamoxec down.’

Solin shrugged. ‘Not quite that bad.’ He took another sip of the drink and then offered the horn back to Marz, who accepted in order to take a swig himself. ‘Just unpleasant memories.’

‘Hmm. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with that almost-man you’ve allowed to accompany us.’

Of everybody in the Legion, Marz was the one most familiar with the oldblood, knew the most about what he had been through and what he felt in regards to those events. Despite attempts to close off his mind and stow away his feelings, it had never come easily, not since he had left to traverse the lands of the young races.

Maybe those like Mort had a point in that they had compromised their minds with how much they had conformed, but Solin couldn’t turn back now. He had immersed himself so deeply that telling him to switch back would be a challenge he couldn’t picture himself overcoming. Marz’s expression softened in a manner that seemed contrarian to his typical dour look. ‘You’re thinking of Yade-To again, ain’tcha?’

Solin huffed out a breath of air from his nostrils. ‘For a time,’ he admitted. ‘Can’t recall the city of Efror without recalling my major.’

Solin lifted the horn as if in toast. Another mouthful of the burning liquid, then the horn was handed back to Marz, who finished the last of the famous brew. ‘Is there a reason you decided to pester me?’

Marz barked out a laugh. ‘Ach, see if I try to be a friend to you in future if you’ll just call me a pest.’ After a moment, his mirth faded. ‘We’re only a day away from Middenheim now. What’s the plan?’

Solin grumbled softly, no real words, just vague sounds of discontent. Time spent being a recluse lost in memories was over; back to the real world.


*


There was a downside to moving with a force the size of the Legion. Even when only half of the Legion was involved, that downside still existed—it was slow travelling.

Give Marshal Ingwel a cold one or a carnosaur, and he could make a journey from one city to the next in as short as a half-day. The moment an organisation reached a size of hundreds, that trek became a multi-day march. Despite the fact that the Legion marched in formation—which actually helped somewhat as it meant everybody was travelling at the same pace—the sheer size of the Legion meant that it took time to get anywhere.

Out of curiosity, Ingwel had once remained stationary and let the Legion in its entirety pass him. It had taken literal hours. Granted, that had been at a slightly more leisurely pace, with no need for them to exhaust themselves trying to reach some time-sensitive destination. It had still been an eye-opener about the vast scale of the Legion that Ingwel was marshal of.

Despite all that, Ingwel felt that they had made good time in reaching the capital of Middenland. No doubt the other half of the Legion was already there—they'd had a shorter distance to travel and a single long stretch of road to use.

The City of the White Wolf was... something. It was certainly a storied city, heart of the Cult of Ulric, a proud home for a proud people. Built atop a mountain, it was a bastion that Ingwel could not imagine ever falling to any foe foolish enough to lay siege. It was also smog-filled and stank like the refuse of a dread saurian. The only city worse was probably Nuln—though Ingwel had yet to actually enter the industrial capital of the Empire, so he could well be wrong there.

But for the time being, Ingwel had no need to enter the human city. This wasn't an outlying village where any bad first impressions were isolated and could be managed. This was the home of the Great Duke—an Elector Count of the Empire. Cause an alarm, it wouldn't be unruly peasants in a panic but the state troops of Middenland that the Legion would be forced to contend with, and that wasn't a fight Ingwel had any desire to indulge in. Bad for business to upset the largest human empire this side of the Edge of the World. No, the Legion would not be entering the city proper—even if any had a desire to play foreign visitor to strange foreign lands.

Instead, he had the scouts roam about, looking for where a pre-existing camp lay. The usual practice was for the Legion to make camp off any roads or beaten paths so as not to get in the way of other travellers—but when near major cities, camp close enough to be seen. It was an effort to make it clear that they were there so nobody panicked at suddenly finding a camp with a large force of lizardmen on the outskirts. Let them see the Legion, and then they could keep any suspicious eye they wanted upon them, but there was no denying that they'd been polite enough to let themselves be seen.

Not that it stopped the Legion from occasionally going an extra step to make certain that there was no confusion as to their existence.

Finding Solin's half of the Legion was easy enough. He had set his camp off the Middenheim Road that led to Marienburg. The other half of the Legion were not being quiet in their camp, and Ingwel managed to find a large gathering of Solin's subordinates around an empty field, cheering and laughing as they witnessed something. It took a little gentle nudging—and amused looks at any startled saurus that turned to see who was trying to push past—for him to see that they had set up an improvised blood bowl field.

Seven skinks were trying in vain to get the ball from a large kroxigor whose eyes were half-lidded in amusement and pleasure as he gently nudged one skink from his path and gave that same skink a pat on the head before then walking towards the edge of the field—seemingly oblivious to how both his legs had a pair of skinks each latched on like human toddlers clinging to a parent's leg. If he noticed the extra weight as he lifted his feet, he didn't show it. He just slowly walked to the edge of the field, presumably where he was to make a touchdown. He did pause when one of the skinks trying to stop him managed to latch onto his tail with a vice grip. A few shakes of the tail failed to get the skink to let go, so the kroxigor just gave the laughing audience a shrug and continued to plod along the field at a comfortable pace—only stumbling each time a new skink managed to find somewhere to latch onto him in an effort to weigh him down, but he quickly adapted to the extra weight.

Much to Ingwel's amusement, several skinks from the audience decided to join in. Even the kroxigor was forcibly slowed when a solid thirteen skinks found ways to latch onto him. His eyes remained narrowed in his pleasure, though he started to exaggerate the effort it was taking him to move forward—which only incited more amusement from the watching crowd.

Once the kroxigor was two paces from the line where he needed to touch the ball in his hand to the ground, he let out a theatrical groan and fell forward. Very clearly staged, it was a slow fall that was careful not to crush any skinks beneath his girth. Once on the floor, he proceeded to give the laziest and most lethargic death roll that Ingwel had ever seen come from a kroxigor. The skinks scattered from the rolling kroxigor only to give good-natured groans as they realised that the larger reptile had rolled so that he was across the line and was tapping the ball against the grass.

‘Didn't seem like a fair match-up,’ Ingwel chuckled to one of the saurus nearby.

The saurus, still laughing at the show, turned to face the oldblood. ‘Every time we manage to get a field big enough, they do something like this. Muja is a big old softy, would never harm them, but by the nature of the game, doesn't get to actually play properly. Too risky, so we let him have a turn just enjoying himself with any willing to spend time with him.’

It was about then that the saurus actually recognised Ingwel and cut down on the laughing, giving a slight cough as his posture straightened slightly. ‘Oh, um... Marshal, when did you and yours get here?’

‘We've just arrived. Where's the colonel?’

The saurus scratched at the underside of his jaw. ‘I think he's still talking with the Cathayans we escorted here. If you haven't spoken yet, that means you don't know about the human yet?’

‘"The" human?’ Ingwel raised a brow ridge at the saurus, who shrugged.

‘I imagine the colonel will be discussing it with you later. Something about the human has him spooked. Getting a little... not tense, but nearing it. Solin spooked by this human, our new major is strangely skittish around all us saurus, and it feels like we've been followed by the undead lately.’

Ingwel hummed thoughtfully. ‘Major Mort had a confrontation against the undead himself. But it was close enough to Sylvania that we weren't interested in looking too deeply into the matter—just made sure that word was passed on to the elector and moved on.’

The younger saurus winced at the mention of Sylvania. Like the Kingdom of Bretonnia, Sylvania was one of those few areas that the Legion was desperate to avoid if at all possible. Not that they wouldn't enter the borders of either if the need arose, but given a choice, both were very much on the "prefer to ignore" list.

‘Sounds like you've been through some interesting times,’ Ingwel said after a moment of consideration. ‘I'm looking forward to chatting with Solin about what he has learnt.’


*


Boney paced back and forth, listening as Solin spoke to him regarding the days he had been separated from the Legion. Solin's words were a clear assessment—neutral in tone as he gave both praise and critique in equal measure. Boney took note that the colonel, after giving him a contemplative look, had deliberately positioned himself so that he wasn't crowding him—had just enough distance between them that the skink major wasn't feeling himself tense up at the proximity to the larger reptile.

‘According to Coadmit, you had the occasional issue with your swordplay. Not used to only the one keen edge being the lethal part to hit with,’ Solin said, drumming an irregular beat upon his bicep. ‘But that's easy enough to overcome—just takes some practice. So with that in mind, you are going to be training with Captain Yen'ayes and then every other day either Marz or Muja, depending on who is available at the time.’

Boney took a moment to register the instruction. ‘Marz?’ he repeated, confused, which doubled as he rapidly remembered who Muja was and turned to face the direction where the playing field had been set up. ‘Wait, Muja the kroxigor?’

Solin nodded slightly, though when he spoke it was as if Boney hadn’t spoken. ‘Yen is our main sword instructor, so he'll help you with your form and how to use your sword like a sword and not a thin cudgel. Meanwhile, practising with Marz will give you experience of fighting against somebody who uses a different weapon and style.’

‘But...’ Boney tilted his head in confusion. ‘He's an artisan, not a warrior.’

‘Don't let that fool you,’ Solin warned in a mild tone. ‘When he was younger, he was one of our Irregulars. He decided to pursue his passion for the artisanal arts once he got old enough that he was concerned about slowing. He's still a monster with a claymore, though, so don't underestimate him.’

Boney took a moment to try and remember what a claymore even was—though he could only dimly recall it as being a larger sword than the norm. Considering Solin's weapon was a zweihänder, the exact difference was beyond the major's understanding. After a sigh and a moment of dread—because last time he'd encountered Marz, the tailor had made it clear that he was still unimpressed with how Boney had mistaken his kilt for a dress, and that state of unimpressiveness had doubled when he had seen the filthy state of Boney's new clothes on returning from his time away from the caravan—now Solin had just put Boney in a position where Marz was going to be able to act upon those less-than-impressed feelings in the name of training.

With a sigh that perfectly conveyed the resignation he was feeling, Boney finally asked, ‘And Muja?’

‘Practice fighting against something bigger than you are.’ Solin spoke with a faintly distracted tone as he began to read from a stack of parchment in his hand, eyes narrowed in thought. He did look up after he uttered those words and gave what Boney assumed was supposed to be a reassuring look. ‘Don't worry. Muja is a gentle soul—even by kroxigor standards. Didn't become one of our best healers by not being gentle.’

‘He's gentle... so you want me to practise sword fighting against him.’ There was no hiding the incredulity. He didn't even question the role of kroxigor as a healer.

‘Gentle, yes, but also a believer in the school of hard love if it means that those he cares for—in this case being the Legion and all within—are less likely to be visiting him in a professional capacity.’ Solin's eyes slanted in humour. ‘Relax, it also means he knows exactly how hard he needs to push those he's practising against. He's been volunteering for the role for four hundred summers, and he has never hurt the one he's been sparring against.’

Better a kroxigor than a saurus, I suppose. Boney shook his head. ‘Are you certain?’

‘About how soft Muja is? Did you not see him on the field? He loves you skinks in particular. Wouldn't surprise me if he was asking skinks to sleep with him.’

Boney sputtered in shock. That was one of the details he recalled from the lessons before being shipped out—some double meanings that warm-bloods had in their speech. ‘Ex-cuse me?’

‘It's almost like human spawnlings with their stuffed animals.’ Solin mused thoughtfully. He then gave Boney a bemused look. ‘What?’

‘You bastard,’ Boney hissed with a shake of the head. ‘You did that deliberately.’

‘Did what?’ Solin asked with a faux-confused tone, then flinched in apparent "shock". ‘Oh! You... you have a dirty mind, little skink. Is that why you shipped out? Wanted to experiment with the reproductive practices of other races?’

‘No, nonono!’ Boney waved his hands in a warding gesture as though to shield himself from such accusations. Then the implications of such an accusation hit him with the force of a kroxigor with a mace. ‘Please tell me that isn't a thing.’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Solin said idly, giving a vague shrugging motion as he spoke. ‘And mind your language when we're in the officer's meeting. Mort hates if you use vulgarity.’

Boney tried not to indulge the oldblood who had just proven that he wasn't above having fun at his expense, but that last sentence caused Boney's nerves to bristle with indignation.

‘Why would Major Mort have a problem with vulgarity from me in particular?’

Solin paused. His crimson eyes drilled into Boney as if confused that he was being asked such. Eventually, he gave a shrug and spoke his answer in a dry tone. ‘He likes it when you skinks stay cute and adorable. Vulgarity ruins that image.’ He shrugged a second time. ‘So no swearing in front of the crotchety old bastard during the meeting tomorrow.’

Boney felt his teeth grind together at the idea of skinks being seen as lesser than saurus in any way. Adorable? His knuckles popped from the pressure of his fist clenching. Condescending saurus with their naturally powerful builds and obsession with being strong and mighty! Being smaller does not make me adorable!

‘Anything else I need to know about the other officers?’ he asked once he managed to calm himself down.

Solin tilted his head. ‘Major Sharpe will be the chameleon skink in the green uniform. Only skink major not to have been a priest before the Legion—don't try to use that against him. He got his rank on merit; he earned it. He's polite enough that he won't hold you just being given the rank against you, so return that favour. He is not somebody you want having a grudge against you.’

‘You make him sound part dwarf.’

Solin chuckled. ‘He got a lot of grief early on in his career as a major. There were those that didn’t like the idea of somebody not spawned for the purpose of leading in such a position. Mort certainly didn’t help.’

‘Mort again?’

‘Ah,’ Solin cut the skink off with a sharp glare and finger lifted in the universal gesture of "stop talking now"—the effect of which had Boney back-pedalling slightly. ‘For all his faults, Mort is still one of our best officers and warriors. He didn't earn his position as an Eternity Warden back home by not being good at what he does. And the three regiments under his command are arguably the best we have because of his leadership—he holds them all, even the skinks, to the same standards that he held the guardians under him back home.’ He mumbled something under his breath that Boney wasn’t able to catch before he then finished with: ‘His problem is that he is old enough that he doesn't do well with change for the sake of change.’

Boney was silent as he absorbed that information—adjusted what he knew of Mort. He had been aware that Mort was old, was quite possibly the oldest living saurus spawned of Tiamoxec, but hadn't really considered the effect such a long life might have had.

‘Also, don't let my personal biases influence you,’ Solin added on after a moment, voice lowered into a serious timbre. ‘Like how he and Sharpe don't get along nor do I get along with Mort. Form your own opinion, and even if you decide that outside of combat you loathe his guts, make absolutely certain that while we are in the midst of battle, you treat him like he is your most trusted spawn brother. He is a cantankerous old bastard, but he knows what he is doing.’

Boney acknowledged the warning with a nod. It was a fairly redundant warning, as Boney was already prepared to act as if any problems he might have didn't exist when lives could depend upon the trust between him and his fellows in the field of battle. It wasn’t an attitude exclusive to the Legion—as near as Boney could tell, that was a universal trait of their species.

Solin hummed thoughtfully. ‘You use the celestial winds in battle?’ His tone was muted, almost resigned, but also held a hint of pleasant surprise.

‘Yes,’ Boney answered with a single nod.

‘How powerful a spell can you use if given time and ideal conditions?’

‘I once summoned a lightning strike, but I'm not yet practiced enough that I'm willing to try and do that in battle.’

Solin tilted his head, his eyes curved into a smile—though the look was anything but happy, more of a remorseful sadness that he was desperately trying to hide. ‘Well, something to look forward to in future. Are you only able to use the celestial winds, or can you...?’

‘No, just Azyr. And I'm not good with the divination arts, or I would have spent time as an attendant of Annat'Corri and probably wouldn’t have been sent to the Legion for many summers if I was ever.’

‘That's fine,’ Solin reassured softly, knuckles rubbing at the underside of his jaw. ‘Just trying to place you in my mind, how you'll be supporting those under your command. Your predecessor...’ He trailed off, the smile in his eyes now completely faded. ‘Well, you are your own person. We'll work it out.’

Boney felt something within him resonate at the look which overcame Solin. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, though he couldn't find the words. By the time he had begun to work at stringing together a coherent enough thought that could then be put into words, the moment had passed and Solin's features shifted back into the default calm confidence he typically carried himself with.

‘Well, I think that's all for now.’ Solin clapped his hands together as if the sound of his palms connecting marked the exact moment that he was done. Somehow, the clap sounded less an energetic exclamation of joy for a job done and more a defeated call for retreat. ‘I'll see you tomorrow at the meeting.’

And without giving Boney a chance to speak, Solin straightened his posture and stalked away—leaving the skink blinking at the abrupt departure.


*


It took until the next day before there could actually be an officer's meeting. Once the bulk of the half of the Legion Ingwel had been commanding had caught up, it had taken the better part of the day to set up their own addition to the camp—and time was spent reuniting with friends from other regiments.

Morale was good. It was always a pleasant moment when the Legion was made whole again after a period of separation. Tales were shared about the experiences the others had missed. To go by the recounted tales, it seemed both halves of the Legion had equally interesting experiences—though the half that Solin had been commanding seemed to be unfinished with whatever had begun with them.

So, at noon of the next day, Ingwel finally had a chance for a proper meeting with all the commanding staff. Naturally, it was going to be calm and ordered and... he wasn't even going to try to kid himself.

Ingwel stepped into the tent following behind Mort, who immediately stilled on spotting one of the three already within the large canvas structure. Sharpe was standing in one corner, arms crossed, head bowed—the only sign of his being awake being the movement of his bulging eyes, one of which had fixed itself upon Mort.

Nearby, Major Zakarius—a skink adorned in similar armour to Mort, with the addition of a scarlet cape—was seated on one of the chairs, his cape across his knees while he used a needle to patch a tear. At Mort’s entrance, his hand stilled and his eyes roved from the Eternity Warden to Solin, physically bracing himself.

'Oh look,' Mort started instantly, eyes drilling into Solin as the green-hued oldblood turned to take note of who had just entered. 'The mutant yet lives.'

'Oh look—you still have a warhammer stuck firmly up your cloacae,' Solin said with an exaggerated eye-roll, though one of his hands absently rubbed at the top of his head where he lacked the bone crest typical of most saurus of Lustrian origin. He was hardly the only one—it was a fairly common variation for saurus spawned upon the Madrigal Isle, in the same way that the feathered raptor-skinks were. Mostly, the negativity associated with the different spawning had died down, and it had just become an accepted local-specific spawning.

Mort himself had plenty of crestless saurus in his regiments and had never expressed any sign that he saw them as lesser or that they were mutants—but the ongoing distaste Mort and Solin held for each other meant that it was used as a barb on occasion.

Ingwel pre-empted the argument before Mort could so much as open his mouth. 'Children, behave.' Ingwel sighed as he spoke, though his reprimanding gaze was upon Mort rather than Solin—both because he'd instigated and for the mutant comment.

Both gave identical looks of distaste at the marshal for a reason that Ingwel was fully aware would be voiced sooner rather than later. Of the three of them, Ingwel was the youngest. It was Solin who put words to thought, though. '“Children”? I'm older than you.'

Ingwel let out a snort of amusement. 'Yes—you crawled out of the spawning pool two whole minutes before me. Clearly, you needed those two minutes to develop the mental maturity needed to not be a child.'

Ingwel pointedly ignored the muttered comment about how those two minutes had also been needed for the missing crest. Solin clearly caught it—if the dirty look sent at Mort was any indication—though he decided not to take the bait and instead stalked off to Sharpe, who looked like he was sleeping on his feet in his corner of the tent.

Ingwel's eyes rested upon an unfamiliar skink that chose that moment to enter the tent. He took in the clothing and the feathered hat, quickly working out that this was the new major to the Legion. He held out a hand.

'Welcome to the Legion—where apparently my officers are all juveniles.'

He was a little taken aback at how the skink in question flinched away from the offered hand—staring at it with wide eyes before then visibly forcing himself to relax and accept and return the gesture. Ingwel exchanged a confused look with Mort. He vaguely recalled the mention that the major was skittish around saurus, but seeing it firsthand was different from just hearing.

There must be a story behind that. Hope it doesn’t affect his ability to lead.

'Major Boney.' The skink’s voice was low as he introduced himself.

Ingwel's eyes narrowed in amusement. Seems Solin already cut his name down to size. On the other hand, Mort tilted his head with an air of bafflement.

'"Boney"? Where did that come from?' the Eternity Warden asked.

Boney shrugged. 'Bonaeaix. The colonel shortened it—it stuck.'

Mort huffed. 'Of course it was Solinaraxl. It's always him.'

'Oh leave it. Most of us actually like the nicknames,' Sharpe hissed at Mort, revealing himself to have been paying attention. The chameleon skink turned to Boney, who looked somewhat taken aback at Sharpe’s actions. 'Major Boney—good to meet you. My name is Major Sharpe'tus or just Sharpe. I don't mind which you use. Ignore the antique—Solin is right, he really needs to get that warhammer up his cloacae looked at.'

Mort looked like he'd just swallowed one of the pineapples of Lustria whole and unskinned. His fingers twitched, and he made a slow motion as if picturing himself throttling the chameleon, who stared at him in open challenge. The motion was aborted quickly; the warden's eyes flickered to Boney, whereupon they shifted into a momentary concern—but when Ingwel turned his head to see just what had caught Mort's eye, Boney looked as neutral as he had from the moment he'd shaken Ingwel's hand.

'Major Mort.' Mort introduced himself, then sighed softly. 'Just... call me Mort.'

Surprise flickered across Boney's eyes—those eyes then narrowed into acute annoyance. 'Mort? Oh, I've heard of you.' Boney leaned forward and jabbed a finger into Mort's chest. The saurus blinked in shock, attention cemented to the finger poking against his breastplate. 'We skinks are not adorable!'

There was a pause as his words registered. Then Mort looked at Boney with startled confusion. Meanwhile, Ingwel had to swallow down the guffaw that wanted so desperately to be heard.

'Where did this come from?' Sharpe asked, clearly no less baffled than Mort was—though he also had a streak of irritation when his eyes rested upon Mort, who shook his head in a stupor.

'I don't know?' It came as a question, as if Mort doubted the validity of his own words.

The sound of strangled laughter had Ingwel turn to see that Solin had shoved his own forearm into his mouth in an effort to suppress his laughing. If Solin had been a human, Ingwel had absolutely no doubt that there would be tears streaming from his eyes at how heavily he was trying to laugh around his arm-turned-gag.

Boney missed that detail as he began to launch into a tirade at Mort—apparently having overcome his skittishness in the face of a righteous fury that came from the crime of skinks being labelled as "adorable" by the oldest living Tiamoxec-spawned saurus. Mort, for his part, was very much absolutely mortified at the very idea that he had ever given the impression that he considered skinks to be adorable or anything less than capable, if sneaky, kin.

Sharpe's ire faded as he registered Solin's strangled mirth—the blessing of independently moving eyes. While one eye had glared at Mort, the other had taken notice of the oldblood. His arms crossed over his chest, though he didn't turn—didn’t do anything to give away that he had noticed Solin, and instead allowed his own measure of amusement to show as it dawned on him just what had happened.

'Boney,' Mort finally managed to cut across the ranted tirade. 'When did I give you the idea that I think skinks are adorable?'

'Colonel Solin said that you dislike it when we skinks use vulgarity because it stops us from being adorable.'

'That's a laugh,' Sharpe said, with a wry smile in his eyes. 'We spawned with the most vulgar language High Saurian is capable of expressing already in our minds. Ask a skink not to swear? You might as well ask us not to breathe.'

'I never said such...' Mort trailed off and twisted his head, expression shifting into a teeth-bared snarl as Solin finally was unable to hide his amusement any longer. His laughter was loud and true.

Boney also finally realised what had happened and almost matched Mort in the competition of the singularly most angry expression a lizardman's features were capable of—sharp teeth exposed in a manner very indicative of a desire to use them.

'You... you carnosaur-humping bastard!' Boney hissed, fist clenched and being shaken in Solin's direction. 'You utter cloacae-licking shit-mite...' His language rapidly shifted from Reikspiel to a tirade of vulgarity in High Saurian—a tirade which had Sharpe nodding in visible appreciation. Solin didn't seem repentant in the slightest, even when Boney delivered a sharp kick to his shin. If anything, it was fuel to the fire and caused his laughter to double.

This was the scene that Colonel Iycan entered the tent to find. The purple skink blinked, locked eyes with Ingwel, then went on to survey the scene of a skink that he had never seen before swearing up a storm that would make a dark elf blush—the recipient of said tirade unable to stop the most gut-busting laughter that Iycan had ever witnessed from Solin.

'What's all this about?' Iycan asked, absolutely baffled.

Ingwel explained, not hiding his amusement, much to the annoyance of Mort, who momentarily shifted his glare from Solin to the marshal. 'Colonel Solin played a prank on our newest major—which had Major Boney here accusing Mort of calling skinks adorable. Apparently, skinks are not meant to be adorable.'

'To be fair,' Solin managed to say in a momentary lull of laughter, 'he's the one who misinterpreted what I meant when I was saying Mort dislikes vulgarity.'

Iycan tilted his head, registered the words that Ingwel had spoken, and then turned to Boney, who had paused in his stream of profanity at the latest officer's entrance.

'Major... Boney, was it?' Iycan waited just long enough for Boney to nod in acknowledgment. 'I hate to break it to you, but we skinks are adorable—I should know. Accept it and move on. Now, can we all calm down so we can exchange pleasantries and catch up on affairs?'

Ingwel nodded in silent appreciation. With a few words, his right hand had made everybody silent—excepting the few lingering giggles from Solin. Sharpe visibly bristled, apparently disagreeing with Iycan’s declaration of skinks being such, but the polite request to move on and start the meeting had him swallow back anything that he might have said.

Solin pulled a bound collection of pages and placed them on the desk, which Ingwel had sat himself behind. After taking a deep breath, presumably to suppress yet more giggling, he pointed a finger at the pages.

'As usual, that's everything I've learnt. Every rumour, every bit of gossip—but the first pages have something more than that. Obviously, I couldn't just check the validity of it, so it’s just the word of those who passed through the region, but...' He trailed off, waiting for Ingwel to skim through that first page.

Ingwel narrowed his eyes into a frown as the meaning of the words written down hit him. 'Seven-year winter?' he uttered.

'It would give a reason for the rumours of refugees fleeing Kislev,' Solin commented. 'I've already asked Anten to check it out for us—he's the nearest to Kislev, last I heard.'

Ingwel nodded at the mention of one of the Irregulars—those who operated independently of the Legion, a holdover from back before the Legion came to be. 'He should still be in the northern Badlands doing whatever it is he focuses on there.'

'Dawi-Zharr,' Iycan muttered. 'You can thank him that we know what we do.'

'I'll be sure to pass on my gratitude.' Ingwel steepled his fingers and gave Solin a look. 'I've heard that you picked up a human. One who apparently has you “spooked”.'

Mort snorted at the image of Solin being spooked, but it was Boney who answered the unspoken question. 'It was me that found the human.'

Solin hummed, eyes narrowed, any lingering mirth now vacant. 'He claims to be the ward of a count. He was fleeing—the count's guard were pursuing.' At Sharpe's opening mouth, he pre-empted the question that was no doubt about to be asked. 'Not an Elector Count. A minor count who apparently rules a city-state.'

'This ought to be interesting,' Mort huffed.

'He is the ward of the Count of Efror.'

There was a pregnant pause as Solin's words washed over everybody in the tent. Then Mort shook his head. 'Impossible. Efror burnt down. You saw to that.' No accusation to his tone—he was just stating fact. For all that Mort and Solin did not get along; Mort had never expressed any doubt regarding Solin’s ability to do his job. That his job had been the razing of a city-state of the Empire was irrelevant in his eyes—Solin had the ability, so had therefore done it.

Boney shook his head in confusion. ‘Solin burnt down Efror?'

Solin's tone was rueful, but Ingwel knew his spawn-brother well enough to know that he was hiding his real feelings behind a shield. 'I’d hardly say I was the one to burn Efror—but I was there. A rare moment where we actually got ourselves involved in an internal dispute. Usually, our rule is to avoid taking sides when realms take up arms against their own. Not our place to play kingmaker.'

'Why...?'

It was Iycan who answered the trailed-off question. 'The Empire had just regained a level of unity not seen for a long time. Magnus unified the Empire during the Great War. We were too late to help them at the front—they were already on their way to help Kislev when we entered the Basin—but we helped keep their home safe from opportunists and orcs while the majority of their troops were up north. Afterwards, his successor was trying to keep that unity, but there were those who saw weakness.'

Solin continued from there in a newly bitter tone. 'The city of Efror was such. I suppose the count didn't particularly care for Leopold's efforts. That—or he didn't care for the Elector Count that Efror paid tithe to. The count was a piece of work. Accused Leopold of taking his youngest son hostage—then went and executed his eldest son under the charge of handing his brother to the emperor. We later found the youngest son's body in his keep's cellar.'

Ingwel sighed and recalled everything that Solin had told about the Razing of Efror. Unfortunately, he himself hadn’t been there, for he had been getting the majority of the Legion—not that it had been called the Legion back then—ready to begin the move south for the Tilean peninsula. The only one other than Solin that had been involved had been the late Yade-To. Based on what Ingwel had been told and learnt through other sources after the fact… the entire affair had been a mess.

Solin didn't sound any less bitter as he explained further. 'The survivors of their count's madness were few—they couldn't leave the city without being executed for treason, and every day they stayed there was a chance they'd be executed for conspiracy against the count and involvement in the disappearance of the youngest son. The city burnt shortly after I had the regiment with me buy time for those not overtaken by Count Adelbreckt's madness to flee. Leopold himself later had the truth buried—made it sound like a natural disaster had happened so that the city-state of Efror would be lost to time. We were given then the first muskets we ever fielded and the knowledge to craft them as payment both for doing as asked and to keep silent on the affair.'

'At the time, I had Solin accept the job because I was concerned that it was a Chaos corruption at the heart of the matter.' Ingwel shrugged, though he couldn't help but feel anger for the events of the time. 'It hadn't been that long since Magnus had tried to cleanse the Empire of any that might still harbour loyalty to the gods of Chaos, and we knew that no matter what, he couldn't erase it entirely. So long as desperation exists, there will be a hold for the ruinous forces to corrupt. Take a self-styled king and his madness—it sounded like something Tzeentch would have enacted.'

Boney hissed an expletive in Saurian. 'So when Solin heard that the Efror Guard had been hunting for the ward of the Count of Efror?'

'I got into a fight with Count Adelbreckt back then,' Solin admitted. 'He actually bested me one-on-one. Second closest I ever got to be being killed. Adelbreckt personally trained his guard before his madness took hold. I wasn’t fond of the idea that they’re still around.'

Mort, who had been standing with crossed arms and head bowed, finally looked up. 'How does a count for a no-longer existent city happen?'

It was Iycan who answered. 'Through the family line never ending.' At the looks from all the others in the tent, he gave a slight shrug. 'We know that Count Adelbreckt killed his eldest and his youngest was found dead. We know that his wife died giving birth to a daughter who failed to survive her first season. But we never actually checked whether he had any other family—siblings, another child in between eldest and youngest, or even just a cousin. They inherit the title that they use, despite no longer having the land associated with it—maybe out of pride, maybe out of ambition.'

Solin huffed out a sarcastic laugh. 'Fantastic.'

Iycan hummed thoughtfully. 'I will look into it after we're done here. Since we're at Middenheim, I can make use of the resources in the city.'

'You sure?' Ingwel asked.

Iycan gave a shrug with one shoulder. 'I need to check up on my contacts within the city anyway. Always good to remind them that I yet live and that it wasn't a successor sending them the odd missive.'

'So has the human given a reason for why he is fleeing the Efror Guard?' Sharpe asked.

'No—since my priority was escorting the Cathay merchant caravan here where we would then meet up. Didn't want to potentially commit to a contract I couldn't fulfil. Not that he looked to hire us outside of asking to accompany us to Middenheim. I think he wants to get an audience with the Grand Duke.'

Ingwel silently mused that Solin had likely been avoiding this human and the memories associated with his claims and as such hadn’t pushed—using that same reasoning he’d just recited to convince himself not to get involved.

Iycan, on the other hand, perked up. 'Well, no reason I can't help him with that.' He didn't mention why he would want to, but again Ingwel—having lived and fought beside the purple skink for the centuries that the Legion had existed under one name or another—could make a good guess as to the reasoning. By being the one to get this human an audience, he'd get to listen in and learn the details.

The Legion had certainly encouraged those serving within to be nosy busybodies—unable to mind their own business. When the preferred fee for services was information, it was inevitable that it would foster such a mentality.

'I see no reason why not if you were already planning on going into the city yourself,' Ingwel conceded.

With those words, that plan was set. It hurt nobody—there was nothing to lose but time that was already being spent. So with that done, Ingwel turned to look at Boney again.

'So, Major Boney. I'm sure you're sick of it by now, but tell us about yourself. I am interested in learning about the new major I have under my command.'

Boney looked put off at the request, but after a momentary silence, he began to answer the questions suddenly levied at him from all corners of the tent.


*


Iycan straightened his coat as he approached Fenchel, one eye immediately appraising the human. They didn't mention he wasn't yet adult. He swallowed the annoyance at the realisation and then the annoyance that was self-directed at recalling that Solin wouldn't have been in the frame of mind to think to discern the age of the human while Boney wouldn't have the experience to know. By Iycan's reckoning, this Robert Fenchel was maybe seventeen summers of age.

A brunette that was not yet old enough to need to shave his barely existent face-hair. Clothing was better quality than a peasant’s while not outwardly appearing to be of noble's quality. It was at that in-between point that was usually worn by those either under the employ of nobles, those working with the salary afforded to imperial state-troops, and nobles who were trying to not look like nobles but weren't willing to go all the way and wear threadbare peasantry garb. Really, though, the coat was the biggest giveaway. If it hadn't been so worn down, it would have been a bright red warning flag about his not being a peasant. Not even the state-troops could afford themselves coats with silk lining. The fact it was a coat and not a cloak was itself a big tell—for cloaks were easier to produce and far cheaper than an overcoat—though as time passed, it was becoming less of one.

He had hidden the lining well—the coat was securely fastened about his torso, but he'd made a mistake in rolling up the sleeves.

'Robert Fenchel?' he called out as a question, despite the fact he knew the answer. It always seemed to set humans at ease if they weren't immediately recognised by strangers, but add a questioning lilt to the name, and they assumed that there was uncertainty, and that comforted them.

'That's me.' He answered with what was supposed to be an authoritative tone, but his voice had the squeak to it that seemed to ail all human males yet to hit twenty summers. Once his body finished doing whatever it was that caused human boys to have squeaky voices, then and only then would that authoritative tone actually sound remotely authoritative.

Iycan politely ignored the squeak that was supposed to be the word "me" and neared the human. 'My name is Colonel Iycan. I'm going to be getting you an audience with a member of Todbringer's court.'

'Not Grand Duke Todbringer himself?' Thankfully the question wasn't in a whining tone. It seemed that this young ward of a count was versed enough in the real world and the politics therein to understand that it wasn't a sure thing to get a meeting with one of the twelve most powerful men in the Empire.

Iycan slanted his eyes into a grin. 'I don't have that power, but the one I can get a meeting with does have his ear, so if he deems it essential, he can pass on your message. Who knows, maybe then you'll get to meet the grand ol' duke.'

Fenchel hid a smile behind his hand while he examined Iycan with a critical gaze that didn't feel very impactful. 'Are you certain you can enter Middenheim?'

Iycan's grin widened—not that the human could tell. 'I have my ways.' As he spoke, he pulled at his flat cap, tugged it forward so that it came down and almost covered his eyes. If he had been human, his eyes would have been mostly covered instead of almost. He then absently reached behind his neck and pulled up the hood of his coat.

Fenchel's brows rose in bemusement. 'If you were human, that would certainly hide your face, but your... snout... is still sticking out, as is your tail. And your feet are decidedly non-human.'

'Spend much time examining people's feet?' Iycan asked with naked amusement.

Fenchel opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, thought about his answer, and then finally re-opened it. 'Well, no. But that doesn't invalidate my previous points about your snout and tail.'

Iycan chuckled while drawing in the Aethyr that saturated the air—then snapped his fingers. Fenchel blinked, slightly taken aback, and his face went through a myriad of expressions as he looked at Iycan.

'Ah, oh, that's... that's weird,' he uttered, face scrunching up. 'It's like I can see you but also see somebody else. Somebody human.'

'That's because you were aware of me as I cast the illusion. To anybody else, I now look like a human. Still think I can't get into Middenheim?'

Out of curiosity, Iycan looked around the camp for any reflective surfaces to see just what the illusion had put him as. An unpainted shield belonging to one of Mort’s lot had Iycan humming appreciatively. The illusion was definitely human—it had given him an extra half a foot of height, a large beaked nose, and a mop of thick curly hair barely peaked out from under his cap was visible beneath the shadow cast by his coat’s hood. The eyes were a little strange; the illusion seemed all too eager to have them bulge out at the barest hint of amusement. Coupled with the toothy grin… Iycan liked this illusion and resolved to remember this one.

Fenchel's expression became one of wariness; eyes rested suspiciously upon Iycan. 'Wizards are capable of such?'

'Some. Not all.' Iycan's illusionary self grinned a smile full of pearly whites.

The human leaned back, expression tightening with a clear nervousness. 'What keeps most wizards from being capable of casting such spells?'

'With humans? Typically a preference for the flashier spells. What screams power to you? Laughing like a madman as you bring down a rain of fire, or the ability to walk alongside your enemies while they are incapable of recognising you?'

'Well, the fire. But surely the ability to do one doesn't preclude the other?'

'Ah.' Iycan's grin widened further, and the illusion’s eyes widened until it looked as though his orbs were soon to fall from the sockets. 'Except you humans are taught not to. I believe it is one of the strictest rules that your colleges of magic impart upon those learning within their halls. Well, that and to not do necromancy unless you plan a state-assisted suicide.'

'I'm pretty certain they don't word it like that,' Fenchel argued.

'Maybe not. Now, shall we be off?'

Fenchel nodded, though his expression was still uncertain at the revelation that Iycan was an illusionist. Humans—so funny with their hang-ups.

Getting into the city was uneventful. Iycan had long since mastered the basics of not only entering into one of the oldest and greatest of the Empire's cities but also knowing how to avoid getting caught up in questioning from the guardsmen—whether those guardsmen were legitimately looking to catch criminals or just looking to shake-up what they perceived as an easy mark. Unfortunately, Fenchel had all the hallmarks of being one of those supposed easy marks for extortion, so instead of the far quicker and considerably more convenient chair lift, they had been forced to take the longer route along the viaducts.

Not that Iycan was worried for himself; he could easily vanish, and the guards would struggle to recall that he had ever been there to begin with. But getting Fenchel out of such a situation would have been considerably more difficult without unintentionally exposing himself as a mage. That would then be a slippery slope wherein state-sanctioned wizards would be called in, and if any were to see through his illusion and compulsion, it would be they. One dispel cast at him, and there would be trouble, of the sort that Iycan was uninterested in indulging in. He was not as young as he used to be, and as a skink, he didn't have that agelessness that benefited his saurus kin. He had a limit, even with his affinity with the Winds extending his longevity, and while he was still a fair ways from reaching that limit, time had prodded him often enough now to not play games with the humans without necessity anymore. Were he not so gifted in the arcane, he would have passed of old age by now.

It was a pity that the Cathayan merchants that Solin had escorted weren’t actually entering into the city proper. They had only used Middenheim as a checkpoint for their travel back east—it would have made getting into the city far more convenient if they could just enter as a part of their caravan. Instead, it was a long uphill walk.

Hope the human doesn’t mind the exercise. He felt his illusion grin again. He’d never worked out if the expressiveness of his illusions came of the fact that he himself had no practice in moderating his facial language or if it was some flaw in his weaving the illusion that he had never fixed—it was always all or nothing; the illusion would be expressive or a dead-eyed, blankly stoic carving. Experience had taught that being overly expressive was less suspicious.

Middenheim was, as always, cloying with the scent of smog—a thick miasma that few human cities could rival. Some called it the smell of progress. Iycan disagreed—it was a necessary evil the humans of the Empire had to endure if they wanted to continue to be able to stand up to the forces of Chaos through their triad of faith, steel, and gunpowder, but it wasn't a pleasant smell; certainly wasn’t the smell of progress.

All told, however, it didn’t look like much had changed in the half-century since he had last set foot within the walls of Middenheim. Outwardly, it still felt more like a fortress that happened to be a city than a city which had grown over time. But outward appearances were often deceiving, and Middenheim was no different. For all that it had looked the part of a fortress, there was a culture within those mighty walls—the sort of culture that only a vast city with a true sense of history was capable.

'Now what?' Fenchel asked once they were inside the actual city, eyes darting this way and that in a manner which revealed that the young human had never been within Middenheim’s walls before. 'We just walk up to the palace of Grand Duke Todbringer and knock on the door?'

'Of course not.' Iycan adopted a mock-offended tone—was vaguely aware of his illusion shifting to an expression which matched his tone. In actuality, he was mildly annoyed at the question and re-evaluated his earlier estimation that Fenchel understood real-world politics. Nobody just walked up to the door of the ruler of any sized domain and expected entrance. Besides which: ‘The hour is late; we wouldn’t get in until tomorrow even if I’d already had a chance to talk to my friend in court.’

Fenchel’s face twisted in annoyance at the delay but visibly inhaled deeply and squared his shoulders. ‘Very well, in that case, we will need to book an inn for the night.’

Iycan grinned toothily, barely acknowledging the jolt as he was bumped into by a random passer-by. ‘Indeed.’ He patted at his frockcoat’s pockets. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll pay. My treat.’

Fenchel opened his mouth, stilled—which left him gaping like he was trying to catch flies—then peered back down the way they’d come from, eyes visibly scanning for something. When he was unable to find whatever he sought after he deflated and gave Iycan a suspicious look. ‘You certain you can afford two rooms?’

‘No need for two.’ Iycan waved aside the question and pressed eight silver shillings into the human’s hand. ‘I’ll make do. Best inn for the money is the Brass Crown—take that left, keep going until you pass the pottery stall, turn right, and it’ll be just there.’

Once the human had disappeared following the instructions given, Iycan turned and stalked the streets in the opposite direction—following a path he had long since remembered, barely needed to pay any attention. Sidestepped a human with a determined gait and speed enough to bowl anybody unfortunate enough to be in his path to the ground, circled a young man who failed to properly hide that he was a pickpocket at work—slapped said thief's hand aside when they attempted to focus on him regardless of the respectable distance—and dropped a silver shilling into a homeless individual's lap.

He stopped at his destination, a public house, though the term wasn't so accurate with this particular building. From the open windows, Iycan could smell food well cooked and, if the scent was clue enough, a delight to the tongue. But the level of quality that the food being served also meant that only those of wealth would be able to enter through that door. This was a public house that catered to the wealthy and the elite.

Without a care for any of the social rules that dictated where he should and should not enter, Iycan walked through the door. Immediately, he was greeted by a tall man—clean-shaven and hair shorn in that way that all worker-class individuals had. But his clothing was of good quality silks and cottons.

'I'm meeting somebody,' Iycan pre-empted the greeter, holding up a pair of gold guilders.

The greeter hesitated at the sight of the two coins, then reached out and accepted them and backed away. 'Very good, sir.'

The inside smelt even better than the outside, no longer tainted by the odour of the city itself—but Iycan wasn't here for the food. There were a handful of tables, all occupied by those that were very clearly of noble birth and used to a life of wealth. His eye immediately centred upon one particular table which only held one person—even by the standards of the other patrons of the public house, this was a man of power and wealth, his clothing fine, looked almost as though they had never been worn before that day. Iycan stalked forward.

The moustached human stilled when Iycan sat himself opposite him. His grey eyes lifted from the heated brew he had been about to drink, one eyebrow twitching while his lips tugged downward.

'Can I help you?' he asked with forced politeness.

'I need a reason to visit Otwin?' Iycan asked, completely relaxed.

Otwin's brow creased, but his posture relaxed. 'Iycan, I take it?'

'What gave it away?' Iycan asked, curious.

'You are the only person that calls me by that name.' Otwin took a sip from his drink. 'What are you after?'

'I have need of an audience with the graf's court. I would also like to spend some time in the library.'

'Since when do you attend court?' Otwin glowered.

The human didn't ask about the fact that Iycan wanted to use the library within the Graf's Palace—in the two decades that the human had acted as a source of knowledge for the skink as payment for a debt, he had no doubt long ago come to realise that Iycan's first and only priority with using him was about information. It was only the fact that the information that was sought had never been to the detriment of the Empire or Middenland that Otwin had continued to do so, debt or no. But an effort to actually get an audience was a new one.

'It's not for me, though I would very much like to be present.' Iycan leaned back, tilted his head to peer around the large dining hall. 'It is for a young man that claims to be the ward of a count to a city that no longer exists.'

Otwin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took the time to carefully cut a chunk of the meat on his plate—by the smell, it was a roasted elk—and slowly lifted that chunk to his mouth and chewed at such a slow pace that it could only be deliberate. There was savouring the flavour, and then there was chewing even after all flavour had been removed and all that was left was mulch.

He finally spoke quietly, as though afraid of being overheard. 'I can't get you an audience with Graf Todbringer himself. But one of his trusted attendants, one with authority and his ear if need be? That I can do.'

'And the library?' Iycan pressed.

Otwin hesitated, which had Iycan's eyes narrow in contemplation. Both previous times that Iycan had asked for access to the library, it had been granted almost without hesitation. Something is different. What?

'What are you looking for in there?' Otwin asked.

'Genealogy records,' Iycan answered swiftly and—more importantly—honestly.

'Ulric-damnit, fine, I can get you into the library, but mind yourself in there.'

'What happened?'

'I don't know the full details, but it was broken into a while back. Something was stolen from the vault, but I don't know what.'

Interesting. Iycan mused on that little titbit for a moment, then filed it away into a corner of his mind for later contemplation. The vault was not an easy place to get to—it wasn't meant to be accessible for any but the highest authorities of the Colleges of Magic, second only to vaults of Altdorf in terms of security. The vaults contained only magical items, the type that could potentially cause problems if in the wrong hands.

'Well, I don't need anything but mundane genealogy records going back a century.' Iycan finally reassured the human, who gave a light huff of bemusement.

'You and your friend? Come to the palace gates in the morning; I'll get you your audience.'

Iycan's illusion beamed a wide toothy grin, and he held out a hand. 'Excellent. I'll meet you then.'

Otwin accepted the offer, though his grimace wasn't disguised. Once they had shaken hands, Iycan picked himself up and left with a quiet, 'Enjoy the rest of your meal.'


*


The next morning, Otwin was good to his word. He took one look at Iycan and Fenchel and escorted them into the Graf's Palace, navigating the corridors until he stopped at a large double door.

'You'll be meeting in here. Step through the doors and wait. Do not leave until given leave to do so.'

Iycan nodded his understanding with his hand clamped to Fenchel's shoulder to gently guide the younger human through the doors. The chamber was large and circular—with a table dominating the centre of the room. The top of the table was painted to look like a map of the Reik Basin, the Empire, and all provinces clearly marked out. And Marienburg was marked as an ugly brown blemish, an indication of their independence and just what the artist felt about that detail—a deliberate scar upon the otherwise amazing artwork.

'That table must have cost more than most people see in a lifetime,' Fenchel mused aloud, also eying the table. 'The level of detail is amazing.'

'Thank you,' a rich, powerful voice boomed out. 'It was commissioned seventy years ago. I do not recall the name of the artist.'

From the opposite side of the chamber, a new figure emerged from an archway that had been hidden by a tapestry. He was tall for a human, broad-shouldered, and his arms were akin to the trunks of trees. But the belly bulging past his belt line marked him either as a former warrior or as someone who had never been a warrior but was gifted with a naturally hulking stature. His blond curly hair was surprisingly short for one of noble status—only just reaching his shoulders. But his moustache was vast, well-groomed, and dominated his face, almost hiding his eyes with how high it curled up. His garb was that of a member of Todbringer's court, Middenland colouring on proud display alongside the wolf of Ulric.

'Lord Elric Rauscher,' the human introduced himself with a mild smile that conveyed no true hospitality. 'I am told you wish to speak with a member of the court?'

Iycan tilted his head toward Fenchel, who coughed nervously into his fist. 'Lord Rauscher. My name is Robert Fenchel, ward of the Count of Efror.'

'Ah yes, the count of a city that hasn't existed in over a century.' Rauscher's tone was level, giving nothing away about his thoughts. But to Iycan, who was used to reading body language far subtler than humans were typically capable of, he read the sarcastic annoyance quite well.

'The city was never rebuilt, but the land where it used to be is now home to a large number of farms—the county of Efror still lives in that way, though not under that name.' Fenchel shook his head adamantly. 'It is how the count makes his income—taxing those lands that are still his by right of birth.'

Rauscher blinked slowly. 'Truly? Fine, I will hear what you have to say.' There was something to his tone such that Iycan felt his spine straighten at the subtle timbre hidden within those words. It wasn’t a threat, but there was something hidden, unspoken.

'My lord, I come to beseech the Grand Duke of Middenland for aid. The count of Efror is... he is being controlled by a dark wizard. He is no longer sound of mind.'

Rauscher barked a single laugh. 'Really now? What makes you suggest such a thing?'

'Five months ago, the count hired a new chaplain. Not even days later, the count started to behave differently. The chaplain claimed that he had fallen ill, and most believed him. But he showed no sign of illness until the chaplain was hired.'

'That could easily have been a coincidence,' Rauscher pointed out, though his eyes narrowed, and his tone wasn't dismissive—he was simply pointing out a possibility beyond "rogue wizard." It was probably for the better that the man was questioning and offering alternative explanations—there were enough tales of overzealous witch-hunters about.

'Other than the change in his personality, he showed no other symptoms. It wasn't a pox or flu; he was never quarantined, and nobody else came down with any illness. Then the count started to waste away. The timing coincided with a decree that I mustn't leave the keep. I... even at the time, I had no cause to believe that it was anything other than illness that had taken the count.'

'Something changed your mind?'

'The chaplain broke into my chambers in the dead of night, tried to drag me away. When I resisted, a courtier stumbled across the scene. The chaplain killed him. He… wasted away before my eyes—flesh decayed, and his bones turned to dust as if he had aged a thousand years before me.' Fenchel hesitated, eyes blank as his mind decided to take him back to that moment—forced him to relive the event.

Iycan crossed his arms, listening intently to the tale being given.

After twenty seconds, Fenchel physically shook himself from his stupor. 'I managed to free myself by stabbing a knife into the chaplain's neck. He didn't die from the injury, however. When I called for help, it wasn't any of the count's guard who came but... empty suits of armour—those that were used for decoration. The chaplain ordered them to restrain me. I fled by leaping from the window. I tried to get help, but the Efror Guard were told I had gone mad and assaulted the chaplain. I had no choice but to flee.'

'You were found closer to Marienburg than Middenheim,' Iycan spoke up for the first time, recalling the report as given by Solin and Boney. It might have been over a century ago, but he did recall that from where Efror had been, to go to Marienburg, one would have to pass close to Middenheim.

'I had an uncle in Marienburg—my first thought was to go to him for aid. But when I got to the city, I learnt that he and his sons had been hung by the neck, sentenced for crimes of treason.' Fenchel's voice wobbled—the fingers of his right hand encircled his left wrist and clamped down tightly enough that his left hand went pale from lack of blood. 'When I tried to look into it, I learnt that there had been no hearing, no chance of evidence being shown. One day they were dragged from their home; the next, they were at the gallows. I was then forced to flee when somebody let out my relation to them. I can only hope that his daughter and my aunt managed to escape—neither were at the gallows at the time I escaped the city.'

Rauscher nodded in consideration. 'Your uncle—would he be the banker that was supposedly hung for collaboration with Graf Todbringer?'

Oh? That was interesting and must have happened before Solin had arrived in Marienburg, for he had not mentioned such an event. Either that or it had happened moments after he had left.

Fenchel nodded, swallowing down a large lump that was clearly forming in his throat. 'Yes, that was the treasonous crime he was accused of. But the fact his sons, one of whom was only nine years of age... that was... was...' he stumbled over his words—the fingers encircling his wrist began to twist as if trying to cause himself pain. 'I do not know if that was just coincidental timing or no, but without family to turn to, I had no recourse but to turn and hope that Grand Duke Todbringer would hear my plea for help.'

'What Fenchel hasn't mentioned is the undead that have made an appearance,' Iycan informed Rauscher. 'That could also be a coincidence of timing, but one of my subordinates stumbled across the farm where Fenchel was taking refuge being attacked by undead.'

'It was the skaven that fo----'

'There is no such thing,' Iycan cut off the young human, tone bland—his only indication of annoyance at the official stance of the Empire regarding the oversized rodents. 'You were kidnapped by strangely rat-shaped beastmen.'

As he spoke, Iycan gave Fenchel a stern look and nodded at Rauscher, who had straightened at the word "skaven." The lord relaxed his posture and nodded back in quiet appreciation.

'And are you going to suggest that the mutants were working with the undead?' Iycan asked after a pregnant pause.

'No, they were hired by Captain Sigismund to track me down if I understood the exchange properly.'

'So undead make an appearance along the Middenheim Road, attacking villages and farms—the timing coinciding with you fleeing an evil wizard who has apparently addled your count's mind, and your uncle is executed for treason.' Iycan recounted what he knew quickly for the lord's benefit. 'Understand why I'm bringing them up. Misfortune is following you—apparently has been since you escaped in the dead of night. Somebody wants you.'

Rauscher turned his attention squarely to Iycan. 'I'm sorry, who were you again?' he asked after a moment.

'Ah, forgive me,' Iycan gave a toothy grin. 'I am Colonel Iycan'ceya of the Outland Legion. It was my colleague's subordinate that stumbled across young Fenchel here as well as the undead.'

'Ah, the "Outland Legion,"' Rauscher repeated the name. 'That would be the four thousand some "mercenary" Lustrians outside the city, yes?'

'We're not Lustrian,' Iycan replied mildly, not sharing the same annoyance others in the Legion felt at the mistake. 'We're considered Madrigalian. It's a similar difference to… you of the Reik Basin and those of Cathay, I suppose would be the simple way of putting it.'

Rauscher mouthed the word "Madrigalian" with a look of blank confusion, then shrugged as he apparently deemed his previous thoughts unimportant. 'You aren't the first to mention the undead along the Middenheim Road. At this point, half of the settlements between Marienburg and the Wouduin Tollstation have been ravaged by the undead.'

Iycan grunted in acknowledgement. 'And every village and farm caught up in their tide is more to their numbers.'

Fenchel's face twisted. 'You think that they were looking for me?'

'It is... a possibility,' Iycan admitted. 'But we can't really be certain. It's conjecture.'

Rauscher nodded his head thoughtfully. 'I will bring this up to the graf. But I wouldn't get your hopes up on seeing assistance with your Count Feyerabend any time soon.' He tapped his finger on the tabletop at the point where the Middenheim Road lay on the painted map. 'The undead represent a clear and present threat and have now caused enough damage that Graf Todbringer has to act now if he doesn't want to chance a shortage of food this winter—what with the number of farms being caught in the tide.'

'I understand. I would like to request sanctuary until such a time as the Grand Duke believes that it is safe for me to leave the city.'

Rauscher nodded. 'I will bring your request to him. I ask that you wait in here until I have an answer.' He then turned to Iycan. 'I understand you wish to... peruse... our library?'

Iycan nodded once. 'Nothing sensitive.'

'The guard outside the door has been instructed to escort you.' Rauscher then whirled around and started to stalk toward the hidden archway. 'Gentlemen, we shall reconvene in two hours.'

'Do you think my request will be granted?' Fenchel asked. His tone was fairly despondent.

'I am reasonably certain that you will indeed be granted asylum for a time,' Iycan answered, already moving toward the door. 'As for aid with your count—all he has is your word, the word of a ward to a count that claims ownership to land where once a city stood. If—and that is a terribly large "if"—he does decide to investigate your count, it won't be for some time.'

He turned away from the crestfallen look that passed Fenchel's face, focused instead on opening the door and being escorted to the library.


*


The library of the Graf's Palace was a vast chamber that had that musky smell of aged parchment, scrolls, and books carefully filed away. It was hardly the library of Altdorf or Nuln, with its archives of designs and schematics and even the failed works for record, but it held its own special level of impressiveness. While parchment was inferior to carving words onto tablets of gold, and no amount of time spent with the young races would ever dissuade Iycan of that opinion, it was certainly a more convenient method of recording history. With the sheer number of tomes and scrolls sorted away in this one chamber, Iycan wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that somewhere within there were the original records of the time that Sigmar walked the Basin in a mission to unite the tribes within.

However, Iycan had limited time and a set goal, so his curiosity about the oldest of the records would have to wait. Besides which, he told himself sternly, records that old would be in vaults and lockboxes hidden from idle eyes.

It took a while for him to find the thick tome that he sought, a record of family lines for those Middenlander nobles born and raised. All a matter of public record, though permission was still technically required to search through such records. There was always a level of care to be taken with such dated archives, though unlike some realms, Iycan didn't think the Empire had a problem with the nobility bloodlines thinning through inbreeding.

He carefully placed the tome upon the nearby table and then carefully balanced a pair of spectacles atop his snout, just far enough from his eyes that they did the job. To anybody else looking, they were perched upon his nose almost directly before his eyes.

Even with the glass lenses, he still had to focus his aging eyes on the inked pages. Curse of age, smaller details were getting blurrier and blurrier with every passing summer.

He was half an hour into his investigations when somebody sat opposite him. He tried to ignore the presence, but the vibrations to his nerves eventually had him look up at the false smile of an eccentrically dressed individual. His hair with a vibrant bright orange and waved in an invisible wind in such a way as to look as though it were a flame ablaze.

'Well hello there,' the bright wizard beamed. 'Now what brings a man with an illusion to this library?'

Iycan repressed a sigh and leaned back. 'Just catching up on my reading,' he said.

'And the illusion?'

'I'd prefer not causing a scene,' Iycan said as both answer and warning.

'See now, I get a little concerned when I see an individual wandering around under an illusion with a compulsion weaved into it.' As the wizard spoke, Iycan could see that the human's eyes kept drifting before then having to forcibly return to the skink. 'It's very clever. Hide your appearance, just in case somebody is able to fight against the compulsion to not notice you. Mind, it is getting easier as you speak back to me.'

'Yes, that is the point, so that I can actually talk to people without them forgetting that I'm there.' Iycan's illusion grinned in self-inflicted humour at the memory of when that had happened.

'Now, who would have cause to hide their appearance under an illusion I wonder. Maybe a mutant of some variety, some Chaos begot spawn looking to disrupt my city.'

'Or maybe,' Iycan began, the illusion grin turning predatory. 'I'm just trying to mind my own business. Do you have witchsight, by chance?'

'Yes,' the bright wizard answered curtly, almost offended at the question.

'Maybe try using it for more than noticing that I'm under a glamour.'

The wizard scoffed, but his eyes narrowed and Iycan sensed the man's arcane sense heighten. And then the bright wizard went stock still, eyes fixed upon the disguised skink's palm, pointed at him. To the witchsight, that palm was glowing with a spell prepared and ready to cause damage. The wizard probably couldn’t identify the spell in question; it used a different Wind from his own vocation, but he didn’t need to know the specifics to identify the risk potential, especially not when it was already pointed at him and above all else readied.

'Do anything to draw attention where it isn't wanted, try to rip my illusion from me, or do anything against me, and I tear from you every thought that you ever had, and every thought that you ever will have, so all that remains is a drooling soiled mess on the floor blubbering without a care. I will then walk away and nobody will even realise until the librarian finds you in the evening. Do we have an understanding?'

The bright wizard nodded jerkily, eyes still fixed upon the palm channelling the winds of Ulgu that remained pointed at him.

'Very good. Now, what brings a bright wizard to a library harassing innocent researchers?'

The bright wizard swallowed. 'Guarding the vault, noticed you and your glamour.'

'Right, it was broken into.' Iycan recalled vaguely. 'Must have been something important.' His tone made it clear he wanted an answer as to what it was that had been in the vault.

'It was a tome. Name... erm...' The wizard swallowed again. 'Can't recall the name, but it was a tome that told everything that ever was and ever will be, but was cursed. A light wizard broke in, had been disturbed in the head and constantly rambling about all the threats to the Empire, apparently sought the tome to find a way to vanquish those threats.'

'So you know who stole it,' Iycan mused aloud, though he still didn't relax. 'Why so paranoid then?'

'We know who broke in. We don't know where the tome is. He...' Another swallow. 'His body was left in the vault. I saw the body myself, I wouldn’t wish that anybody. But the tome is gone.'

Iycan's eyes narrowed. 'What was the curse? A tome like that, curse must be terrible if it isn't being regardless.'

'I... I think it was a geas, it forced the owner to never use it for their own gain.'

Iycan chuckled harshly. 'That sounds like Tzeentchian humour at its worst.' He ignored the flinch as he spoke the name of the supposed Changer of Ways, and then clenched his fist, unconsciously dismissing the Ulgu energies. 'Ok, thank you for that very informative session.'

The wizard relaxed at the threat being removed, but only marginally, he was clearly clever enough to realise that Iycan was still capable of defending himself without making a show of what he was doing. Unfortunately for the wizard, he had been so intent on the open threat that he failed to notice that Iycan's other hand had channelled those same energies of Ulgu until they were abruptly released. The wizard blinked rapidly, then looked at Iycan and blinked again, one hand clutching at his head as the inevitable migraine hit.

'I'm sorry, who... I... must have a dizzy spell, I can't even remember sitting down.'

'That's quite alright.' Iycan grinned in a friendly manner. 'You must not have gotten enough sleep last night. Drink plenty of water as that should help the pain.'

'Yes... yes...' the wizard continued to blink rapidly as the light agitated the migraine that was a side-effect of having his memories of the past few minutes forcibly removed. 'That is...' The wizard stood and stumbled away; to any outside observer, it looked like the wizard was suffering quite the hang-over. Once the wizard was gone, Iycan heaved out a deep breath, rubbing at his arms in an effort to regain feeling in his arms, which had gone numb from using that particular spell.

At that point, one of the palace guards walked up to the table. 'Lord Rauscher wants you back in the conference chamber.'

Iycan carefully closed the genealogy tome, having fortunately found what he had wanted before the wizard's interruption. 'Very good. Lead the way.'


*


'Graf Todbringer is unable to lend you any assistance regarding Count Norbert von Feyerabend of Efror.' Lord Rauscher had the decency to sound sorry, that was more than some people would give. 'Unfortunately, as I predicted, his priority right now is on sending men to root out the undead along the Middenheim Road.'

Fenchel sighed, hunched forward and looking almost as though he wanted to hurl.

'However, there is a solution to that problem.'

Fenchel looked up sharply, clearly interested. Iycan hummed thoughtfully, listening with his own interest. The blond lord turned to look at Iycan with a serious look to his eye.

'The Outland Legion. We would like to hire your services.'

'Graf Todbringer wants to hire mercenaries?' Iycan tilted his head, tried to recall if there had ever been a moment in the past where the Elector Count of Middenland had hired dogs of war for any purpose. None came to his mind, but he would admit that he hadn't paid that much attention to who was hiring mercenaries and who wasn't.

'Why not? You have a history with Efror do you not?' The lord smiled thinly, and Iycan worked out that no, it was not Todbringer who was hiring the Legion, but Rauscher himself. Now the question that lingered in the skink’s mind was whether this was behind the graf’s back, or with silent approval but a distance to avoid being implicated if anything went wrong. 'We do still have records of the original fall of Efror, and how mercenaries from the "Outland Company" had a role in events.'

‘What are you hiring us to do specifically?’ Iycan asked, mind racing through whether this could possibly be contrary to the Legion’s policy of not taking sides in civil disputes. He supposed it might depend on the nature of the job being proposed.

‘Investigate young Fenchel’s claims of a wizard dominating the mind of the count of farmers. Whilst you are doing that, we would also like you to investigate the farmlands under his domain.’ That last was spoken with a new undertone, and the human met Iycan’s eyes—actually he was looking slightly above Iycan’s eyes, but Iycan was willing to give that a pass as that was where the illusion’s eyes sat.

As he spoke, Rauscher unrolled a couple of sheets of parchment and laid them flat upon the table. One was a map while the other was a detailed description of a keep including at least one sketch.

‘This is everything we know of Count Feyerabend and his family estate.’

Iycan picked up the report of the estate, impressed enough that felt his brow ridges rise. ‘This is detailed. You’ve already had your eye on the good count, haven’t you?’

Rauscher’s lip curled downward. ‘His entire lineage since the city of Efror was burnt down has been under close scrutiny. Middenheim does not forget crimes against its own. So yes, we do on occasion have a good hard look at the count of farmers.’

Iycan’s eyes darted to Fenchel who looked confused. ‘Count Feyerabend is descended from the same line?’

Iycan answered. ‘He married his only daughter off to a noble family of great wealth but of no real significance otherwise. The family line survived through her, but not the name.’

Fenchel sighed forlornly. ‘I see. He once recounted the tale of Count Adelbreckt’s madness, now I wonder if weakness of mind is a trait shared with his family line, that a wizard could control him so.’

There was a moment of silence, before Rauscher then spoke up, brow creased and one hand absently pulling at his moustache. ‘Maybe so.’ Again his tone suggested that he wasn’t speaking his thoughts, but this time Iycan had an idea of what those thoughts were.

‘Has Graf Todbringer also given thought to Fenchel’s request for asylum?’ Iycan asked, carefully rolling the parchment and then carefully depositing them within his coat’s innards, a silent acceptance of the task given.

‘He has.’ Rauscher looked again to Fenchel. ‘He has offered you lodging within the city, but he also requests you not leave the city walls until such a time as the status of the Count of Efror has been resolved with either his mind declared his own, or freed from control.’

Fenchel nodded rapidly. ‘Yes, yes… I can do that. I… I wouldn’t want to leave anyway, nowhere left to go with my family dead.’

‘Nothing to inherit?’ Rauscher asked with a predatory air.

‘No. If my uncle were to leave me anything, it is no longer within my reach—the officials of Marienburg have doubtless split all his assets and shared them amongst themselves now.’ He didn’t sound too bitter as he uttered the words, and what bitterness there was, Iycan got the sense that it was less at not getting what he felt entitled to, and more about not getting to keep any connection he had to his deceased family.’

‘I see.’ Rauscher’s tone remained bland. ‘If you could wait here, I will see the colonel off, and then return to sort out your accommodations.’

Fenchel nodded, eyes clouded over as he got lost in his thoughts. Iycan followed after Rauscher as the blond human moved with a swift pace. Once they were two corridors away from the conference chamber, Iycan twisted his head to look at Rauscher.

‘What didn’t you say, before?’

Rauscher didn’t slow his pace, but did look at Iycan from the corner of his eye. ‘Those farms that are what the Count of Efror calls his lands? They were the first target of the undead. They don’t exist any more. What had the graf send a scouting party to Feyerabend’s estate was the lack of response from his so-called Efror Guard. Usually they are quick to involve themselves in protecting the farms from brigands and greenskins, but when the entirety of the county burns to the undead, nothing.’

‘So that’s why you weren’t instantly dismissive of his claims of the count no longer being in control.’

‘It gives a reason, it could well be that the necromancer raising the dead is hiding as the personal chaplain of his first target. Who would think to look?’

Iycan swore under his breath. ‘And if he is?’

‘Kill him, at all cost.’ Rauscher grunted. ‘By now, if he is addling the mind of the count, who else is now his thrall? You have a history of burning Efror down. Let history repeat if it needs to. End the line of Mad Count Adelbreckt.’

At that point, they’d exited the gate to the palace. Rauscher gave Iycan a significant look, then turned and re-entered the gate, leaving Iycan to do as he will.

With a soft sigh, Iycan carefully patted at his chest, felt the two scrolls and then moved to return to the Legion’s camp.


*


Sigismund always felt a mixture of fondness and anxiety when he saw the Feyerabend estate. It was a castle, one that had been built two centuries ago by the first Feyerabend to be titled, and in front of the outer walls lay a small village, where staff who worked within the castle lived. Mostly, that meant the Efror Guard, each generation of Feyerabend hiring less and less serving staff until they had reached the current state of only twenty people living in that village weren’t members of the Efror Guard, or related to them.

As Sigismund had gotten older, the village walls had felt more and more akin to a prison, and those moments that he got to leave with the Efror Guard had felt like a relief to overburdened shoulders.

Cruniac frowned, eyes focused not on the castle walls but on the village. ‘Where is everybody?’

The question had Sigismund straighten his back and likewise stare at the village. Cruniac was right, the village was barren. It wasn’t just the lack of being able to see anybody from the hilltop, but also the absence of the noise that had come to be associated with the village.

There was not a sound unless one counted the soft breeze rustling the grass. Like that, the fondness was overrun by the anxiety. However, Sigismund was a captain of the Efror Guard, and as such he was not going to let an ill at ease feeling deter him.

‘Let’s go. Maybe the count had them all relocated to inside the castle walls.’

Cruniac looked doubtful, but after only a moment’s hesitation, he followed his captain's march toward the ancestral home of the Feyerabend family.

 

Assault on Feyerabend - Part 1​

The Old World – Feyerabend Family Keep, Middenland
—

Sigismund knew instantly that something was off. He had walked the corridors of Feyerabend Keep for much of his life, so much that he couldn't remember a time that he wasn't stalking those stone passages. He knew the keep, down to the very air.

There was a chill to the air, and it had naught to do with the approaching autumnal season—marked by the flight of the black cranes on their annual migration to Tilea. This was a chill that seeped through the flesh, sapped the warmth from the blood. There was no physical evidence of such a chill, there was no mist to his breath, there was no shivering, and Sigismund couldn't feel the hairs on his arm rise with the coming of any goose bumps.

But that chill was there, and judging from the look in Cruniac's eye, he felt it too.

As if an unnatural cold wasn't enough, his brow lowered into a glower when he realised that, despite their wearing the uniforms of the Efror Guard, he did not recognise a single man patrolling the barren village or standing to attention within the keep courtyard.

Sigismund was the captain of the guard, he knew each and every man to wear the colours. But these strangers? He had never met them before. He had never seen them before that moment. He hadn't been gone long in his pursuit of Fenchel, months at most. Certainly not time enough for a round of recruitment from what little lands the count held to his name. And not in such numbers. Count Feyerabend wasn't called the "Count of Farmers" by the Middenheim court for no reason—he owned land that was exclusively made up of farmsteads, farms built upon very fertile grounds—fertile enough that the profits of such were enough for the count to maintain the guard, yet never profitable enough that they could upgrade their arms to include handgunners amongst their ranks.

Not that the Efror Guard really needed handgunners, the bulk of their career was chasing off bandits and brigands, with the occasional wandering horde of either greenskins or beastmen. Thus far, for the past century plus change, the Efror Guard had never needed any but the arms and armour that had been used even back when Efror had been the name of a city.

However, short of taking every able-bodied farmer from the count's lands, there was no way that the guard could have gotten such an inflation of new recruits in so short a time. And for all the count's flaws, he was very much aware that he could not compromise his farms and their ability to actually harvest and produce goods.

'I don't like the look in their eyes.' Cruniac's voice was low, barely audible to Sigismund, who was walking right beside him.

Sigismund focused on one of these supposed guardsmen, brow creased. He caught on quickly—there was a blank, almost unfocused look to the man's eyes. No flickering to check the surroundings as he walked, just stared ahead. Didn't even blink, which was something even Sigismund couldn't help but find a touch unsettling.

Another point of concern arose fairly quickly. The village outside the walls of the keep had been deserted, and despite the hopes that it was simply a case of the count moving them into the safety of the walls for whatever reason, it was quickly apparent that there were none within the keep. No children, none of the wives of the staff...

Sigismund's eyes narrowed. And none of the usual staff either. He surreptitiously looked through any open doors as he walked, a flicker of concern rising up. Outside of the guard, the count didn't have that large of a staff, still though, by now at least one or two of the keep's staff should have made an appearance. But by all accounts, it was as though there were none within the keep but these unknown guardsmen.

He noted that down in his mind, to investigate if need be.

At the doors to the main hall, they finally encountered a familiar face, somebody not of the ranks of strangers. Unfortunately, it was Chaplain Fichte. The man grinned, which exposed uneven yellowed teeth. There was an uncomfortable sensation that followed him around, like a foul odour, but one that didn't assault the nose but instead the back of one's eyes, a burning feeling of discomfort. About his neck, he still had the wrappings covering the wound inflicted upon him by Fenchel when the boy first turned mad.

In all honesty, Sigismund wasn't sympathetic to the chaplain and his pain.

'Ah, Captain Sigismund.' Fichte spoke with a voice that was supposed to be friendly, it was recognisably meant to be such, but even before the neck wound, his voice was prone to sounding more like he was whining and simpering than ever actually emoting properly. 'And Sergeant Cruniac, I believe.'

Cruniac leaned back as if pained by the proximity of the chaplain who had stepped into his personal space. 'Chaplain.' He even sounded pained as he uttered the greeting.

'We're here to see the count,' Sigismund said, tone harsher than usual in an effort to skip the trivialities and simply get on with his duty.

'You have caught the little brat?' Fichte asked, eyes widening in manic glee.

'No.'

Fichte's expression twisted into a disgusted scorn. 'Well why are you here? Why are you not out there, catching the monster?'

'The situation has become complicated.' Cruniac spoke with a tone that suggested he was trying to de-escalate the tension that was rapidly rising—Sigismund was well aware that his grip on his sword's pommel was tightening enough that the leather of his gloves was creaking.

Fichte whirled to face Cruniac and jabbed a finger into his chest. 'How complicated can it be to track down and drag some brat back to face justice?'

Cruniac's expression remained bland, though he did raise his eyebrows and looked very pointedly at the finger pressing against his chest—he probably couldn't feel it through the chainmail, but it was still a disrespectful gesture that he was very clearly unimpressed with despite maintaining the stoic front.

Sigismund was tempted to grab that finger and twist at the disrespect afforded to one of his subordinates. Instead, he took a deep breath and spoke despite the question not being directed at him. 'That is for the count's ears.'

'The count's health has worsened in the time you have been away,' Fichte snapped. 'He is in no condition to be hearing excuses for why you have failed in your duties.'

'Isn't one of your duties to maintain his health? So what are your excuses, chaplain?' Sigismund ground out.

'It is only through my efforts that the count yet lives!' Fichte answered with a wounded look to him. The indignant tone he was going for was compromised when his voice squeaked out the final words, like a boy on the cusp of adulthood, voice not yet settled to its final tone.

Cruniac's jaw twitched, but otherwise he managed to hide his amusement. Sigismund felt no need and smirked at the chaplain, whose face twisted into an expression of loathing. Fichte opened his mouth to continue arguing, but the large double doors they were arguing in front of opened from the inside, both doors pulled and held by another pair of the strangers wearing the guard's uniform. But the reason for them pulling open the doors to the hall was quickly made apparent as Count Norbert von Feyerabend was revealed, stood before the now open doors.

Sigismund sucked in a breath at the sight of the count, the same man who had once taken a single look at a child filled with hatred and aimless fury and resolved to teach that child how to harness and tame that rage. Truly the count's health had degraded in the guard's absence. Where before he had departed to hunt down Fenchel to face his crimes, the count had still had a youthful vigour, long chestnut brown hair typically tied into a ponytail, a full beard, and skin yet to be creased by the weathering of time.

This man in front of him? In Sigismund's absence, he had lost the colour to his hair, which was now twisted and matted, ends frayed. His beard was patchy, missing chunks of the facial hair which almost made it look as though he'd gotten into a fight with a pair of shears. And one of his eyes had turned a glassy, milky white, and while the other maintained the previous colour, it was clear that the count was having difficulty focusing his sight—the pupil kept contracting and expanding almost as though somebody were repeatedly waving a torch back and forth in front of his face. And his flesh was wrinkled and worn and gaunt, like he'd aged a century in the span of months and was only still in one piece through sheer stubborn force of will.

'Captain Sigismund,' the count spoke with a slight smile, even as the words sounded as though the man was gasping for breath after a ten-mile sprint.

The worrying part was that Count Feyerabend was once capable of such a feat, had once been more than willing and capable of leading the Efror Guard at their side. But now, either his voice always sounded like that, or the effort of moving from the throne at the other end of the hall to the door had taken everything he had out of him.

'My lord.' Sigismund didn't need to straighten his posture, he never willingly had any posture but that of a straight back, but his heels clicking together and the unconscious hand rising to give the sign of the Wolf conveyed the same meaning, even as Cruniac only needed to stand to attention at the appearance of the count.

'My lord, you should not be on your feet,' Fichte said in his perpetual whimpering tone.

'Nonsense.' Feyerabend waved a hand, gnarled and twisted and covered with dark blemishes. 'I would hear my captain for myself.'

Sigismund didn't turn to look at Fichte with the intention of anything really. He was above such pettiness as to be doing so to give a smug look. If he had to guess, it was simply curiosity to see how the chaplain reacted. Since the chaplain had first arrived at the keep, he could not recall a single instance of Chaplain Fichte being contradicted or ignored by the count.

He was taken aback at the pure hatred that painted the other man's face for but a heartbeat before it was reigned in, hidden behind a mask of polite deference, quickly enough that it could have easily been dismissed as never having happened, that it was a trick of the light.

But Sigismund knew what he saw.

'Of course, my lord.' Fichte waved his arms in a manner that was equal parts a bow and a silent gesture to enter the hall before him.

'I would speak with my guard alone.' Feyerabend contradicted the chaplain's telegraphed intention to follow the two warriors.

'But my lord,' Fichte whimpered, 'surely you need me there, in case the stress causes another attack.'

'I will be fine with two men I have utmost trust in.' Feyerabend wheezed. 'Do you not have your duties to attend to? You have been putting them aside in favour of assisting me.'

'Your well-being is a part of my duties, my lord.'

'And now you have some spare time to catch up on your other duties.' For a brief moment, the count's good eye managed to maintain a firm focus upon, rested upon Fichte with as much authority as he was able to project in his weakened state.

Fichte seemed to argue internally before he gave a very reluctant nod. 'Very well, my lord. I shall leave you to it, for now.'

His words spoken, the chaplain turned and lumbered down the corridor leading away from the hall and towards the keep's chapel. Feyerabend watched him go and then turned, started to walk down a corridor in the opposite direction, away from the main hall, with a silent expectation for Sigismund and Cruniac to follow. He led the pair to the keep's library, paused only briefly to stare at a couple of the guardsmen patrolling the corridors. The guards gave no indication that they had even noticed. Once both of the warriors had passed through the doorway into the hall, Feyerabend turned and locked the door behind them.

'You see that?' Feyerabend coughed, shaking his head. 'I am surrounded by strangers that seem incapable of thinking.'

'Who are they?' Cruniac asked. 'I don't recognise a one of them.'

Feyerabend coughed again. 'I don't know. Shortly after you left to track down my ward, they appeared. Apparently, the good chaplain hired them to fill a shortage.'

There was a moment of silence wherein the count turned his head to face the general direction of the keep's chapel.

'He thinks me a fool that can't see him for what he is. Would that Robert had managed to kill him before he fled.'

'My lord?' Sigismund felt himself grinding his teeth.

Feyerabend continued on unbidden. 'You think it a surprise? He arrives and my health starts to fail me. The worse my health gets, the more power he has to act in my name, while the one person left that I could name my heir suddenly goes mad and tries to murder him.' More coughing, it was quickly becoming apparent that the mere act of speech was taking up all his stamina. 'Meanwhile, my guard is replaced with these puppets that have no ability to think for themselves. I give it maybe a month before my health keeps me from acting on my own. If that were to happen?'

Sigismund filled in the blank easily enough, and his rage and hatred warmed his body until it felt as though he had fire in place of blood within his veins.

'What of the villagers?' Cruniac asked after a concerned look at the captain.

Feyerabend gave Cruniac a look of confusion. 'What of the villagers?'

'They aren't in the village. We had thought maybe you had relocated them inside the keep walls, but no, we have yet to even see any of your staff.'

Feyerabend's expression twisted, contorted, as if trying to work out just what he was feeling. There was a moment of despair, but it quickly faded into the closest that he could get to a righteous fury in his failing health.

'I do not know. But now I fear the worst. Damn him...' He wheezed out and hunched forward, strength momentarily sapped from him. Sigismund reached forward and caught him before he could fall forward and gently guided the count to the table in the middle of the chamber, pulled out a chair for the count to seat himself upon. 'Thank you, Sigismund. Damn that bastard... But troubles here weren't what had you return before your job was done. What happened?'

Sigismund and Cruniac shared a look between them. While Sigismund couldn't speak for the sergeant, he himself was unwilling to add to any burden that the count was already shouldering.

'Out with it,' the count snapped, for a brief moment sounding like his old and healthy self.

Sigismund exhaled softly. 'We've reason to believe that Fenchel is being hunted by others.'

'What others? It can't be Robert's family in Marienburg; they were executed for treason not long ago.'

Sigismund couldn't help but blink in surprise, a cold feeling washing over him. He couldn't explain the feeling, had barely known that Fenchel had family elsewhere in the Old World.

Cruniac shook his head. 'Undead have been attacking villages along the Middenheim road, but one of their targets was a farm where Fenchel was taking refuge. I'd have said it was happenstance, but for the fact that the undead had to turn from their previous route just to get to there.'

Feyerabend's expression contorted again into absolute unadulterated fury. 'I see.' Then his shoulders sagged. 'Well, I believe that Robert is now untouchable.'

'My lord?' Sigismund asked, confused.

'I just got word from one of my few friends in the Middenheim court, seems that one Robert Fenchel has managed to get refuge within the city. More than that, it sounds like he managed to give a convincing story to somebody with the Graf's ear. There is a free company coming here.'

Sigismund felt a jolt of lightning. 'I shall recall all the guard!'

'No.' Feyerabend uttered the word with strength. 'I doubt they would arrive in time to save us, these mercenaries would have had a head start and they left from Middenheim itself. They'll be here before long. And even then, it would be pointless.'

'My lord, why...?'

The count hunched, wringing his hands. 'Imagine for a second we do fight off this free company, what then? Any suspicions that the Graf of Middenheim might have towards us are confirmed, and next time he sends his state troops instead of hiring a free company. We can't win against the full might of Middenland.'

'So we flee, leave Fichte to his fate. If we could get you to the Graf...'

'Look at me! I am not long for this world. I have a chaplain who has wormed his way into power, you say the villagers are missing, and undead are hunting down the one heir I have, an heir accused of madness by that same chaplain who cares for my health.' Again the count's eyes trailed in the direction of the keep's chapel. 'I would savour my last breath watching as everything collapses about us.'

There was a certain satisfaction in the count's voice at the thought. Sigismund swallowed down the thick wad of phlegm that seemed to form at the idea of willingly letting the count die, willingly letting his keep fall to some band of mercenaries.

'You were always so loyal to me, captain. Go get your men and work to avenge your loss, but I am too late to be saved. As reward for your service, go to the armoury and take my sword as your own. Consider it a parting gift.'

He knew the sword in question. It had once belonged to the Mad Count Adelbrecht before the city of Efror had fallen. It was a magical blade, one that had apparently nearly cost the entirety of Adelbrecht's coffers in the years leading up to the fall.

'You can't-'

'I can and I will. I will not see such a blade go to Fichte, or be taken by some mercenary band as ill-gotten loot.'

Sigismund shook his head, but silently acquiesced. The count was right, a valuable blade like that shouldn't be the spoils of battle, but gifted from one owner to the next. 'I shall go... get the blade.'

He turned, made to leave the library.

'Sergeant Cruniac, stay a moment. I have a task for you and would discuss it.'

Sigismund turned to look at his sergeant, who looked confused. 'Just me, my lord?' Cruniac asked.

'A task for a single entity, not for the guard as a whole. The captain will have his role to play, you shall have yours.'

Cruniac still looked confused, but at Sigismund's nod, he turned to face the count fully.


*


The door to the library shut behind Sigismund, leaving Cruniac with the count, who seemed to wilt in his seat, as if he had been putting all his effort into appearing to have some semblance of strength so long as Sigismund had been able to see him, but now felt no need to maintain the illusion.

For the life of him, Cruniac couldn't work out why he was permitted to see the count in such a state without even an effort to appear strong. He had never spoken to the count without at least three others with him.

Feyerabend's gaze narrowed onto Cruniac, pupil still, and despite the posture, the wheezing breath, there was something predatory about the count. The full extent of his weakness was no longer hidden, but in showing such now he had also done something more: a monster was un-caged.

'Yes, you will do for the time we have.'

Cruniac hid his confusion. Feyerabend seemed to notice it regardless, for a mirthless chuckle left his lips.

'They think to control me. But they made a mistake you see, and Fichte? He picked the wrong one. My body is degrading, slowly withering as a consequence. What he doesn't realise is that his control is weakening as my body slowly breaks down.'

'He had you under his control?' Cruniac asked, trying to make sense of the words uttered. Picked the wrong one? What does that mean?

The count gave a low hum of affirmation. 'If he hadn't made a mistake, I would still have a hearty and hale body, but I would also still be under the thrall of his master. Fichte will die as a consequence, and his only chance to correct his mistake has passed. But I have now the means to regain my own fate, my own control.'

'I could go kill him for you, or get the captain to do so. You know that he would. We can then let it be known what has happened.'

'Oh, I do know, but I feel it best if I disappear. But enough of that. Sergeant, I have a task.'

It sounded as though he was truly going to go through with his death. He wasn't planning to run, wasn't even intending to fight. He just wanted to watch the one responsible for his failing health die before then passing away himself. But intending on dying or not, he clearly had a task to be carried out post-mortem.

'Yes, my lord?'

'You are going to go to Fenchel. You must reach his side.' As he spoke, the count moved closer to Cruniac, until he was in such close proximity that Cruniac could smell the scent of rotted and decayed flesh. 'You must give young Robert one final gift from me.'

'What gift, my lord?'

Feyerabend lifted his hands, withered and pale flesh that looked worse in the light, and despite the weakness and frailty that the count had had up to that moment, those hands shot forward with the speed and vigour of a hearty hale man. Those hands clamped onto Cruniac's head, one over each of his temples with strength enough that Cruniac's unconscious reaction of trying to brush them aside was met with an unmoving barrier.

Cruniac gagged as his entire being turned to flame, his nerves beginning to boil to an unbearable heat. His mouth opened with the intent to scream, to let his pain be heard, but nothing could escape as his throat seized up, the air trapped in a still stasis and refused to move. His spine splintered and cracked, shards cutting through muscle and tendon, razors that met no resistance.

But the worst part of this pain that enveloped him was focused on his head. Cruniac was no stranger to migraines, had a history of enjoying a few too many drinks and suffering the consequences the next day. That paled in comparison to the sensation of his brain being frayed, a loose thread tugged at until the sewing came undone. And with each tug, he felt a part of his self disappear, erased. His sense of self was drawn upon a parchment and that parchment had just been put to the flame. He was like stained glass slowly cracking under the pressure being applied.

He stumbled forward, gagging, retching but not. He was still upright, eyes wide, unblinking. He was on the floor, weeping. He was all of this, he was none of this.

Another tug at the tapestry of his soul, and finally it was utterly unravelled and cast to the winds, screaming in agony.


*


Ingwel absently circled a part of the map given to Iycan back at Middenheim. A letter had arrived by messenger hawk only hours previously. Sharpe and his skirmishers had gone ahead to the Feyerabend family estate to determine the truth behind Fenchel's claims and perhaps uncover why the Efror Guard had ignored the farms under their protection being burnt down.

The previous night, three carts filled with dead bodies had been pulled to the village. Whether the count was being controlled or not didn't matter. There was only one reason for the count's estate to receive carts full of the dead when there wasn't a Garden of Morr nearby.

Ingwel hadn't delayed in calling Mort and Solin over, already in the process of laying out the parchments full of everything they knew.

'The keep was built on the Middenland side of the Silver Hills,' he noted. 'According to the notes made by some of the Middenlander scouts, it was designed as a motte and bailey, using a natural hill in place of a motte, with a walled village as the bailey. The specific hill is sheer on one side, more a cliff than an actual hill, and the Feyerabend family used that to good effect. An attacking force would need to either go through the bailey to get to the one side of the hill not too steep to climb or slowly climb a very steep incline, vulnerable to the archers on the high walls.'

The table was a temporary thing placed not within a tent but on the soggy bog-ridden ground. The Legion was only taking a short respite, not stopping for the day. More than that, the Legion was about to have a number splinter off from the bulk of the mass to move on to the given task.

'Ok,' Mort acknowledged, grabbing one of the other loose parchment sheets and sliding it closer to himself so that he could make out the charcoal sketch of the keep in question. 'Large walls. Human-built; no Dawi influence that I can see.'

Solin tilted his head enough to see the sketch without invading Mort's personal space. A finger tapped at the base of the wooden wall forming the bailey. 'They have a moat.'

Mort blinked in surprise, eyes staring down at the detail now that Solin had pointed it out to him, then huffed out a sarcastic breath. 'A moat and drawbridge, how very Bretonnian.'

'Can't argue with what works,' Ingwel said, pausing his examination of the map to peer at the sketch for himself, eyes narrowed in thought. 'With the drawbridge raised, we won't be able to smash our own entrance, and ladders into the main keep are going to be trickier than ideal on that hill. Mort, I want you to command the attack.'

Mort huffed softly. 'My saurus are always good to go, but none of the skinks under my command are going to be useful at range here. They're trained with javelins. We don't have the range for anybody standing atop the motte walls.'

At his side, Solin gave Mort a look of baffled amazement, eyes wide in an exaggerated gesture while his right hand moved in a gesture that... Wait...

'Are you making the sign of the comet at me?' Mort asked with an affronted look.

Solin paused, looked at his hand, and then nodded. 'We're in the Empire's provinces, and you've admitted to needing muskets. It must be a miracle brought by one of their gods.'

'Sigmar has little to do with my choices.' Mort crossed his arms. 'I know the strengths of my regiments, and I know the weaknesses.'

'You're right,' Solin said with a nod. Mort didn't hold out hope that he was going to hear that Solin had taken the right point from the rebuttal. 'We're far enough north that the comet isn't appropriate.' And so Solin shifted, instead making the sign of the wolf.

Ingwel rolled his eyes, but Mort caught the flash of amusement. 'Should I be concerned that you know Empire religious gestures well enough to realize what Solin was doing?'

Feeling rather ganged up on, Mort directed his attention back to Ingwel, resolved to ignore the irritant cackling at his side. 'My point stands. If you want me to lead the attack on the keep, I need to be commanding either any of the redcoat regiments or Freshblood Regiment.'

Ingwel grunted and turned his attention back to his desk, eyes fixed upon the map. His quill quickly etched a note in the sharp, brisk strokes needed to properly capture the written form of High Saurian. While the Legion was encouraged to speak in Reikspiel, writing was held to no such requirement, and most writings within the Legion were in High Saurian unless there was a specific need for a different font. It also served to make any notes private, as very few could read High Saurian outside of the Children of the Gods.

Solin, well-versed in reading Ingwel's writing upside down, raised his brow ridges in an expression of being impressed. 'Well, that could work.'

Mort cast a dour look at Solin for reading their leader's writings without permission but didn't say anything, too used to the favoritism Ingwel showed toward his spawn-brother and the liberties Ingwel gave Solin and Solin alone. Even Iycan couldn't get away with some of what Solin was permitted.

Ingwel looked up at Mort. 'Sharpe and his troop went ahead with Iycan and will meet you there. They should have the bridge down for you. But for this occasion, take a pack of salamanders with you.'

Mort grunted in slight surprise at being offered the use of the fire-spitting beasts. The salamanders weren't often used outside of particularly large battles, as the Legion had difficulty keeping the beasts' numbers up. The beasts didn't like breeding outside of their favored jungle habitat, unlike cold ones or carnosaurs, which were quite content to reproduce on a semi-regular basis. It was a pity, for properly trained salamanders were quite the addition to any force they were attached to, but needs being as they were, they were typically kept as a reserve.

'Primis and Fortis Regiments are good for the outside. Once we're past the motte's walls, we'll keep the estate secure. So who's going inside the keep itself?'

Solin spoke up in a low, thoughtful tone. 'I'll supervise, and I recommend Boney take part in the assault as he needs the experience. I recommend we send in a number from Quaterain and Freshblood Regiments. Let Captain Kro-Loq take overall command of attacking the inside; he needs some experience himself.'

Mort had to take a moment to recall who Kro-Loq was. No doubt he was usually on Solin's half of the Legion's regular splits. He quickly nodded his approval once he remembered that the captain was a scar veteran oft in a position of command over any who were still technically in training to earn their uniform. But it had been long enough that even if he decided to remain as an instructor and leader for the new-blood, he still needed some experience in leading others of the Legion.

'He's inexperienced in leadership,' Mort recalled aloud. 'But he has good instincts, and I can't complain about his ability to teach.'

'High praise,' Ingwel hummed. 'Mort and his regiments attack the walls and Kro-Loq, under supervision, will attack the inner keep.'

Once Ingwel had solidified the decision, Mort watched as he grabbed another piece of parchment, scanning it with narrowed eyes.

'Nothing mentioned about the chaplain, other than the name Iosif Fichte.' Ingwel tilted his head. 'We don't know for a fact that he is a wizard or even anything other than a chaplain serving within the Feyerabend Keep.'

'By that same logic, we don't know that this current Count of Efror is anything but a man who happens to share the title that Adelbrecht once held.' Mort shrugged, ignoring the wince from Solin.

'And if we're lucky, this is all a massive misunderstanding and the count will invite us into his keep and reveal that Fenchel did indeed take leave of his sanity and attacked the chaplain before fleeing.' Ingwel's tone was dry, the only hint that he truly didn't believe such to be the case.

No doubt he was hoping though, hoping for the best even as he braced himself for the inevitable worst.

'What are you going to do while we march to the keep?' Solin asked.

'I am going to be taking the rest of the Legion to check the site of the original city of Efror.' Ingwel crossed his arms. 'Trust, but verify. We've nothing but the word of an imperial noble that the Efror farms were attacked by the undead. The political games of the Empire's nobility are tiresome, and I want to be certain we weren't just hired to remove a man's political rival.'

Mort nodded once. It made sense. Best to avoid getting dragged into a personal feud; the rule about keeping out of internal affairs of kingdoms and realms was one very, very, rarely broken, and only if there was a reason to believe there was more going on than just a civil dispute.

Solin hummed absently, some tune he'd no doubt picked up while mingling with humans, but from the way his eyes were fixed upon one of the sheets of parchment, it wasn't something that he was even aware of his doing. If Mort had thought he was doing it deliberately to annoy him—something that he would not put past the younger saurus—then he would have had words.

'Interesting,' Solin thought aloud. 'The reason the Feyerabend family were allowed to build a keep there was to try to deter criminals from fleeing to the Schadensumpf in their efforts to escape the graf's justice.'

Mort grumbled softly under his breath. 'How many men does the Efror Guard supposedly have?'

Ingwel gave Mort a look. 'About a hundred plus some.'

'You think the Count of Efror would hire brigands?' Solin asked, tone serious, understanding Mort's thoughts quickly.

'Remember that it's not the same count you once got into a swordfight with. Count Feyerabend might not have the same standards.' Mort replied with the same serious tone as Solin. 'His lands are farms, which he can't levy from too heavily without causing problems with his harvest.'

'And a single village outside his keep.' Solin reminded, tapping the drawing of the keep, where the village in question had been very vaguely sketched out, but also had clearly not been the priority for the artist. 'Do the notes say anything about the village?'

Ingwel quickly skimmed another sheet of parchment. 'The village is home only to those under the count's employ, or the family of those same.'

'How big?' Mort asked.

'Not huge. It's a village, not a town.' Ingwel blinked up at the other two saurus. 'And I doubt you'll be facing off against the entirety of the Efror Guard. Remember that they're searching for Fenchel rather than guarding the keep.'

Solin and Mort both nodded. If they were to move on the Feyerabend estate, it needed to be soon, lest they give time for the keep to get reinforced. News had a habit of moving at speed within the Reik Basin; somebody would have let slip that a band of mercenaries had been tasked to march on the Feyerabend estate, though not necessarily the reasoning. Or who the mercenary band was specifically, but four thousand five hundred lizardmen breaking camp and departing in the direction of the Feyerabend Estate was not subtle. It wouldn't take a genius to put two and two together and make four.

Ingwel carefully put the parchment sheets into a neat pile. It was an unspoken message that their conversation was over and they were now dismissed, time for work. Not even Solin would be taking any liberties and ignoring his spawn-brother.

As both Mort and Solin moved away from the ad hoc table and their marshal, the younger of the two saurus started to fish around the inside of his surcoat, while crimson eyes scanned the temporary camp.

'I think your regiments are over there,' he said softly, head lightly bobbing in one direction.

Mort didn't doubt the other saurus. If he thought that Primis and Fortis regiments were in that direction, then they were. As the pair walked, Mort was well aware of the glowers he was the recipient of from a large number of a particular subset of the Legion.

'I still hate you,' he felt the need to mention. 'Nearly every skink in the Legion has been looking at me like I've defecated in their drinks.'

Solin's eyes crinkled in amusement. 'They'll get over it in a week or two.'

Even as he said that, Solin angled the hand that he had removed from the inside of his surcoat, so that the opening of the brown bag he had pulled out was visible in silent invitation. Mort hesitated for two seconds, then quietly pulled one of the mints from the bag and threw the white sphere into his maw, humming with pleasure at the way that it gave a taste of coldness.

'Don't think that this means I forgive you,' he chose to point out regardless.

Solin rolled his eyes while he popped a mint into his own mouth and then stuffed the bag back into his surcoat. 'It served a purpose. Major Adorable isn't skittish around you.'

Mort reckoned that he could hear the strangled scream of anguish that Boney had become known for in the past day, having let out such a scream every time anybody called him by that nickname. Word had gotten out pretty quickly about how the Legion's newest major had gone on a tirade at Mort over being labeled adorable. Now nobody would let him forget.

It was childish; it should have been beneath them... but it was harmless amusement. And Solin was right, after a week or two the amusement would wear itself out. Mort would be patient and weather the storm of annoyed skinks that still hadn't gotten word that Mort hadn't been calling them adorable behind their backs.

They approached the space where Mort's regiments had nestled themselves and were conversing while waiting for the word to continue marching. Unfortunately, there was enough noise from chatting lizardmen that Mort's voice was drowned out. He was about to raise his voice to be heard over the background buzz, but Solin seemingly at random decided to lift both his hands to his mouth, placed a finger from each into his maw, took a few seconds where he seemingly angled his fingers to some unknown standard and then...

Mort flinched as his hearing was assaulted by a shrill tone that threatened to have his skull shatter from the vibrations. In his shocked recoil, the mint still rolling in his mouth momentarily rolled far enough back to trigger a gag reflex. It was just for a moment, then it was back safely to the front of his mouth, away from his gullet. He wasn't the only one to be so startled; the entirety of the Legion had stilled. Every last skink, saurus, and kroxigor turned to stare at Solin, and Mort by extension seeing as he had the misfortune of standing next to the younger saurus.

But there was no amusement in Solin's eyes at the effect his strange sound had caused. On seeing that he now held the attention of Mort's regiments, he straightened his posture, unperceivable to any warm-blood that might happen to see, but the difference it made to Mort and any other lizardmen looking upon him.

It was a look he didn't have nearly often enough.

'Fortis and Primis Regiments, form up on Major Mort. You are moving out shortly.'

Mort shook his head in bemusement but didn't argue at Solin issuing commands to his regiments. Whatever his issues with the younger saurus, he wasn't about to argue results. At the orders projected loudly enough to rattle bones, the two regiments formed into ordered formations, looking expectantly at Mort, waiting for the word to begin marching.

Solin hummed, eyes narrowed in thought. 'You'll have to talk to the salamander handlers yourself. I'm going to collect Kro-Loq and a number from Quaterain and Freshblood Regiments, and we'll meet up with you at the keep. Hopefully, you'll have taken the outer walls by then and we can just go straight in. Good speed.'

A fist patted Mort on the shoulder and Solin then stalked away with an intent purpose to his stride.

Mort shook off the sensation of danger which always filled the air when Solin started to behave as was more appropriate for one of his status. 'Let's move out. I want to reach the Feyerabend Estate before the next sun-up.'

The order given, his subordinates began to march.


*


Mort's desire to reach the estate's grounds before sunrise was accomplished. And in the pitch darkness of the night, he had the two regiments under him set camp, set up the watch rotation, and then rested.

Sieges were unpleasant business. There were those that felt the advantage would always go to those who initiated the battle, but those who believed such had never been forced to battle against a well-defended wall while fielding no siege weapons.

Would that Ingwel have spared one of the solar engines, but alas, there was little to be gained from thinking about what wasn't to be. Besides which, if the plan went off well, there would be no need. They could potentially take the keep without any damage to the walls. That would make for an ideal temporary base of operations. When was the last time the Legion had the benefit of good sturdy walls surrounding them?

Village palisades didn't count.

As the sun rose, Sergeant Kaiika hummed thoughtfully from where he was staring through a spyglass at the motte and bailey.

'Something isn't right about this,' Kaiika said after he noticed Mort's attention focused on him.

'How do you mean?' Mort asked, his head tilting.

'Something about the garrison.' As he spoke, Kaiika held out the spyglass for the major to take.

Mort carefully took the brass tube and held it to his eye, taking a moment to focus his vision upon the estate. Kaiika waited a moment before continuing to share his thoughts.

'Look at the village. What do you see, or what don't you see?'

Mort's sight spied the village. He decided to put his attention there since that was the most recent part to leave Kaiika's mouth. His eye narrowed as he realized that, yes, there was indeed something off about the village. It wasn't anything that was obvious, like a burnt-down structure or a pile of corpses, it was something subtle. Something that, were Mort only recently departed from the Madrigal Isle, he would have likely not thought anything of.

It still took him longer than he cared to admit what it was that had his mind itch.

'No fires, no lights.'

Human villages always had at least one or two fires going all through the night. Since fall had yet to reach the Empire, it wasn't a matter of needing heat, in which case there would be more than just one fire, but because humans had poor night vision. Those who stood guard at night needed some source of light to actually see, though it was a double-edged sword as it also meant that they were clearly visible. But, Mort supposed, where other humans were concerned, that could be a deterrent, an open warning that there were indeed guards on the lookout.

Less helpful with some of the other threats that constantly hounded the Empire, but Mort wasn't about to judge.

His point stood though, that with the sun only just rising, there should have been such flames or have only just been extinguished. But there was not even a hint of smoke rising from the stone circles used to mark the fire pits. Even behind the safety of walls, there was no fire, no sign of any life.

'Not in the village,' the sergeant agreed with a jerk of the head. 'I haven't seen any movement either. It's like they don't care about that village.'

Mort rumbled thoughtfully, then turned his attention to the keep's outer walls.

'You said something was off about the garrison?'

'Yes... just watch them.'

Mort gave a soft sound of... he wasn't quite sure, bemusement or maybe a warning not to be presumptuous as to tell him what to do. Whatever it was, he still did as the sergeant said and watched the archers manning the top of the wall.

Ah. He caught on quicker than he had with the village.

'They're very... still.' He spoke his observation aloud.

It wasn't like humans couldn't stay so still, but those capable of such were more often than not part of the more prestigious orders that the warm-bloods had formed. The likes of the Reiksguard, Grail Knights, the Knights of Morr... Thinking on it, it was typically only knightly orders. There must have been a requirement that they not fidget.

These weren't knights of prestige; these were guardsmen for a minor count that, if Iycan's report had any bearing in truth, was barely considered worth the title, having been scornfully referred to as the Count of Farms. Now, that hardly meant that the Efror Guard weren't capable warriors, but their combat prowess would come from a different place than the strict structured training regime of a knightly order. The discipline for pretending to be a statue would not be a part of a minor count's personal troops' training. Not if he was known for sending them out to his lands at the slightest provocation. At least, Mort hoped not, but he was aware that among the Empire's nobles, there were those who seemed to hold their personal image to unreasonable levels even at the expense of being sensible. The Mad Count might have been just that, but Mort would hope that the guard he once trained to a standard that had given Solin pause would not have degraded so much.

'So still that I almost missed them,' Kaiika admitted ruefully. 'And since we set up camp, they've not even had a change of shifts. Those are the same archers that were there when we arrived last night.'

Kaiika was clearly feeling unsettled by that, and Mort was inclined to agree to an extent. Mort doubted that even he would be capable of standing so still for so long. It was basic needs, no matter how much self-discipline one had, eventually one needed to move if just to get the heart pumping, make sure that the blood was flowing properly and easing the strain on back and joints. Even within the Star Chamber of a slann, the temple guard would periodically move a small distance and back again. Saurus had an advantage in that they were quite literally created for the purpose of fighting and guarding that which needed protection, yet they still had such a basic need. Humans didn't have the advantage, so there was no reason why the guard of a no-name count should be capable of outperforming the oldest surviving saurus of the Madrigal Isle, an Eternal Warden who had honed his body to as close to perfection as he could manage in the name of his duty.

His mind less so, as he had constantly been reminded since working as a part of the Legion.

Mort opened his mouth to comment, but a flicker of movement managed to capture his attention. Movement he might have missed had it not been for how still everything had been before that moment.

A horse galloped across the drawbridge, exited the wooden wall that surrounded the village, and departed at speed.

'Where is he off to in such a hurry?' Kaiika wondered, able to see the broad strokes of what happened, but not the detail of the rider.

Mort hummed. 'I couldn't say. Maybe he's off to get reinforcements...'

He tilted his head, trying to work out whether the Efror Guard, last seen back in the region of the Middenheim road, would have managed to return to the keep in their entirety. If so, was there a reason why they would have? They'd been hunting for Fenchel, and unless they got word that the boy had made it to Middenheim, why would they have returned?

'We have to move now. If he is going for reinforcements, I want to have the walls under our control before they arrive.'

Kaiika trilled in acknowledgment and turned toward the hastily erected camp, chest inflating as he drew in a breath. 'Legion, up and at 'em. We are moving out in ten minutes. On your feet, saurus and skinks.'

Kaiika could certainly match a dread saurian for the volume of his roar. If any questioned the validity of Kaiika's statement, one look at Mort standing behind the sergeant was enough to dispel such doubt.

The tents were torn down quickly, packed away, and everybody moved into formation. Mort was, as he always was, impressed with the speed and efficiency of his subordinates. He held high standards, and it was always a pleasure to see those standards upheld. Those under his command might not officially be temple guard, but Mort would be damned if they couldn't fight as well as any guardian that had ever been gifted the title.

'Move out,' he called at the top of his lungs.


*


Sharpe watched through the window as guards emerged from the keep atop the hill, marched their way down, and started to take up positions within the village. His eyes narrowed while he took in the sight and then hissed out a soft laugh.

'I think they noticed the attack on its way.'

Happy, who had been in the process of cleaning the barrels of the repeater handgun he had looted from a brigand months ago, looked up with a grin to his eyes.

'Oh, here we manage to spend a day and a night not being noticed, and the rest of the Legion goes stomping up with all the grace and subtlety of a troglodon.'

Sharpe smirked in amusement, even while adjusting his position and shifting the coloring of his scales so that none of the guards moving past the building that he and his chosen had taken refuge in would notice his watching them. It would be a point of embarrassment if they were spotted now, after Happy had just made a jape at the rest of the Legion's expense.

His amusement faded as he watched the guards. Something was off about them. It was an uncanny feeling in the back of his head. The way that these humans walked was wrong, jerky, almost as if they were trying to walk with numb limbs. But the expressions beneath those conical helmets never shifted, set to a constant stoically glass-eyed expression that gave nothing away.

Sharpe recalled the implication that the count was being controlled, but watching his garrison, he began to wonder whether they might also have such a claim.

'I don't like this.' He didn't mean to utter the words aloud, but they escaped his maw regardless.

Happy lost any joviality, hands stilled from where they had been giving his weapon a final wipe with a rag. 'What's wrong?'

'Just a bad feeling,' Sharpe tried to dismiss the subject, not caring for sharing feelings he couldn't explain.

Happy shared a long-suffering look with another of the skirmishers and then climbed to his feet, slowly moving over to the window with Sharpe. One of his eyes peered out the window, taking in the same sights that Sharpe had been watching. His eye narrowed, but what caught Sharpe's attention about his friend's reaction had nothing to do with his eyes and everything to do with a rapid flicking of his tongue.

'Do ye smell that?' Happy asked, sounding anything other than his name.

Sharpe felt himself frown, eyes narrowed, but he trusted Happy enough that he didn't question. His tongue flicked out even as he inhaled through his nostrils and was hit by a sickeningly sweet scent beneath the cloying smell of perfumes. The first scent he was far too familiar with to not recognize.

'Death,' he muttered aloud.

'They've been near the rotted dead recently.' Happy agreed with a nod.

Sharpe made to reply, but a bell started to ring. He pulled himself away from the window, allowed his coloring to return to the usual sandy yellow-brown, and looked to his skirmishers.

'We'll wait a few minutes, let the Legion outside really get their attention, and then we move. We good?'

He was met with enthusiastic, if still quiet agreement.


*


It was never in doubt that the drawbridge would become an instant obstacle. Despite the village being empty of all signs of life just moments before, the instant that Mort made an appearance with his regiments, any sensible person would have sent somebody to raise the drawbridge.

He was still questioning the absence of any guard within the bailey village. Why not leave a patrol or two there during the night? Why weaken your own defense? There had to be something going on in the background, something that Mort wasn't aware of, because he could think of no rational reason for what had happened.

As it stood, there had to have been at least a token garrison within the village, maybe a barracks building or two, because the speed at which a large number of men dressed in the chainmail hauberks and tabards of the Efror Guard appeared was not possible otherwise. The chainmail-clad warriors were accompanied by more simply dressed men in gambesons carrying bows.

The drawbridge rose up once the guard was outside of the village.

'Why are they sallying out?' Mort wondered aloud, mind racing.

It looked as though the enemy force numbered about half the size of Mort's command. So was the one in command of the Efror Guard arrogant about the skill level of these guardsmen? Or was there some other play at hand, something which required that a token force slow down Mort's advance?

Behind the swordsmen, the archers were reaching for the quivers at their backs.

'Form bastiladons,' Mort bellowed.

At his command, the saurus of Primis Regiment formed into multiple bastiladon formations with practiced ease, their shields positioned together to form a shell surrounding them. Behind each column of saurus, the skinks of Fortis regiment broke into smaller groups and positioned themselves behind the protective shell of Primis's shield barrier, hunched low and javelins carefully held ready to be thrown or thrust as needed.

The odd ones out, unpracticed with the works of Mort's regiments, were the salamanders and their handler. However, the salamanders and their handlers were trained to work around the Legion. Given a chance, the salamanders would move to flank, to strike at the unprotected rear, same as if they were hunting in the wild. Once it came time for the actual village and keep, then the handler would have his job to guide the beasts in more specific movements.

No matter how much the salamanders were trained, they weren't going to be sitting behind a shield barrier. It wasn't a part of their instincts to take cover behind a row of saurus—if they were ever so inclined as to take cover, it would be by burying themselves beneath the ground. The handler, on the other hand, quickly took a position behind Mort when the saurus called out for him to do so. Best to keep the handler safe, lest they have to deal with salamanders gone feral without the one they had been taught to see as alpha.

His shield blocked an arrow loosed by one of the human archers. He didn't need to raise his voice in an order to retaliate as a globule of flame flew past before he was given the chance. Unfortunately, the archer was unharmed, safely behind a phalanx of swordsmen, one of whom was unlucky enough to get hit by the viscous fiery orb, his shield raised too slowly to save him.

'Fortis,' Mort shouted out. 'Counter.'

Specific order, the skinks of Fortis Regiment would focus on archers, and instead let the salamanders burn the warriors who would protect those archers.

His shield vibrated as another arrow connected with its surface. Mort hissed under his breath, watching as the skinks at the front of the formations behind each saurus column hefted their javelins and threw them, then stopped moving in time with the formation until they went from the front of the row to the back, after which they started to pull the next javelin from their harness.

With the arc of the throw, the javelins flew over the heads of the warriors and began to pepper the ground around the archers. Not all hit their targets, not that Mort expected as much. The archers were still at the extreme edge of throwing range, even with the standards that Mort held his regiments to, he wouldn't expect perfect accuracy at that extreme.

But, some did hit. And even those that failed to land on an archer were enough to cause a distraction as the humans were forced to worry about long sharp weapons falling at them.

Interestingly, it wasn't as good of a distraction as it should have been. Yes, the archers flinched, but it wasn't the panicked realization that they had almost been skewered so much as an irritated pause as it registered to them and then was consequently brushed aside in favor of getting back to using their bows.

'Something is not right,' Mort hissed aloud, more to himself than to the salamander handler.

'It looks like they don't care if they die.' The handler gave an answer regardless.

And damned if he wasn't accurate in that comment. Humans were skittish about death. Seeing friends and brothers die at their side usually had looks upon those dead and dying, moments of realization at how close they themselves might have come.

Though there were some fanatic enough or just disciplined enough to hide away their fear, largely from those same knightly orders that Mort had been musing about earlier, even the likes of a grail knight would have more of a reaction to the death of brothers-in-arms, even if that reaction was the typical blustering righteous anger at the foe.

A warrior fell to the stream of flaming spit by one of the salamanders. Despite his tabard going up in flames, his helmet and chainmail no doubt heated to unbearable levels, the man didn't scream. He fell to the ground and barely even flailed in an effort to put himself out. It was as if he simply didn't care. And not a single one of that warrior's comrades paused or looked back at him; they continued to march forward with a dead-eyed look to them.

Behind the phalanx of the Efror Guard, the drawbridge taunted Mort.

Another volley of arrows from the archers. Mort counted the impacts as each arrow met the barrier that was his shield. It was an almost rhythmic melody, thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud. There were a couple of loud snarls as no doubt at least one arrow had found a salamander.

A chanced glance behind showed that Mort was right in that prediction; one salamander looked particularly irritable as it shook its body in an effort to dislodge an arrow that hadn't quite punctured through its tough hide but had dug in enough that it was stubbornly jutting out of the creature's back.

The salamander gave another hiss and then released a stream of fire that caught three of the warriors. Once the stream eased up, the salamander gave another hiss and stalked to one side, posture low but its spine arched in silent warning that it was pissed off and woe betide anybody that dared to attract its attention now.

Another volley of javelins was thrown at the archers. More of the humans were caught by the projectiles, but still not a sound. Not all of the javelins should have been instantly fatal. Experience taught that at least a few of the archers should have only been stabbed through the leg, a reason to give out a cry of pain and a warning that they were no longer able to move.

At some unspoken word, the Efror Guard split off, just under half of the warriors veering off to one side, while an equal number splintered in the opposite direction. Behind the warriors, the archers remained still, no longer advancing, and after another volley of arrows, actually back-pedaled, looking to put more distance between them and Mort's forces. A small token number of warriors remained in a phalanx between the archers and the legionaries. Barely enough to be more than a bump in the path, but even a bump could slow the advance enough to buy time for the remainder of the enemy force.

Mort saw quickly what the plan was. It had the potential to be clever, he supposed. The warriors would pincer around and attack from two sides; the saurus would need to turn to face the threat that was looking to engage them, which then left their sides exposed to the archers.

Maybe if the Efror Guard had sent a bigger force, it would be a valid threat, but they had left their archers with only the barest of protection. Maybe they weren't accounting for speed from Mort, he had no cavalry with him for this engagement. How large is the Efror Guard's garrison? Mort wondered. The amount sent out was not a vast number—likely sent to die to delay the Legion's advance—and there were doubtless more within the walls of the motte and bailey, otherwise, what was the point of having a defensive structure if it wasn't going to be used?

Mort called out his next orders, making sure to use High Saurian to be certain that the enemy didn't know how he was reacting. Granted, anybody intelligent should know what he was doing, but intelligence was one of those commodities that felt rarer with each passing summer.

The two columns of his saurus adjusted, changed the shape of their formation. Instead of the tight columns, they shifted to a sharp crescent moon and stopped advancing forward. Still, the shields were held together, linked into a shell. The skinks meanwhile nestled themselves within the inside curve of the formation's shape.

That was when the bad news reached Mort in the form of a shrill whistling that turned into an explosion.


*


'They've got a mortar,' Happy hissed in annoyance. 'How did we miss a mortar?'

Sharpe visibly tried to track the trail of the mortar shell, but it was hidden behind a large building which was probably used for storing the harvest kept for the village's purpose. Another whistling shriek pierced the air, this one from the opposite direction.

'Two mortars, actually,' he commented idly once the whistle had turned to an explosion. With a click of his tongue, he turned to the chameleon skirmishers under his command. 'Herrin, you're with me, we're taking out that first mortar that went off. Happy, take Tongue—you're going to that second mortar and breaking it. Banji, you take the rest and get that drawbridge down so Mort can get across.'

Happy gave a single nod to Sharpe and called out for Tongue—named not as a shortening of his full name but as an eternal reminder that he would forever be known as that chameleon skink who got his tongue stuck to the barrel of his musket that one time. Kislev autumn was almost as bad as winter in Estonia. As for winter in Kislev, there was a reason the Legion hadn't willingly set foot that far north at that time of year.

Tongue already had his musket ready as Happy moved to the door, waiting for the sergeant to make the first move. Sharpe hissed out a few words to Banji and took a position to Happy's side. His hand rested upon the door's latch, but he didn't yet push down. One of his eyes moved to peer at Happy, silently questioning, 'ready?' Happy nodded once, and Sharpe immediately yanked the flimsy wooden door open.

Happy slid out the moment the opening was available, scales automatically shifting to match the outside wall. With the green uniform of the skirmishers, it was hardly absolute camouflage against the walls of the buildings, but then outside of a very rare few, a lot of the tales of chameleon skink camouflaging were overselling the ability. It was hardly like walking about invisible; even human eyes could see something, a sense of depth not quite matching. Worst case, they see the chameleon moving, which was an instant giveaway that no amount of re-colored scales could hide. Even a skaven couldn't fail to notice if they happened to be looking at a chameleon in motion.

There was a reason that they typically moved slowly, only deliberate motions to do as much as they needed without waste. To move at the wrong time meant death.

Adjusting the color of their scales made it harder to notice them, uniform or not. It was surprising what was missed when attention wasn't drawn, even from their own ilk. If a wandering gaze brushed past them, missed them even for but a moment, then that was time enough for any of Sharpe's Chosen to fire off a shot and remove that threat.

Happy took the lead, feeling more than seeing Tongue following behind at a respectable distance. Not so far as to be unable to help, not so close that both were at risk if one was noticed. Ideally, while one was in the streets, the other would take to the rooftops. The problem was that this village had such distance between each building that were Tongue to scale a building, he would have to lower himself back down to ground level just to reach the next building. No point.

It was annoying. The village itself wasn't actually a big settlement, it was a village, not a town, but despite the limitation imposed by being behind the outer wall, it was still laid out in such a manner as to have all the buildings spread as far apart as possible, as if the buildings were concerned about getting some disease from their neighbor. Who ever heard of touch-shy buildings? It meant that overwatch on a rooftop wasn't able to relocate, and it meant a lot of open and exposed space for the skirmishers to traverse.

Was it a deliberate defense choice? Happy wondered about that as he slowly inched forward, repeater handgun shouldered and one eye constantly focused upon the outer wall. Usually, tight streets were the choice for defensive purposes, meant that a good solid phalanx represented a barrier that couldn't be circumnavigated. But forcing those traversing the village into wide open spaces meant that those within the keep atop the hill had sight upon those same.

Were there archers on the keep's inner wall watching the village? Was Happy about to get an arrow to the knee for his efforts?

Somehow, despite being on guard, Happy was still surprised by the swordsman that rounded a building and blocked the pair of chameleons' path. On the plus side, the swordsman clearly hadn't been expecting a pair of skirmishers either, visibly flinched back, eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing into a scowl. There was something wrong about his eyes, though, once the swordsman's expression had switched away from the open surprise.

Now, Happy would never confess to being an expert in humans and their expressions, but he was an expert in reading the eyes, regardless of species. It came part and parcel for a member of a species whose primary method of conveying emotion was through eyes and body language instead of expressive faces. As such, Happy was uniquely qualified to say that the moment the swordsman had switched to a stoic mask. It wasn't just the facial muscles that stopped expressing any emotion. His eyes were blank, faded. There was nothing; this wasn't a case of hiding emotions behind a mask—there was literally no emotion in those glassy eyes.

Tongue lifted his musket and fired at the same moment that the swordsman lifted his kite shield. The musket's bark echoed through the air, an alert to everyone that there was a threat within the village, more efficient than if the warrior had shouted out. There was also a cracking sound as the bullet of the musket hit the shield, the top of which splintered in response. The swordsman stumbled back, but there was no blood, no look of pain about him. Nor did he express any difficulty in straightening himself once his stumbled back-pedaling came to a halt.

Happy knew what had happened even without thinking too hard on it. The short of it was that despite the amount of damage to the shield, it had done its job and saved the warrior's life. Well, Happy was all too happy to correct that issue. He lunged forward quickly, hoping to move before the warrior could raise his defense again, and he slammed the stock of his repeater handgun into the warrior's leg, then hopped to the side, positioning himself to see where the warrior had originated, wary about the possibility of more arriving.

One of these days, he would have to see about finding a way to affix a bayonet to the weapon. It was a pity that the Empire didn't seem to agree with the Legion on the utility and practicality of bayonets, preferring their handgunners take the time to pull out a sword instead.

The warrior grunted at the strike to his leg, stumbled again, blood pouring through the wound. He was quick to right himself once more, somehow able to ignore the injury. He turned his body to face Happy, lifted his sword, but in doing so left himself vulnerable to Tongue, who lunged forward with his own bayonets aimed for the exposed right armpit of the swordsman. There was finally a flicker of emotion to the warrior's eyes as the end of the sharp blade managed to press itself through one of the chain links. With the amount of force applied, successfully pierced itself through the chainmail and punctured into flesh and the lung not far beneath. Tongue hissed softly and twisted his musket, further widening the injury, and then yanked his weapon back, removing the blade from its temporary fleshy sheath.

While the warrior fell, gargling as his punctured lung filled with his own life liquid, Happy sighted two warriors from the direction the initial swordsman had come from. They had turned at the sound of the gunshot, shields already lifted and swords held at the ready. Happy hissed out an expletive under his breath and sighted his handgun on the nearer of the two and pulled back on the trigger. The first bullet cracked the shield, and like with the first warrior, he stumbled back. But whether or not he was injured by the gunshot, Happy pulled the trigger again, feeling the weapon kick into his shoulder despite his not having reloaded it. This time, there was no question of if the warrior was injured; he fell to the ground as his chest exploded into a cloud of blood, the chainmail lacking the strength to stand up to the superior firepower.

Satisfaction at the kill didn't deter Happy from adjusting his aim, pulling the trigger. The warrior fell to one knee as the projectile tore through his right shin. Three shots down, another three left before the weapon had to be reloaded. That became another two shots left as Happy lifted the muzzle and fired again, the bullet piercing through the warrior's face with no mercy.

Tongue moved past Happy, already pumping his ramrod down the barrel of his musket. In the background, Happy made out the sounds of more gunfire, no doubt the other skirmishers removing obstacles to their own objectives. Then there was a whistling as one of the mortars fired off again.

'Y'know, it's actually a good thing these Efror Guard decided to sally a group out,' Happy commented idly, taking the moment to carefully reload the four barrels which had already deposited their load.

'How do you figure?' Tongue asked after a moment.

Happy took a moment to answer, busy spitting down one of the barrels of the handgun while his left hand was pulling out the sachet with both gunpowder and bullet ready for the next. 'Well, since they're out there, they aren't here getting in our way.'

Tongue tilted his head, considered that before then shrugging a single shoulder. 'And the more that Mort deals with out there, the less to clean up once they are past the bridge.'

Happy chuckled and carefully tapped his weapon against the ground twice. 'Aye, there is that too.'

Another guardsman made an appearance, quickly shot down by Happy, who silently bemoaned already using up a bullet after he'd just finished reloading. Tongue meanwhile pointed to one of the towers attached to the outer wall.

'Looks like the mortar is on that tower.'

Happy nodded once, eyes narrowing to a frown. 'We did check those towers when we arrived yesterday, yes?'

Tongue made a sound of affirmation.

'Why would they stow away weapons like that?' Happy asked, not really expecting an answer. 'When an invading army approaches, they have to take the time to pull them out and get them into position.'

'Maybe to avoid bastards like us from sabotaging them before they can be used?' Tongue answered in the form of a sarcastic question, eyes narrowing in amusement.

'That's cheating,' Happy grumbled.

Tongue looked like he was about to reply, but the way he abruptly back-pedaled cut him off. The reason for his spontaneous movement was made clear when an arrow barely missed him, which wouldn't have happened had he not all but thrown himself to one side in an effort to avoid it. Both skirmishers lifted their weapons and fired in the direction the arrow had come from. Atop the outer wall of the motte and bailey, an archer jolted and fell backward into the moat that was on the outside of the wall.

Tongue smirked at Happy, even as he angled the musket and pulled out a fresh sachet with gunpowder and a bullet. 'That was mine.'

'I think not,' Happy answered with a playful glare to his right eye while his left swiveled around for more archers looking to take aim at them.

None were apparent, but thus far these Efror Guard were surprisingly annoying about appearing seemingly from nowhere.

A crow sat upon a nearby crate—likely once used to store grain—seemed to stare at Happy, unfazed by the sounds of violence and death. When Happy turned his attention fully to the blackbird, it cawed at him and then pointedly started to preen the feathers on its wing. Happy snorted in bemusement at the wild creature's lack of self-preservation.

He took a careful step forward, shouldered his weapon, both eyes moving back and forth as he tried to find the next threat that would try to prevent Tongue and him from reaching the tower. Even if the Efror Guard didn't know that was the planned destination, only fools wouldn't station some form of defense about the tower providing the best defense they had against threats beyond the wall.

They quickly encountered more guardsmen. Fortunately, the two skirmishers had one last building—looked to be a simple house—between them and the wall, and by extension the mortar tower. A group of seven, ironically exactly enough to one bullet each before Happy had to reload. No, wait, I used a shot already... Happy stifled a groan of annoyance at the realization. Fortunately, Tongue was better about keeping his own weapon loaded, but when it only had a single shot before needing a replacement bullet, it was considerably more important for him. So, six shots between the two of them. Six shots, seven swordsmen.

Tongue patted him on the shoulder and subtly gestured at the wall, where another two archers made themselves seen, bows aimed at the inside of the wall, aimed for threats within. Unsurprising, muskets were loud, and the amount of gunfire sporadically making itself heard probably had even those still in the keep aware of a threat within the village. No time to reload the repeater handgun. He would have to make his five shots count.

'I got the archers.' It was hissed quietly, so as not to draw attention.

Tongue nodded, carefully pulled back the hammer of his musket. 'We don't have the bullets to take all of the swordsmen.'

'We'll have to wing it.'

Tongue didn't look enthused at the idea. Happy didn't blame him. Unlike their saurus brothers, skinks were ambush predators first and foremost. That had always been the case amongst all skink sub-types, even before the shift to using black powder weaponry. It went against their instincts to willingly put themselves into a fight where they didn't have a clear advantage. But what choice did they have? They needed to remove the mortar from play, or else Mort and his troop weren't going to even reach the drawbridge, never mind cross it once it was lowered. That was worse than dying, getting others killed due to inaction.

Happy quietly counted down, reaching zero then leapt out from behind the house, his firearm already moving upward to take sight of the archers. He pulled the trigger, pausing and waiting. Had to be certain that he had hit before he could move on—figuratively that was, as in the literal sense he was still moving in a sideward skip, the worst mistake one could make against archers, standing still. The archer flinched, dropping the bow to clutch a hand to the growing crimson stain on his arm. Not a kill shot, but incapacitated and no longer a threat.

Moving on, sighted the next archer, took note of the string being pulled back. Abruptly stopped his movement; the arrow missed, flying through the space that his throat would have been had he not stopped moving. Started his movement anew, changed direction after five paces. Picked a number, counted down in time with each pace, then he would change direction again. Fired. This archer stumbled backward, grasping at their neck, eyes widened with a sudden surge of previously missing emotion.

Resight the weapon, ignored the gunshot from his right and behind, left eye took note of a swordsman doubling over while blood poured from the new hole in the gut. Muzzle was pointed at the last archer, stopped moving, and then resumed in the same direction. Arrow punctured the air in the opposite direction—the archer had anticipated a reversal, not resumption. Fired the handgun.

Archer fell backward, falling prone, which put the body out of Happy's line of sight. Couldn't be sure he had removed the archer as a threat, could just be taking cover for a moment and preparing to clamber back to his feet with a fresh arrow at the ready.

Couldn't ponder that now, had one shot, and couldn't hold it on a maybe. Swung the muzzle down, pulling the trigger, and didn't bother to watch as the helmet dented inward and allowed blood to leak through. No time to admire his bloody work; he had to pay attention to more immediate concerns. No bullets left.

A swordsman charged at him, sword held high, ready for a downward cleave. Happy opened his mouth, and his tongue shot out, wrapping itself about the wrist holding the blade and then retracted. The pull tugged at the human who stumbled forward and onto Tongue's bayonets, the human's own weight and momentum pushing him down onto the sharp point and allowing it to dig deep despite the armor.

Tongue looked disgusted as he physically kicked at the warrior's body to allow himself to yank the weapon free and then hold it back up in the ready position as if he were using a spear. Only a single harsh shake of the weapon to throw off the blood staining it gave away why he looked so put off about what he had just done.

The remaining four swordsmen positioned themselves in a line, a miniature phalanx, their shields held up in a guarded position. The only reason they were delaying charging at the pair, Happy mused privately, was because they suspected that Happy still had two more shots to his weapon, and none wanted to be part of the unlucky half to die for the luckier pair. Well, they were half right he mused ruefully.

Tongue stepped back, eyes firmly cemented upon the four swordsmen, his hand already digging for another of the bullet sachets. He was forced to abort the motion when the warriors took a unified step forward, apparently unwilling to give time for the skirmisher to reload and make it so that instead of half their number becoming casualties, it would be three-quarters. They paused momentarily as Happy shifted his grip, having the muzzle point at the face of the middle-right warrior.

There was a flicker of motion, but that wasn't what captured Happy's attention. What did was instead the strangled scream from Tongue. One of Happy's eyes moved to his comrade and then jerked his entire head to face the other chameleon, and took in the arrow sticking out of his bicep. His left eye lifted, and he spotted the archer he hadn't been certain he had killed. Blood poured from the torn flesh that used to be one of his cheeks and ears. Despite the seriousness of the wound, there was no expression of pain, no discomfort on the man's face.

Instinct took over, the handgun was adjusted and aimed, the trigger was pulled, and the reward was a click that was a bold declaration to the four warriors in their phalanx that no, Happy did not, in fact, have any bullets loaded, that yes, he was the idiot who forgot to reload when he had a chance.

Oh, right… I fired twice. I'm a Quetzl damned idiot. Oh shitting piss-brain fool-idiot… How does a person forget to count! His mental self-aimed tirade only devolved into further vulgarity from there, though his eyes remained affixed to the threats before him. Not even a dose of self-hatred could distract him.

There was a brief pause from the warriors. Maybe they were silently laughing at Happy and the stupidity of forgetting how many bullets he had fired before getting into a fight. Then there was a burst of momentum as they charged.

Happy didn't hesitate. He grabbed Tongue by the arm—the opposite of the one with an arrow in—and pulled and guided the pair quickly back around the building. No longer in sight of the apparently numb archer, Happy released his grip on Tongue, rotated his weapon around, and held it in an awkward two-handed grip and swung. He timed the swing just so that the first of the warriors to try and round the corner got a heavy wooden stock slammed into their face. Chainmail might be a perfectly valid form of armor against slashing weapons, but it was useless against a heavy improvised club connecting with the mouth, coif or no.

The only reason he hadn't aimed his swing higher had been because the conical helmets used by the Efror Guard included a nasal bar. If Happy was going to take his repeater handgun and use it as a club, he was not going to waste the first attack on anything that might impede the effectiveness of his unorthodox weapon choice.

The human staggered back, blood leaking through the chain links of his coif. Probably swallowed a handful of his own teeth. Hopefully had swallowed a handful of his own teeth. Happy didn't let him go, stepping forward and slamming the improvised club against the man a second time, then a third, a fourth.

He became aware that Tongue was holding out his musket in silent offer. Happy didn't need to think on the decision—he dropped the handgun and accepted the single-shot weapon. Barely had his hands encircling the wooden body before he was lunging, thrusting the blade at the end at the next human to brave the corner. The human didn't make a sound, despite the bayonet managing to force its way through the chain links and into his thigh. That was… odd, a small part of Happy noted. Humans usually got very vocal when any weapon came remotely near their pelvis.

Not the time to think on that. Twisted the bayonet, pulled it back, and then swung the musket so that the stock met the side of the human's head. The chainmail coif prevented the edge from tearing through flesh and bone, but the force was certainly enough to fell the swordsman.

Happy exhaled softly, took note of the other human still on the ground, currently searching the ground around him in a futile attempt to find the sword that was no longer by him. The skink lunged forward, swinging his foot so that it met the swordsman's ribs. The human slumped sideward and fell flat against the ground again.

Not one not to take the opportunities provided, Happy aimed the point of his commandeered sword and stabbed down, aiming for the one spot that he could see that didn't have chainmail covering it. The moment the blade met flesh, Happy stopped looking, instead searched for the next threat. One swordsman on the ground, another swordsman slumped heavily against the wall, glassy-eyed and drooling blood.

"Look out!"

At Tongue's warning, Happy twisted around, swinging the sword in his hand. It wasn't enough. A sharp pain burned a line down Happy's torso. The skirmisher stumbled, dropping the sword and clutching at the pain, feeling the thick liquid leaking from the cut.

The fourth swordsman lifted his weapon, no doubt ready to finish the job. Happy rapidly back-pedaled in an effort to escape the intended deathblow. Unfortunately, his heels met the newly killed guardsman, and he stumbled and fell back. The fact that his tripping over the still cooling body actually saved him from the swing of the sword was of little comfort.

The swordsman stepped forward, a mirror image of how Happy had stood over the same warrior he had just killed. Happy bared his teeth in silent defiance. The swordsman didn't seem to react. There was no sign of anything from him: no amusement, no satisfaction, no glee. He was being killed by some emotionless nobody…

The bark of a gunshot had the warrior jolt. Happy flinched as the human's blood exploded outward and sprayed over him, but it was more from being startled than any revulsion. There was a moment where the warrior, now sporting a dark smear on his tabard, swayed gently, then collapsed. Happy couldn't help the sound of confusion when he spied the iron rod embedded in the swordsman's back, deep enough that the front end had just barely breached the opposite side of the man's torso, having been the reason for the burst of gore now painted across Happy's maw.

"Tongue… did ye just fire a ramrod as live ammunition?"

When Happy turned to look at Tongue, the other chameleon was sporting a smoke-stained muzzle and was blinking rapidly.

"It does appear that I did, sergeant. I'll go retrieve it once I can see clearly again."

Happy couldn't help it. He began to wheeze out a laugh, carefully picking himself up, an eye focused upon one of the still-living swordsmen each. Neither of them looked to be in any condition to resume fighting, though Happy hadn't survived as long as he had by not being absolutely certain. He grabbed the ramrod and yanked it free, taking one look at the bloody mess covering its length and discarding it.

"Never mind the rod, ye've ruined it. No salvaging that thing. How's the arm?"

As he spoke, he advanced on one of the humans, hand gently teasing a knife free from his belt. He ignored the stinging pain that marked a chasm across his torso, blood staining his uniform and making it stick to his scales.

"Useless. Can't even lift it." Tongue sounded irritated at the weakness, a faint tremor in his tone giving lie to the attempt at bravado. The skink was hurt, and he was scared. Probably fearing that he would lose the use of the arm permanently, and Happy could sympathize with that. Being hurt badly enough to remove one from actively fighting was one of the bigger fears of all members of the Legion. "How am I supposed to reload without the rod?"

"Use the one from the repeater, load up the musket, and then give it to me." The words came easy, gave Tongue a task to do so he didn't feel useless, and would distract him from his arm. He'd already proven he could reload a musket one-handed, so he wasn't asking the impossible. "I'll finish that archer off, and we can rest at the mortar. The rest of the Legion can carry their own weight for once."

Tongue made no verbal sound of acknowledgment, but a quick glance showed that he had pulled the repeater close and was awkwardly prying the handgun's ramrod free of its stowage one-handed. Happy left him to it as he approached the injured humans.


*


Artillery strikes weren't anything new. As time went by, the humans of the Empire, Estalia, and the Border Princes were slowly, gradually advancing their weapons to make good use of black powder. Even Kislev was slowly getting a slice of that pie, the late Boris Ursus having made strides to advance his domain in more than just making the bear-god Ursun a state religion.

So, over time, Mort had gotten very used to cannon and mortars and other such potent weapons being fired at him.

Unfortunately, there wasn't really a valid defense against a mortar shot that wasn't 'don't get hit.' Shields did little to protect against a massive iron orb launched at great speeds at a person. What could be done was that one could steel their nerves and not break down at the aftermath. Mortars were slow to load; they made up for that with the devastating effect of each shot that connected with the intended target and the psychological effect on those nearby. No need to make the damage worse by breaking.

Once the first two mortar shells had landed, revealing the existence of the artillery weapons, Mort had been forced into a choice. He could keep his troops in the bastiladon formations, misshapen but still effective against the archers, and still a barrier for the sallied swordsmen. The problem was that the bastiladon formation wasn't good protection against mortars, and if one were to hit, the saurus would be grouped close together, more would be harmed by the hit than was ideal.

On the other claw, he could order the saurus out of the shelled formation. The ideal formation when fired at by mortars would be to order his subordinates into a loose staggered formation, enough distance that losses to the mortars bombarding them would be minimal even on a direct hit. It also helped cut down losses from arrow barrages loosed by enemy archers.

The problem with that last was that it would be the opening the enemy swordsmen needed to charge and engage, and maybe even slip in the gaps to try and take down the skink javelin throwers. Mort was aware of the strengths of the training he imparted upon his subordinates. They were trained to be a wall, not individual pillars. Not that they could never stand alone, but it wasn't their strength to fight as singular entities.

However, with mortars being levied against him, Mort was going to have to have faith in his saurus. This wasn't the undead at Daxweiler; these humans were capable of thought, of planning, of being cunning. Mort would have to trust that his saurus were more cunning, or at least cunning enough to mitigate the chances of these Efror Guard exploiting that ability.

He hissed his orders clearly. Without delay, his saurus spread themselves. Behind the saurus, the skinks stepped back and likewise staggered their formations, no longer protected by the shields of the saurus, they knew how to react.

Another mortar shell landed, the resultant blast picking up a quartet of saurus and tossing them aside like a child throwing a doll it had grown bored of. The gap left by the blast was quickly filled, the rest of the saurus of that detachment swiftly shuffling sideward.

At Mort's side, the handler of the salamanders clicked his tongue, communicating with those beasts under his charge. The red-scaled beasts hissed, their postures having been one of a defensive hunch the moment the first mortar shell had landed. At the urging of the one they'd been taught to accept as pack alpha, they picked themselves up, giving a chirping sound at the handler, who turned to look at Mort with silent question to his eyes.

'Can you get them to circle around?'

'Easy.' The handler's eyes curved into an assured smirk. He clicked his tongue again, a series of clicks, pops, and tutting sounds that meant nothing to Mort, but clearly meant everything to the salamanders, who chirped again, then turned and charged.

Mort stopped watching them, trusted that the handler knew what he was doing. Instead, the major glared at the archers, who had just loosed another barrage of arrows. His shield vibrated as multiple projectiles met the surface. A quick glance showed that while none of the saurus under his command had fallen, the skinks, no longer protected by the shields, had taken roughly a dozen hits, at least a few of which were clearly fatal.

With the salamanders on the prowl, hopefully those archers would be removed from the field shortly. But if the archers noticed the salamanders, they'd have a priority target. Do enough harm and not even the handler would be enough to get the beasts to carry on with their task.

'Fortis,' he hissed in Saurian, 'keep the pressure on those archers. Do not let them get away with this.'

In answer, a barrage of javelins was hurled toward the line of bowmen. Mort didn't try to count the number that got hit, too distracted as another mortar shell came down, threw aside more of his saurus along with a large amount of dirt which now rained down.

From the motte and bailey, there was an explosion. Mort lifted his head, eyes trying to scan the walls for any clue as to what had happened. Presumably it was Sharpe—he did recall that Sharpe's Chosen had been sent ahead, had been assured that Sharpe would make sure that the bridge was down once the time came.

There was a column of smoke from one of the wall's towers, thick and black, the result of a fire ongoing.

As if there had been an unspoken signal, the swordsmen, previously content to stand in their phalanxes, a silent threat and barrier to prevent any movement from the legionaries that wasn't backward, started to slam their swords against the front of their kite shields and then charged forward with clear intent to get into a melee.

No time for the saurus to tighten into a phalanx, as Mort had predicted. He simply called out a warning to brace and then shifted his attention, gripping his sword tightly. Searched for the place where the melee would most benefit from his inclusion. Found it, charged forward with a snarl, and stabbed his broadsword forth. Momentum coupled with his strength punctured through the chainmail and into the targeted swordsman's neck.

The swordsman gargled out a death rattle and fell, quickly replaced with another who stepped over the body of his comrade in order to reach Mort. And yet no expression of anger or fear.

It was almost like he was fighting the undead again, except with the enemy being intelligent.

The annoying thing about this enemy was the knowledge that while most of the Empire had transitioned away from chainmail as the primary armor of choice, it was still effective, especially with the padding usually worn beneath. They wore outdated armor, and yet it was still a barrier that made killing these emotionless humans more irritating than it should have been.

Mort's tail coiled in his agitation. Blocked a sword swing from the swordsman with his shield, then swept his arm forward so that the heavy shield connected solidly with the Efror Guardsman. The swordsman staggered at the force dealt upon him, regained his bearing, and made to approach again but was slammed into a second time as Mort's tail uncoiled and struck the human. This time, the warrior fell to the ground, an easy target for Mort to bring his sword down, forcing it through the links of the mail armor and into the man's chest.

Mort pulled the sword back up and hurriedly slammed his shield into yet another human who moved to take the place of the recently deceased. He managed to aim the shield such that its edge met the human's solar plexus. Cushioned padding beneath the mail or not, the human back-pedaled with a gagging sound. Mort didn't let him get far, stepping forward, driving the pommel of his sword into the man's exposed eyes, feeling the crack. He didn't linger long, stepping back to return to the formation, staggered and loose though it may be.

Another mortar shell landed, close enough that Mort was forced to brace himself as the energy of the shell landing tried to push at him. With a grimace, the Oldblood pivoted his sword, parried and riposted, the point of his blade managing to pierce through the mail enough that the strength of the thrust allowed the length of the blade to tear through the chain links and then into the body beneath.

Then the smell hit the field. The smell of burning, of cooking flesh. Mort risked a quick glance toward the archers, and took note that the salamanders had reached them, and those that hadn't been incinerated by the angry fiery spits had been torn and mangled by claw and tooth.

'Advance,' Mort shouted.

Without hesitation, the saurus closed the gap that had just formed, forcing the swordsmen to keep paying attention to them and not to turn toward the salamanders. In turn, the salamanders had free reign to launch their flaming projectiles at the unprotected backs of the swordsmen, and chainmail was still a poor defense against fire.

There was another explosion from the motte and bailey, another column of smoke from a different tower.

Mort glowered as a swordsman managed to strike against his armor, leaving a scratch on the otherwise smooth cuirass. The one responsible was quickly punished by means of Mort's pommel meeting the side of his head where the ear would be hidden beneath the coif. The swordsman stumbled sideward, where another saurus swung his sword with force enough that the human fell to the ground. Alive or dead, Mort didn't know, until a skink came forward and thrust the javelin in his hands into the body.

It was a simple matter of mopping up the remainder. But, Mort found himself uncomfortable at the way the humans never seemed to break. They all, to the last, fought to their dying breath. That was not normal. These weren't regiments of renown; these were simple guardsmen of nobody count.

'Move up,' Mort called out. 'Advance on the walls.'

As they neared the outer walls of the Feyerabend estate, easily made out the green uniforms of the chameleon skirmishers, positioned along the wall and their muskets firing at targets on the inside of the walls. The drawbridge was lowered.

'Major Mort,' Sharpe's voice called out, though Mort wasn't able to see the skirmisher. 'Welcome to the Feyerabend castle village. The natives seem angry with us.'

Mort snorted, leading the way across the drawbridge. 'That's the usual reaction to meeting you.'

'Hah hah.' There was a pause. 'We just need to mop up the garrison down here and then we can climb the motte and take the keep. Colonel Iycan assured me before he left that the gates will remain open.'

Mort nodded, unsure if Sharpe was able to see or not. He inhaled softly.

'Legion, clear the village.'


*


Sigismund stared down at the village, brow creased in a scowl. He could see the invading army, and he hated that his home had fallen.

The part that confused him had been the strategy employed by the defensive militia. They had sallied out and then just forced the invaders to hold position while the wall's mortars fired down. They didn't care about friendly fire—the mortars had been firing even once the two forces had clashed into a melee.

He would very dearly like to have words with those who had been operating the mortars. There was a part of him that was relieved when the mortars had been destroyed by a group of the invading reptiles who had somehow already gotten inside the walls.

'I should be leading the defense.' It wasn't the first time he'd said those words. It wasn't even the first time he had repeated those words.

Count Feyerabend sighed, though Sigismund made out the faint veneer of amusement that leaked into his tone.

'You are no good to me dead, my boy.' Feyerabend wheezed out the words.

Feyerabend approached, gait slower than even the previous day. Sigismund got the distinct sense that the count was going to die within the day, if not by the enemy lizardmen, then by whatever ailment had sapped his vigor away.

The count lifted a scroll. 'I have a name for our true enemy. This is...' He was forced to pause his talking, great hacking coughs having his body shuddering with such force it almost appeared as though he were being bludgeoned by the famed Ghal Maraz itself. Eventually, his harsh coughing passed, though whatever energy the count had before then was now truly drained away. He was leaning heavily against the wall. 'This scroll has everything I have learnt of...'—Another pause as yet more great wheezing coughs wracked the count's body—'I do not know if he is the one responsible for the undead... but this is everything I know of the one responsible for... for...'—This time, he didn't cough, he just leaned forward, retching, dry heaving. Once he had regained some small measure of strength, he straightened his posture as much as he was able—'Go back to your men. Find... find the one called Pugna Textrix.'

That seemed to be the last of whatever strength that Count Feyerabend had. He stumbled over to a nearby stool and fell upon it heavily, panting for breath as though he had run a marathon the entire length of the Reik Basin without pause.

The name wasn't one that was familiar to Sigismund, and a momentary sliver of doubt crawled down his spine. Who was this individual that his count was tasking him to find? How was he responsible for what was happening? How did Count Feyerabend know? That doubt was shunted and locked away rapidly. The captain's attention was redrawn to the count as he started to cough again with such force that it was almost like he was trying to get his lungs to escape his mouth.

'I should remain, protect you.' Sigismund protested the order, even as he clutched the scroll tightly in his hand.

'I'm already dead, look at me,' Feyerabend whispered hoarsely. 'I would have my death have meaning.'

'What meaning is there to dying to a band of mercenary Lustrians?'

Somehow the count was able to make his wheezing pants come across as a slight chuckle. 'If you only knew. Go, my boy... Take the passage and leave, get to your men. My final order: find Pugna Textrix, and kill him.'

'What of Cruniac?' Sigismund asked after a moment of hesitation. 'I've not seen him since you spoke to him.'

'He is... protecting my legacy. If all goes well, Efror will persevere. Efror did not end with Adelbrecht and it will not end with me or the fall of this keep.'

'And Fichte?'

The count's smile managed to convey satisfaction. 'Will not escape.'

After those last three words, the count closed his eyes and slumped. Only the barest rise and fall of his chest gave away the fact he hadn't simply died. Sigismund reached a hand forward but paused, warring with the desire to shake the count awake or to let him have his rest. His eyes drifted, looking out the narrow window and making out the lizardmen in the village. They were now at the inner gate which led to the walkway up to the motte, to the keep.

His loyalty and desire to keep the count who had all but raised him safe warred against the order he had been given. The final order—a dying wish, if the count was right about his life expectancy.

The blade sheathed at Sigismund's hip felt heavy, an heirloom that was supposed to be passed on to the count's heir and successor. But there was nobody left other than Fenchel, and Sigismund still wasn't certain what to feel about the count's now former ward. He wanted to believe that the boy had fled for his safety, but with everything going wrong at once, it was easy to assume that the boy had played his own role in affairs.

Why flee rather than come before the count or even Sigismund? Instead, he had fled without a word. It had been easy to believe the chaplain sporting the neck wound. There had been proof that the boy had gone mad. Would things have been different had Fenchel not fled as he had?

What was he to do now? Loyalty to the man or to the title? What was he to do? Stay and protect the man or obey the order of the count?

 

Assault on Feyerabend - Part 2​

The Old World – Ruins of the CIty of Efror, Middenland
-

Over a century ago, there once stood a city. It was never going to claim the same greatness that the likes of Nuln, Altdorf, or Middenheim could claim. It had neither the age for such prestige, the unique architecture, nor even the origins that the more commonly known and regarded cities of the Empire boasted.

But for having been built up as a work of passion by a little-known noble of not-so-great renown, a man who had been granted land and sought to build up that land into something to truly be proud of, Efror had become great in its own way. For two centuries, the city had built up, solidified itself as a bastion of the Empire. It had expanded, where once it had been a village with houses built from sticks and thatching, into a town of buildings of good solid oak, and into a vast walled city of stone and iron.

Atop a hill, at the heart of Efror from its earliest days until the moment it fell, stood a massive stone church dedicated to Ulric. It was around that church that the village of Efror had slowly expanded outward into a city, a capital of a county of the same name. History had long forgotten when that church had been built, by whose hands the foundations had been laid. Even before the land was granted, that church had stood there.

Maybe the church had existed since before even the time of Sigmar Heldenhammer, before his ascension to divinity. At this point, who could truly say?

Even now, with the city that had once come into existence with that church as its centre burnt down, the land long since reclaimed by the grips of nature, the husk of that church still lingered, still stood strong despite the damage caused that day. The walls still stood, proud and strong, stone bleached white and visible even through the cocoon of ivy that had climbed the structure. The doors might no longer exist, the roof might have a gaping hole, and everything valuable had long ago been looted and sequestered away by opportunists hunting the ruins for ill-gotten gains, but that church still stood. It was one of only two structures of the once proud city to still remain after the city had been razed.

The other structure to remain as a testament to the long-destroyed city was the castle that once marked the home and office of the Count of Efror. It had weathered worse than the church. Where the church of Ulric almost felt as though the nature around it hadn't buried it and removed it out of some form of respect for what it stood for, the old count's castle was standing against nature, fighting to remain despite the efforts of time.

Where the church, ruined as it may be, had an air of peace within its walls, as though Ulric held a presence there, a reminder that he was still watching over the lands and those who revered him, the air about the ruined castle was dark and foreboding. Much blood had been spilt in the City of Efror before it burnt, and most of that blood centred around that castle and the last man to call it his home.

That was it. That was all that remained of the city that once stood there. The surrounding lands were made up entirely of farmland. But those farms had at some point in the preceding months been destroyed, burnt down, and now left for the wilds to reclaim their hold on the land.

Ingwel exhaled softly. His eyes refused to move from the castle, even as he stood within the doorway to the ruined church. Ulric might not have been his god, but he held a respect for the various gods of the Empire. Just because they weren't his gods did not mean they didn't exist. Hopefully, that acknowledgement and respect would keep Ulric from smiting him as he stood within the church that had been dedicated to him.

It was amazing that the aura about the church was still so strong. Ingwel had memorised everything Solin had told him about the razing of Efror and the buildup. He knew full well what had happened within this church, what long-buried secret had been unleashed—at that thought, his eyes momentarily drifted to the hole in the roof, able to see through his awareness how the hole had been formed from something smashing out from the inside.

Chaos might not have been responsible for the Mad Count's actions, but it had fed upon those acts done in the name of grief and paranoia. Blood spilt had been greedily supped upon and death had fuelled death in turn.

Nearby, Captain Preda patted his Cold One absently even as his sharp eyes scanned the surrounding lands.

'Nothing here,' Preda finally rumbled out.

Ingwel hummed thoughtfully, turned his eyes back to the ruined old castle. 'We still haven't looked in there.'

Preda looked uncomfortable at the notion, and Ingwel noted that reaction with interest. He himself felt uncomfortable with the notion of going anywhere near that castle. The chilling air about the structure triggered a primal instinct to stay away, to not go near. Truth be told, that alone was motive for Ingwel to investigate. They were Children of the Gods; their kind could face the Ruinous Forces with nary a sliver of doubt where the Young Races would feel primal fears and know that they were looking upon some terrible thing that was, unfortunately, far greater than themselves.

The air about that castle was unnatural. While Ingwel had always had every intention of checking the interior, the air had managed to persuade him to leave it till last.

Preda's posture straightened, eyes narrowing as he focused past Ingwel's shoulder and at the Mad Count's castle. A low breath escaped the captain's nostrils.

'Marshal, look.' His voice was hushed.

Ingwel turned back to the castle and let out a startled curse and unconsciously took a step back, deeper into the church's interior. His hand patted at his coat, found the pocket where he had tucked his spyglass, and he carefully eased it out and extended the brass tube.

There was movement from the castle. It was far enough from the church that no details could be made out, but that was what the spyglass was for. The brass instrument was pressed to Ingwel's eye, and he directed the other end, focusing it toward that movement.

The castle's entrance wasn't facing the church; it was actually facing away from them at an angle. Had the church not been perched atop a hill just high enough to see over the curtain walls and into the courtyard, they might never have spotted what was happening. The portcullis had lifted itself. That had been what had managed to capture Preda's attention. But it was the following movement that had Ingwel's blood turn from its usual chill to a frozen slush.

From within the castle's keep and marching in long rectangular formations were undead. They were marching, ten abreast and a hundred deep. Then another formation of equal size. Through the gate, they marched, after which the front of the formation turned and led the army of undead in a desired direction. That direction didn't pass close to the church or the hill upon which it stood, for which Ingwel was immediately thankful.

The undead moved without the lumbering lurch typical of the reanimated dead. Had Ingwel not been able to make out the skeletal visages, he would have mistaken them for ragged-looking humans or humanoids, wearing worn armour and the colours of the Efror Guard.

The grace with which these undead masses moved triggered an uncomfortable sense of watching the uncanny. For the briefest of moments, Ingwel wished that Iycan was with him; the colonel would probably be able to pinpoint exactly what it was that made these undead in particular feel different from the typical lumbering zombies or skeletons.

'Why were they wearing the Efror colours?' Preda asked, his own spyglass pressed to one eye.

Ingwel didn't answer, too busy taking note of the direction that the undead horde was moving while pulling a map from his coat. He unfolded the cloth map and traced a finger from the spot where the ruins of Efror lay to the direction of the mass of reanimated dead.

'They're moving toward the Feyerabend Estate,' Ingwel spoke his realisation aloud, voice low, not quite a hiss but nearing that point.

Preda jolted as though somebody had just dropped an ice cube down the back of his coat. 'Coincidence?'

'I'm not going to gamble on that,' Ingwel answered. 'There were too many for us to fight, not unless we can find a clear advantage.' He wasn't just referring to Preda's cavalry unit and himself, but to the bulk of the Legion nearby. 'Major Boney didn't say the undead he fought at Tallow Farm were wearing Efror colours...'

Preda crossed his arms, watching the marching columns with a dark look in his eyes. 'He also said those ones were simple zombies. Those... felt different.'

Ingwel nodded, glad at the confirmation that it wasn't only he who had noticed something different about the large army marching away. 'Different parts of the same whole? Or separate forces?'

Preda shrugged a single shoulder and turned, looking at the innermost confines of the church's ruins. The rest of his cavalry unit were looking at the two officers from where they'd made their temporary camp deep within the church's interior.

Ingwel copied the captain's gaze. 'Captain, I need you to pick out your fastest rider. We need to warn Mort and Solin that they have an undead army of at least two thousand marching toward them.'

Preda nodded once, a single sharp nod, and pointed a finger toward a particular saurus, this one slightly smaller of stature than most of his brethren. Not that most young races would be able to tell, he still towered over the majority of humans. 'Yackl, mount up. We need you to run a message.'

The saurus, Yackl, stood sharply, clicking his tongue as he did so—the motion so rapid that Ingwel had a feeling that Yackl was still young enough that he was firmly ensnared by the geas. A Cold One stalked toward him, chirping softly and butting its head gently against Yackl's chest.

'Where am I going, and what's the message?' Yackl asked once he was halfway through the motion of mounting the large raptor.

Preda winced ever so slightly, possibly at the realisation that his wording had momentarily torn any ability to choose from the younger saurus. The captain turned to look at Ingwel, silently asking him to make the request.

'We need you to ride to the Feyerabend Estate ahead of the undead and warn Major Mort and Colonel Solin about the threat marching their way.'

Long experience meant that Ingwel didn't even need to think on how to word it without triggering the geas—while it was an order that Yackl wasn't allowed to refuse, he wanted the saurus to remain coherent and able to think beyond the confines of the order to deliver the message.

Yackl nodded once in understanding, though a moment of confusion clouded his eyes. That confusion quickly faded once he turned his head and took note of the still-visible columns of undead. Not that they were identifiable as such without a spyglass at that distance.

'Shall I also pass on where to meet up with the rest of the Legion?'

Ingwel nodded slowly. 'We'll meet back at Middenheim.'

Yackl quietly repeated the message he was to deliver. 'Understood,' Yackl said with a firm tone. 'By your leave?'

'Ride fast and stay safe,' Preda managed to say the words without a commanding tone. Judging from the fact that Yackl didn't immediately urge his Cold One forward, it had been enough to prevent the geas. Yackl nodded again in silent thanks and quietly clicked his tongue, which had the raptor slowly move forth under the direction of its rider. Once out of the church's empty doorframe, his heels tapped the raptor, which immediately picked up speed and sped down the hill.

Ingwel sighed softly and turned back to the interior of the church, where the rest of the cavalry unit was watching with undisguised interest. Time to rouse them up, they needed to move. No need to investigate the castle; the main point of interest they might have found had already departed.

If the graf of Middenheim wanted to investigate further once news had been passed on, then that was on him.


*


Solin arrived at the Feyerabend Estate with a cohort of saurus and a smaller group of skinks. While the saurus were in the typical redcoats of the Legion's uniform, the skinks were instead dressed with simple leather jerkins over red tunics and carried not muskets but bows. Trailing a few paces behind Solin was Boney.

'Question,' Boney spoke up as they neared the walls surrounding the bailey.

'Answer,' Solin said with a lightness to his voice. Then, without a pause to his stride, he turned his head to look at the skink major. 'Go ahead.'

Boney jerked his head toward the other skinks. 'Why do they not wear the coats?'

Solin hummed, turned his head back toward the lowered drawbridge. 'They're not usually involved in combat. They're the Freshbloods, our hunters. Got to feed the Legion somehow.'

Boney grunted in acknowledgment of the answer, but it added a new question to his mind. 'And you've brought hunters here because?'

Solin chuckled lowly. 'Because we're the ones who are going to be fighting in the corridors of the keep. Bows are better for that.' Solin stopped moving for a moment, turned to face Boney fully, though really it was so that the troops could catch up. 'Speed over power, they can use their bows at a quicker rate than muskets can be fired. Won't be so painful to listen to within stone corridors either.'

One of the skinks, who had at that moment caught up enough to catch that last comment, gave out a laugh. 'Doesn't smell nearly so terrible either. I don't know how they do it, must have lost all sense of smell from prolonged use of those booming monstrosities.'

Solin grinned toothily at the skink. 'It's not so bad; you're just being snooty.'

The skink snorted. 'You realise the smell is almost as bad as the noise when it comes to hunting for meat? Animals aren't stupid; they smell gunpowder, and they know they're being hunted. Arrows don't smell, don't make noise.'

'Yeah, which is why you're the hunters, not soldiers.' Solin shrugged, then tilted his head and amended with a quick, 'Except for certain occasions.'

'Got to remind those redcoats that we're just as capable with our bows as they are.'

One of the saurus huffed in amusement, pointedly looked at the sleeve of his red coat. 'My sword would like a word with you.'

'Ah, stuff it,' the skink chuffed, tongue flicking out in a long drawn-out motion. 'I'm talking about fighting at range and you know it, ya cad.'

The saurus gave a sound of mock hurt at the jab, hand moving to his breast as though reacting to an invisible arrow. Laughing quietly, Solin turned and continued to lead the group. As they neared the drawbridge, a chameleon skink appeared atop the wall to the side of the bridge, musket shouldered, though Solin was able to make out that the hammer hadn't yet been pulled back.

'Halt, who goes there?'

Solin gave the skirmisher an unimpressed look. 'Druchii, clearly.'

'Har de har, colonel.' The skink lifted the musket so that the muzzle was no longer pointed toward the group. 'If that were true, you're the prettiest dark elves I've ever seen.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' Solin said. 'Where's Mort?'

'The major is in the bailey village taking stock of the dead. We've taken the bailey and have the motte under siege. No word from the occupants that they're willing to surrender. Sharpe is organising the garrison of the bailey's walls. Once you're in, I'm ordered to lift the bridge.'

Solin craned his head to look toward the hill upon which the main keep was planted. 'How many casualties have there been?'

The chameleon let out a drawn-out breath. 'Us skirmishers? Two. Mort's regiments? I don't know, but it was bad. They had mortars and were willing to use them even while Mort's troops were engaged in melee.'

Solin sucked in a breath. 'That's... cold even for the Empire.'

The skirmisher nodded. 'The guard were weird too. It's like they don't feel anything, they're just... acting. If it wasn't for the fact that they're clearly breathing, clearly able to think for themselves, I would have thought we were fighting undead that hadn't yet rotted.'

Solin's posture stiffened. 'The chaplain was accused of controlling the count,' he reminded.

'Mort said the same thing.' The chameleon huffed out. 'Even if these are thralls, we can't not defend ourselves, we have to fight them.'

'Yeah,' Solin rumbled. 'I'll go meet with Mort. Carry on.'

The saurus continued into the village, followed closely by his command.


*


Mort carefully wrote down the name of the next of his saurus to be confirmed as dead. Once he had secured the exterior of the keep, formed an encircling siege of the stone structure, he had set others to start gathering the bodies that littered the field outside of the estate.

Their final rites would be performed once Solin arrived and entered into the keep with his unit. Best to do it while there was a clear moment; they couldn't take the bodies with them if something were to force them to move. They needed to perform those rites there and then, and then gather the ashes so that they could be cast to the sea for the journey home to Madrigal.

What a travesty, Mort snorted in disgust. Firing mortars into their own just as much as mine.

The dead guardsmen would likewise be burnt, but there would be none of the ceremony behind their cremation. A simple affair of chucking those bodies to the pyre so that they could not be used by those inclined to necromancy. A problem that Mort had never actually thought would be a relevant issue to the Legion before Daxweiler, just a duty because of a slim chance.

Sergeant Kaiika approached, his shield held over his head on the chance that some unseen archer took an opportunity.

'Major, the colonel has arrived.'

Mort nodded once, letting out a faint hum of acknowledgment. He finished writing down the next name, then carefully rolled the parchment and tucked it away for safekeeping.

'Lead on,' he ordered the sergeant.

Kaiika quickly guided Mort toward the gatehouse that marked the passage through the second of the three layers of defensive walls blocking passage to the keep—that particular wall cutting access to the slope leading up to the top of the hill where the large stone structure stood proudly. Solin was standing nearby, hadn't yet stepped through the open gate, crimson eyes looking instead at the flying bridge—lowered so that the constructed pathway that led to the hilltop at a shallower angle was accessible.

'Mort,' Solin greeted.

Simple and professional, Solin still considered the village to be a battleground and was therefore keeping their feud tucked away, so Mort did the same as he acknowledged the other saurus.

'What am I looking at?' Solin asked after a moment.

'We've only seen swordsmen and archers,' Mort explained after a moment. 'Mortars on the outermost walls, but they haven't had any gunpowder weapons on a small scale.'

Solin tilted his head in momentary consideration then nodded as he clearly came to some conclusion. 'Even back in the day, the Efror Guard didn't have any handgunners, probably too expensive for a minor count to buy in bulk from Nuln. Now Efror is a county of farmers, I doubt that they had a change in finances that would allow the count to stock up on them.'

Mort grunted in agreement—didn't fully understand, but if anyone would understand the logistical politics within the Empire, then Solin was no doubt the one who would have it memorised. 'What about crossbows?'

Solin's eyes narrowed in thought. 'They did use crossbows back then, but not on a large scale. But if you haven't seen any yet, I doubt we have to worry about them. Bows are simpler to craft, so the current Count of Efror, or the captain of the guard, might have decided to simplify their logistical demands.'

Mort shrugged a shallow shrug. 'I'll take your word for it.' His eyes lifted up to the hill and he jerked his head in silent invitation to begin moving up the inclined walkway.

As the pair walked, Mort was aware of the number of skinks and saurus following behind at a polite distance. None were in the uniforms of Mort's regiments, so they were clearly Solin's unit for taking the interior of the keep. The Eternity Warden angled his head to examine them, to see if any were recognisable to him. He instantly made out Boney; his feathered hat was an instantly recognisable feature, even if his scales were the typical turquoise that the warm-bloods seemed to be convinced was the only colour that lizardmen came in.

It was the other skinks that captured his attention quickly. They weren't in the coats typical of the majority of the Legion, though they were still wearing the red that had become the de facto colour of the Legion; simple red tunics worn beneath equally simple leather jerkins, breeches in a more natural colour. But what really captured his attention were their bows, held in loose grips.

'The Freshbloods?' he asked quietly. 'I thought you were joking.'

'Bows are better for interior fighting,' Solin answered. 'If they hadn't been available, I would have borrowed some of your skinks.'

Mort gave the other a significant look, to which Solin raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

'In the stone corridors of that keep, I'll take even the javelins over muskets. My hearing will thank me later.'

A sharp exhale through Mort's nostrils was the only hint he gave as to his amusement. They reached the gatehouse to the final wall, the one that encircled the level plateau atop the hill, the one that marked the final defence of the keep. Mort lifted his shield and held it over his and Solin's heads as they passed through into the courtyard. Bodies littered the ground, with opportunistic archers taking occasional shots at any within the keep's grounds. Mort's subordinates hadn't had the chance to clear the bodies away, not the bodies of their kin, not the bodies of the enemy.

'My troops have got a battering ram ready,' Mort explained, pointing with the hand not holding the shield toward the battering ram. It wasn't the greatest example ever made, but they hadn't had time to build a wheeled and roofed structure for it, no chains to pull back and use basic physics to help add power to each slam against the keep's doors. It was basically just a log with handholds added so that ten saurus could lift it with five on each side.

Solin's expression suggested that he was less than thrilled that he hadn't a bigger ram. Considering he wasn't voicing any opinions, he either acknowledged that it was likely the best he was going to get—it would take time to make a bigger ram and the structure to wheel it in, and in that time the walkway could get damaged from some sneaky ploy from the defenders—or else he was just restraining himself from any sarcasm because it wasn't the appropriate place or time. Solin lifted his gaze toward the keep, pointedly looking at the slits in the walls where the archers within had a clear shot.

Solin finally spoke. 'My saurus can use the ram if yours offer their shields while we work.'

Mort nodded, offering some protection was the least he could do, and he would have offered even if Solin hadn't said anything.

A jolt vibrated along Mort's arm; his shield jolted momentarily from the arrow his shield had intercepted. Moments later, one of Sharpe's skirmishers fired a shot at the slit that the arrow had presumably come from. There was no way to know whether or not the shot had hit the archer, but there wasn't an immediate follow-up, so either the archer had been hit or had just had their nerves shaken enough to deter them. Considering the strangely numbed expressions of each and every guardsman they'd fought so far, Mort was inclined to think that it was the former.

'Saurus,' Solin called out, ignoring the arrow that would have punctured his left eye had Mort's shield not been hovering overhead, 'grab that battering ram. We're taking this keep.'

'Primis,' Mort bellowed moments later. 'Shield the redcoats from the archers.'

There was no delay, no hesitation. Maybe some were still influenced by the geas, had lost all self-control at the direct orders from superiors, but that wouldn't have explained all of the saurus in the courtyard moving. No, the saurus were disciplined and had a cohesiveness that came from a lifetime of fighting and training side-by-side. The two oldbloods had given orders and even those old enough to still retain their free will had moved and obeyed with no hesitation.

Nine of Solin's saurus cohort moved to the ram, only nine because Solin led the way and took position at the front-most position of the ram, fingers encircling the grip that had been carefully screwed into the log. Mort quickly followed the other oldblood, keeping his shield over the colonel like it was an umbrella shielding him from rain.

'Lift on three,' Solin shouted once he knew that all other places at the ram had been filled. 'One. Two. Three.'

On that three, the ten saurus heaved, lifting the heavy log, heavy enough that it would have taken twice as many humans to perform the same feat. They paused a moment, during which the archers within the keep had clearly recognised the threat and started releasing arrows, the projectiles raining down in a dangerous storm that would kill any unlucky enough to be caught in the shower. Mort ground his teeth as at least a few punctured into his shield though none managed to breach all the way through. A stinging sensation on his forearm suggested at least one had punctured past the wood and was now stabbing into his flesh.

'Forward, go.' Solin snarled after a momentary look at Mort, eyes quickly zeroing in on the arm that kept the large shield held aloft. 'Step. Step. Step.'

With each repetition of the word “step,” the saurus cohort took a single footfall in sync with each other, using the rhythm of Solin's chant to keep themselves in tune with their neighbours.

More arrows came down. One of Solin's saurus grunted in pain, and Mort twisted his head to see that the saurus in question had an arrow sticking out of his thigh.

'Tehec, check your shield's position, you're leaving a gap!'

Tehec, looking suitably chastised for his mistake, re-angled the shield, plugging the gap that Mort had been able to see. A quick mental note was made to have Primis Regiment run drills once they were back with the rest of the Legion. That gap had been inexcusable.

The ram neared the large solid oaken doors that marked the entrance into the keep proper. It was fortunate that the ram wasn't needed for any of the gatehouses, else they would have needed to spend the time building a larger wheeled ram. However, being only the entrance door, reinforced as it was, it was still easier to breach than the purpose-built gatehouses.

'Charge the door in three,' Solin called out, a warning and order in equal measure. Mort braced himself, the hand not holding up his shield coming down to rest on Solin's shoulder, a tether to guide him as he focused on keeping his shield up while running at full speed. 'One. Two. Three!'

Again, at the countdown's end, the saurus under Solin's command charged, snarling and rearing back the ram even as they ran. They crossed what remained of the courtyard's length, running through the hailstorm of loosed arrows. At five paces from the large door, the ram started to swing forward, the saurus putting their strength into the swing even as they still hadn't finished their sprint. The brass end attached to the ram connected with the doors, the sound of the impact a loud crack of thunder.

'Back up, step, step, step!'

At Solin's urging, the ram was pulled back until it was ten paces from the door, and then the oldblood gave a roar of 'Charge!' which had them sprint forward again, bringing the ram's head into the oaken barrier. Again, thunder cracked at the impact, the door shook, vibrating as it struggled to remain intact with ten saurus slamming a tool specially designed to bring down such barriers.

'Again!' Back, step, step, step!

As they backed up, a musket barked, shouts could be heard from within the keep, the first sign of emotion the humans had shown since Mort had arrived. Once more, the ram met the door. And again. And again.

Until finally, the oak splintered and cracked, and a final charging crash reduced the doors to splinters. Just the other side of where the doors had once stood, three swordsmen readied their blades but were quickly shot down by the skink hunters who had been waiting for that moment. The arrows pierced through the chainmail, the armour unable to block the narrow bodkin arrowheads which had been designed and made with the purpose of penetrating armour.

The ram was dropped carelessly, no longer needed. Solin moved a hand to the hilt of his zweihänder, though he didn't immediately charge forward, waiting for the skinks to finish firing their arrows through the opening.

'Go, take the keep.' His order was projected for all under his command to hear.

As one, the saurus and skinks under his leadership formed up into two groups, one seemingly under the leadership of Major Boney, the other under the command of Captain Kro-Loq. Once they had all passed through the open entrance, Solin made to follow.

Mort patted him on the shoulder before he took a single step. Solin tilted his head, looking at the Eternity Warden with a curious slant to his eyes.

'Quetli watch over you.'

Solin's eyes half-lidded in a grin. 'And Quetzl watch your back.'

And with that, Solin charged into the keep to catch up to his subordinates.


*


Boney held his sabre carefully, keeping the lessons from Captain Yen in mind, grip firm but not too much so. The sword instructor had disarmed him a good few times before Boney had managed to get the grip just right, and Yen had made it clear that there was still room to improve even on something so basic, but had at least acknowledged that now the major wasn't going to be killed in his first serious clash of blades.

Something about the interior of the keep felt... cold, but not in the sense of the temperature being cold. There was a chill that seemed to grate upon Boney's spine, made him want to shiver despite his kind not typically doing such. It also made him want to cleanse himself in a spring, bathe until this chill stopped making him feel like he was tainted.

'I don't like this place,' one of the skink hunters hissed softly, arrow in one hand, bow in the other. The skink's eyes were constantly roving to each corner of the entrance hall, taking in the various other doorways leading from the hall deeper into the keep.

One of the saurus hissed something under his breath, moved to the nearest door and pressed himself to the wall to its side. He fixed his eyes upon the skink who had spoken with a silent request visible to his gaze. The hunter positioned himself and pressed the end of his arrow against the string of his bow, didn't pull back yet though. The saurus twisted at the door's latch and shoved the door open while keeping himself aside from the new opening.

It saved his life. No sooner had the door swung open than an arming sword swung down in a chopping motion that would have, if not killed the saurus who opened the door, certainly would have made an effort at cleaving a limb from him.

The skink archer pulled back his arrow and released it quickly. There was a grunt of pain from the other side of the door, followed by a gargling.

'Got him.' The skink's tone was smug.

'Nice work,' Boney said, though it was more of a mumble. He still managed to make himself heard though; the hunter beamed at him in return.

From behind them, Solin stalked forward, hand still rested on the yet-to-be-drawn zweihänder at his back. Boney wondered if the reason that the colonel had yet to draw his blade had anything to do with its length versus the comparatively narrow corridors they were moving through.

The oldblood's eyes didn't show annoyance at the walls that were surely inhibiting his ability to swing his blade, however.

Captain Kro-Loq visibly straightened as Solin neared. Solin paused, took in the various exits with a raised brow ridge. After a moment, he gave a light shrug.

'Crow, take your cohort and you take that exit.' The oldblood pointed at one of the doors seemingly at random. 'Boney, you take yours and go the opposite direction. If either of you find stairs—up or down—send a runner back here and Mort can organise a chain of communication.'

As he spoke, he gestured back toward the now permanently open exit to the keep, where Mort's saurus had formed a phalanx preventing any attempt at exiting without express permission. Mort himself was in the middle of the phalanx, and his stoic expression gave nothing away.

'What about you?' One of the saurus asked.

Solin shrugged in seeming apathy, though his eyes were hard, serious in a way that his projected image of himself wasn't. 'I'll be supervising. If you shout I'll probably hear, this isn't that large a keep.'

Boney hummed absently, already in the motion of gesturing to his cohort to move toward the exit that Solin had directed him to. 'Saurus, take the front, leave gaps between you for the skinks to see and shoot through.'

It was strangely cathartic to have orders obeyed so swiftly. It wasn't like his expedition when he'd left to go to Tallow Farm: the skinks he'd travelled with at that time had been friendly, treated him as such whilst they also gently tutored him. This time, he hadn't built that rapport in advance, he hadn't caught any names, other than the captain leading the other cohort, and his order was instantly acted upon.

He breathed in, quickly reminding himself that he wasn't some all-powerful overlord. They trusted him to look out for them as much as to coordinate them. If they felt Boney was making a wrong call, he had no doubt they'd be all too swift to tell him where he could stick his orders.

The first real resistance came when one of the leading saurus started to round a corner but quickly jerked back in time to avoid an arrow which splintered against the stone wall behind where he would have been had he not reacted in time.

'Three bowmen,' the saurus hissed softly.

One of the skink hunters notched an arrow and pulled back and gave a significant look to another who quickly followed his example. 'On your word, major.'

Boney nodded, then hissed out in Saurian permission to do as they will. Moments later, cursed softly and repeated the order in Reikspiel. The two hunters gave amused chuffs, and twisted around the corner, bowstrings tensed from the force they were being pulled back. Both of the skinks released their arrows, flinched back as the archers on the other side did the same. The three arrows that were launched toward the pair of hunters missed, though one came close to grazing the top of one's head—if Boney were to guess, the human archers had expected saurus to appear again and were aiming high in anticipation of the taller threat.

There was a crashing sound. Only the one.

'I think I was the one that missed,' one of the hunters hissed softly, scales darkening in embarrassment.

'Not your fault,' the first hunter reassured him. 'Not like we had time to properly aim.'

Even as the pair spoke, they were notching their next arrows.

'Were those longbows or recurve? I didn't get a chance to look.'

'Looked like longbows to me.'

Both twisted around the corner again, bows held up and let loose their arrows. There was another crash, while both skinks were quick to retreat the moment they'd released their grips on their arrows. Another pair of arrows smashed against the stone wall behind them.

'I was the one that missed this time.'

'Yes, how dare the humans learn to relocate?' There was an amused tinge to the words. 'Sotek forbid that humans actually use the intelligence they were gifted with in combat.'

Again the pair twisted around launched their arrows and shouted out in victory as, judging by the sound of a body hitting the ground, they'd finished the last archer.

'Oh, we both got him.'

'Huh... good shot.'

Boney shook his head in bemusement. 'You certain?'

'"Are we certain," he asks.' One of the hunters chuckled. 'One arrow through the chest, one in the eye.'

Boney suppressed a wince at the revelation of an arrow going through an eye, the mental image making him feel slightly squeamish. Decapitations, disembowelment, or any other unfortunate death, Boney could stomach, but the idea of something hitting the eye? He suppressed a second shudder.

'Move up.'

The saurus stepped into the corridor, sabres held in defensive postures. Though their backs were to Boney, he had a feeling that their eyes were constantly moving to the doors that dotted the walls on either side of the corridor. Once they neared the first such door, they paused. One of the saurus looked back to Boney, who had advanced only a step behind the larger reptiles. There was an unspoken question in the gaze, and Boney translated it easily.

Boney in turn made a quick gesture toward the hunters, who all aimed their bows toward the other doors further down as well as the end of the corridor.

'Do it.'

At Boney's quiet permission, the saurus closest to the door threw it open and moved in, quickly followed by another. There was a shout, and then the clash of two blades meeting. Boney slid through the door, his own sabre at the ready.

A quartet of swordsmen were trying to fight back against the two saurus. Despite outnumbering the large reptiles, the two humans were unable to fight past the saurus's defence, sabres deflecting any strikes of the arming swords that came near. But conversely, the four humans were putting their kite shields to good use, managed to keep them safe from any attempt that might be made on them, as well as used to deny the saurus any chance to manoeuvre around them.

Behind Boney, another saurus stepped through the doorway. A quick hand gesture managed to convey Boney's intention to the newcomer—at least, Boney hoped it had; he wasn't paying attention to the saurus, had stopped the moment he identified who had appeared behind him—and he swiftly darted forward before the humans could properly register his existence.

The nearest human quickly noticed Boney's rapid circling advance, but the skink was quick and had timed his movement for the moment that human was distracted by a saurus swinging a sabre at him. The sound of the sabre meeting the shield rang the air, but Boney ignored it, swung his sword in an arc which met the back of the human's knee. The blade failed to penetrate the chain links of the swordsman's chausses, but the impact was felt. The human's leg buckled, he dropped to one knee, one hand automatically reaching out to steady himself. It was an opening that was quickly exploited by the saurus he'd been facing. The point of the sabre punctured through the links of the coif and penetrated into the throat of the human, but then being pulled free in order to deflect a sword stroke from another of the swordsmen. The human with the hole in his neck—rapidly leaking his life fluid and gargling what might have been words but could have just as easily been the sound of air leaking through the new opening—slumped to the ground.

Another of the swordsmen was killed when the saurus who'd entered behind Boney had managed to circle around and thrust his blade into the spine of the unfortunate human.

The two remaining humans moved together and slammed the broad sides of their swords against their shields in silent challenge. Thus stood back-to-back, they prepared to continue fighting against what must have surely been seen as an inevitable defeat.

To their credit, they did continue to last a surprising period of time. Instead of five seconds, it took about thirty to finally breach their defences. But it was a battle they were never going to win.

Back in the corridor, the rest of the cohort had continued to move up, pausing at each door long enough for two or three saurus to enter in an effort to make certain that there were none waiting to jump out and attack them from behind. As each room was deemed safe, the saurus would exit, rejoin the bulk of the cohort and continue the advance.

Boney moved to join another door, entering with the initial two saurus. This room must have been the library, shelves stacked with books lined two of the three walls, the third wall had a fireplace, though there was no flame within, long neglected into extinguishing itself if there had been before the siege had begun. Over the mantelpiece was a large painting, a landscape with a city of tall towers of white rock.

On another wall hung a portrait of a human male. The subject of the painting was a tall man—though being that the painting had no way of accurately conveying the scale, Boney couldn't say for certain if that assessment was truly accurate—with middling dark-brown shoulder-length hair and a thick beard that trailed down to his chest. The man had piercing eyes, which were the exact shade of grey that almost looked more like a vivid blue. He was garbed in plated armour with a furred collar. The figure held a longsword, the tip rested against the ground while his hand rested upon the pommel.

Seconds after he had taken in the details, Boney turned, followed his cohort from the chamber to continue on.


*


Sigismund listened to the bursts of violence that echoed across the stone walls. His hand rested upon the lever which would open the passage that could lead him to safety, an exit that the attackers wouldn’t have known of. His order had been clear: he was to go; he was to return to his men. He was to track down somebody called Pugna Textrix. Not a name of one from the Empire.

It would be like seeking a needle, a needle hidden not in a haystack but in the realms of Chaos.

He wanted to ask more, know who exactly this Pugna Textrix was and why the count had made his dying order to be the death of this individual. Was he the one responsible for the count's failed health? Was he behind Fichte? Questions-questions-questions.

Another bout of violence washed over him, the sounds of blades singing and shouts of aggression.

His fingers tightened on the lever, arm tensed, ready to pull. And then, with a snarl of fury, he pulled himself back and turned. Damn his orders; Count Feyerabend needed him. He was not going to leave the man to die surrounded by enemies on all sides. He should have sought out and killed Fichte the moment the count had revealed that the chaplain was responsible for his failing health. He would have done so, should have done so. He would have made the traitor feel agony in his last gasping moments.

There was still time to correct that mistake.

He stomped towards the court hall, hand now wrapped about his blade's hilt.


*


By and large, the clearing of the keep was without trouble. The majority of its defenders had been outside of the keep, whether in the village or the field outside the walls being mortared by their own defences.

Boney found himself standing before large double doors, his cohort lined and ready for the moment they entered. The skink major inhaled a deep breath and nodded at the two saurus on either side of the doors. At his un-worded command, the pair grabbed the handles and tugged, forced the doors open. The moment the barrier had an opening wide enough to allow any to pass through, the saurus started to trail through, closely followed by the skink hunters and Boney himself.

One of the saurus was immediately killed when a trio of arrows buried themselves in his chest, while a second got away with only a single arrow to his thigh, and a third managed to escape with only a cut where the arrow had grazed his forearm.

The hunters immediately loosed their own arrows at the archers who lined the large court hall's sides. There was a moment, after the skinks had fired their first barrage, where everything seemed to still, as though everybody needed a moment to decide what happened next. The moment passed, and amongst the members of the Legion, there was an unspoken agreement on how to divide the threats between them.

The saurus members of the cohort turned to the left wall and charged, while the hunters grabbed their next arrows and turned their bows toward the archers lining the right wall.

One of the leading saurus managed to swat an arrow from the air that would have punctured his chest, and then leapt with a feral snarl. His sabre came down, cleaving through the archer who had shot at him, had him fall to the ground in two pieces. The other saurus weren't so dramatic on their charges but were no less lethal for it, managing to reach their targeted prey in short time with minimal injury, blades blurred in lethal arcs.

At the same time, the hunters fired a rapid barrage of arrows at the opposite side's archers, though they weren't stationary as they pulled back their arrows. The hunters were moving, spreading themselves out. It wasn't like the archers who were charged at, the skinks had no way of knowing who was aiming for which human. As a consequence, those archers were often peppered with multiple arrows.

Meanwhile, Boney advanced down the hall, eyes fixed upon the figure sat upon an oversized chair, probably what passed for a throne for a count. The man sat upon that throne was a wretched thing that looked as though he were already one step from entering the realm of Morr, but his eyes were clear, sharp, and focused squarely upon Boney. It was quite likely that this was Count Feyerabend. On either side of this feeble-looking figure were four swordsmen.

The swordsmen acted without any sign that the count intended for them to do so. Their blades were clanging against their shields as they started to advance, forming into a phalanx. For the briefest moment, Boney wished that he had mastered the ability to cast an arc of lightning that would trail from one foe to another. As it stood, he wasn't convinced he could take on eight swordsmen by himself, and his favoured blast of wind was less useful a spell whilst confined to the insides of a keep. Not that he couldn't cast it, but it would be far weaker than was useful.

An arrow slammed into the shield of one of the swordsmen. In response to the ranged threat, the swordsmen ceased their rapping of blade against shield and hunched low, covering as much of themselves behind their shields as they could. Another arrow connected with the conical helmet of one of the swordsmen, but unfortunately failed to puncture the steel and bounced away, clattering to the ground.

As the saurus, now finished with the archers on their side of the hall, started to regroup and form their own line, Boney inhaled. The Winds of Magic were saturating the air, energy ripe for use, he just couldn't cast his preferred spell in a meaningful manner. And he absolutely did not want to sit back and let his cohort do all the work.

The chill in the air gave an idea, and he inhaled again, pulling in the Winds. In the enclosed space of the keep's interiors, he couldn't weaponise the wind on its own, but there was another use. He pulled at the air, shaped it, harnessed it and pulled.

The air turned frigid. Behind Boney, the very air froze into shards of ice, which were then nudged, pushed forward so that they flew forth and pelted against the swordsmen, sharp edges cutting and forcing the humans to look away lest they risk their eyes and...

And...

Boney yelped, the unfamiliar and unpractised use of magic surging, threw off his grip upon the Winds and the energy vibrated in his very core, numbing him even as he hurriedly dispelled the magics before the surge could get worse. There was still a jolt to his nerves, a momentary sensation of his spine being stretched and then snapped taut.

The skink panted, shaking his head as the feeling of numbness blinded his senses to the Winds. He was quickly reminded of why trying to use an unpractised spell was a terrible idea. He'd been fortunate: a draining of energy as he'd suffered was one of the milder results of a miscast. Once the numbness faded, there was likely going to be a headache bordering on a full-on migraine, but that was still better than the very Winds he was harnessing exploding with all the force of a beam of Chotek.

He wasn't certain if his cohort had noticed. The spell might not have run its full course, but even the partial success that Boney had managed before he'd been forced to dissipate the energies was sufficient enough a distraction for the swordsmen to get cut down with minimal effort from the swiftly moving saurus who circled around and attacked the unprotected flanks of the eight swordsmen.

Judging from one of the hunters lightly patting Boney's shoulder, at least one had noticed his miscast. A look at the skink in question had the hunter simply shake his head lightly in a silent promise not to draw attention.

The frail figure still sat in his throne, clapping his hands. Once, twice, then he doubled over with a heaving cough that made Boney's chest ache in sympathy.

'Congratulations. Just as your kind destroyed Efror a century ago, now you repeat history.'

Ignoring the clumps of wool muffling his thoughts, Boney approached the count. 'This doesn't have to end with your death.'

The count grinned a sickly smile, yellowed and crooked teeth on display. 'It ends with my death regardless of what happens next. I am on borrowed time, little lizard.'

Boney's eyes rolled at the condescending tone, though he quickly regretted that act as it caused his eyes to throb in time to his heartbeat. He resisted the urge to clutch at his forehead, the numbness fading quicker than he had anticipated, couldn't show weakness, not here.

A door behind the throne slammed open, and a new figure stormed into the hall. Boney recognised him easily, despite the absence of the chainmail coif he'd been wearing back at the chapel's ruins. The warrior clearly recognised him in turn, his eyes narrowed, and his face twisted into a snarl. And he charged.

Boney barely managed to bring his sword up in time to block the cleaving slice from the longsword that the human now held instead of the simple arming sword he'd had before. A second barely parried blow had Boney's arm ache as it vibrated from the force. A third attack, this one a downward chop, again Boney barely managed to block the blade in its path, brought his offhand up to support his resistance against the pressure that continued to push down at his sabre, barely keeping the gleaming edge of the larger sword from continuing down until it reached his flesh.

The human slammed a foot into Boney's chest with such force that the skink found himself laying flat on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to work out where the transition was from standing to prone.

The whistle of an arrow mid-flight drew Boney's mind back to the moment, and he watched as the human warrior managed to swing the blade and swat not just one arrow fired at him but three. The human's teeth were bared in a snarl, his eyes fixed themselves to Boney, and he lunged. Once more, Boney managed to bring his sabre up, didn't have time to marvel at how he had managed to keep a firm grip while being knocked down. Redirected the lunged thrust, but the human twisted his blade and managed to wrest the sabre from Boney's grip, sent the blade clattering off to one side.

The human was forced to refocus for a moment as two of the saurus lunged at him. With deft feet, the human twisted around the first saurus, slamming his pommel into the back of his head. The second saurus's sabre was blocked by the shield the human still carried. The shield was then thrust forward so that it slammed into the lizardman's face with a crack.

Boney tried to clamber to his feet, but the numbness in his limbs made his movement sluggish. He barely caught sight of the stunned saurus who'd taken the shield to his face back-pedal enough to avoid being killed by a vicious slash, though it was not enough to escape unscathed; a stream of blood started to cascade from his hip.

The human's attention was refocused on Boney just as he'd finally gotten to his feet. Their eyes met, and the human moved, swinging his blade in a blow that Boney knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was about to decapitate him.

The blade made a metallic clanging sound as it met resistance that hadn't been there moments before.

Boney blinked, taking in the sight of the sword that had been moments from ending his life, and the azure metal of the zweihänder, which had just spared him that fate.

When Boney turned his head to see the owner of the greatsword, he was startled to see Solin's expression. There was no calm, no stoic mask, nor relief at his managing to save the skink. No, his eyes were fixed on the human, and they were narrowed in anger. His tail was curled, coiled, and almost shaking with the amount of tension in the appendage.

The blades parted when Solin shifted his stance and pushed with enough force that the human took a few steps back before managing to regain his balance.

'Sssstand down,' Solin ordered, but his voice was different; no longer was he maintaining a similar accent to the humans of the Provinces, this was a pure Madrigalian accent spoken in Reikspiel.

And Boney found himself promising that he would never do anything to have that voice turned on him. That was a voice of final warning, the last chance before the full fury of its owner was brought down upon the recipient.

The human took another step back, eyes widened momentarily. He recovered quickly and examined Solin, posture tense. After three seconds, he moved his shield in a peculiar manner, as though miming blocking an attack coming at his right. He repeated the motion several times before his face twisted and he started to pull at the straps that kept his shield fastened to his arm. It was a matter of moments later that the shield was discarded.

'Sigismund, stand down,' the count spoke up, trying for an authoritative tone but his efforts were undercut by another hacking cough.

The warrior, Sigismund, now free of his shield, grabbed the sword with a two-handed grip and focused solely upon Solin, who hadn't moved in the slightest since he'd forced the human back. Now that he wasn't more preoccupied with surviving swings from the sword, Boney was able to properly see it, and he recognised it. It was the same sword from the painting in the library: a brilliant silvered steel sword that was almost a mirror in how reflective it was, a cruciform hilt, and its pommel was shaped into a boar's head.

'I imagine quite a few of your foes have been felled because they failed to notice that.' The human spoke his first words since entering the hall.

Solin adjusted his grip on his weapon and tilted his head in silent inquiry.

Sigismund pointedly looked upon Solin's hands. 'You're left-handed.'

Solin let out a faint huff. 'You'd be surprised how few notice that.' His voice was contained once more behind the previous mix of a Marienburgese and a Reiklandish accent. But his posture didn't change, and his eyes were still narrowed in anger.

Sigismund grunted and adjusted his stance, brow creased as he continued to examine the Oldblood.

'Sigismund, I order you to stand down!' There was a surprising burst of strength from the count this time, no hacking cough. 'That is the one who slew the Mad Count.'

Solin finally looked away from Sigismund to cast his eyes upon the count. That was all Sigismund needed to charge forth in hopes of catching the Oldblood off guard. Solin leaned back, avoided the swing, then stepped forward, swinging his zweihänder so that the pummel met Sigismund's chest. Sigismund stumbled, eyes widened in a confused stupor. That stupor turned to fear as he barely ducked beneath a cleaving swing from Solin. He staggered back to put a measure of distance between them, eyes now appraising not Solin but his blade.

Solin tilted his head again, adjusted his grip so that his left hand was no longer on the hilt but instead gripped just beneath the twin lugs a third of the way up the blade. Sigismund cursed and adjusted his own stance, eyes constantly switching between Solin's feet and his hands.

Boney watched, feeling his breath still. Even in that moment when they were not meeting blades, there was a sense that they were still battling. Solin shifted his feet, adjusted his stance, and in turn, Sigismund did the same as both seemed to try to outfight the other before they’d even had their blades meet in a clash, as though the stances they were in would be the deciding factor. A shifted stance would have the other reorient their own into something perceived as a better match.

Boney didn't know much about swordsmanship beyond the basics, hadn't had time yet to learn much. But this was not how he pictured a fight between two masters of their respective blades, yet somehow felt rawer.

Finally, the pair moved, the blades met each other, and then Solin twisted, shifted his body, and slid his blade down the length of Sigismund's. The human, in turn, angled his own blade and pivoted, which positioned the point of his sword so that it now aimed for Solin's thigh, to which he pulled down, moving the blade to stab.

Except the Oldblood stepped forward, pushed his own blade against that of Sigismund, and forced the tip of the human's blade away, in turn, making Sigismund stop pulling down lest he leave his own neck unprotected.

Four seconds of repeated micro-movements and attempts to get past the bind. It came to an end when Solin pushed his blade so that neither blade was in a position to do harm to the other, and before Sigismund could work out why the saurus had deliberately forced the weapons into a position that favoured neither of them, he was quickly reminded that he was not duelling against a human but a lizardman. One whose tail had been coiled the entire time with the same tension as a ballista pulled taut.

Sigismund gagged out a startled breath as a limb of pure muscle whipped into his chest with enough force to have him stumble back, trying to get the breath stolen back into his lungs. In that all-too-brief time, Solin had stepped forward, latched one hand onto the wrist of Sigismund's dominant arm, and twisted, disarming the human before then slamming their heads together. Sigismund fell to the ground with a groan.

'Good fight,' Solin commented, angling his blade so that it would only take a single thrust to end the life of the floored human. His voice was still cold.

Sigismund moved, looking like he was about to try and climb to his feet regardless, though the slightest of wiggles from the zweihänder had him still as it dawned on him that he was now completely at the mercy of the saurus.

‘Stop this now!’ the count roared, finally pulling himself to his feet. He managed three steps before his weakness caught back up with him, heaving forward, gasping for a breath that failed to fuel him, while thick bile leaked from his mouth with each exhale.

The smell of the bile had Boney gagging. The rapidly forming puddle turned from yellow-green to a dark red as more than just bile started to dribble from the count’s mouth.

It took twenty seconds of gasping heaving breaths before the count regained enough strength to speak again. Tellingly, he didn’t try to advance again. ‘Sigismund, I told you to leave. There is no need for you to die with me.’ He lifted his arms in a gesture toward himself. ‘I am already dead, I told you that already.’

Sigismund made to get up, but was again reminded of the zweihänder readied to run him through. ‘My lord,’ he growled from the floor, twisting his head to be able to look upon the count.

The count ignored Sigismund, turning his attention to Solin. ‘Let him go, please. I need him to…’ Another bout of gut-wrenching coughs wracked the human’s body.

Whatever the count planned to speak of, it was lost to the ages. Before Boney’s eyes, the count visibly withered, his flesh decaying away at a rate far too rapid to be natural. After the skin had rotted into non-existence, the skeletal remains swayed on the spot then tipped forward, slammed into the ground, and seemed to disintegrate into dust, leaving behind just the soiled clothing laid upon the puddle of bile and blood that still stained the floor.

Sigismund howled a deep anguished scream. Indifferent to the blade threatening him, he scrambled to his feet and scurried to the remains of the count, hands reaching as though planning to grab the non-existent body, or the clothing. He stopped just shy of actually touching the clothing. His chest heaved, his expression twisted into a mix of hatred and despair.

Solin rested his blade back upon his shoulder. His expression was still closed, eyes still narrowed, attention still affixed to the human.

‘What was he trying to say?’ Boney wondered, barely aware that he’d voiced his curiosity aloud.

Sigismund shot a baleful glare at Boney, only stopped when Solin stepped closer to the skink with a pointed glare of his own.

‘How should I know?’ Sigismund finally ground out.

Behind them, the doors slammed open. Boney jumped, startled at the echoing thud, hadn’t even been aware that the doors had shut at any point after he and his cohort had entered into the hall. Everybody turned, attention drawn to the open doors, and the figure that stood in their place.

Boney wasn’t an expert in humans and their appearances. He’d been able to tell that the count was withered and unwell, had almost been able to smell the stench of death about the man from the moment that Boney had entered the hall.

The man that now stood at the doors to the hall staring at the scene, he had a similar not-quite smell to him, but other than some details that felt off to him, nothing about this new human had the same look of death grasping its claws into him. Skin was flaky, one eye looked larger than the other, but not so much so that it made a real difference to his appearance, and his hair greyed hair was thinning.

‘Fichte!’ Sigismund shouted on recognising the man. The warrior pivoted around, straightening his back as though trying to look larger. His mouth was twisted into an angered sneer. ‘Fichte, you bastard.’

The newly appeared human, Fichte apparently, placed a hand over his chest and gave a mocking gasp, before his expression tightened. ‘What a waste of time this has been.’ He spoke with a simpering tone. ‘You couldn’t do one job, captain. I needed the boy back here, and you failed. Somehow you brought a war to our door.’

Sigismund laughed mockingly. ‘I did no such thing. The boy got the ear of the Graf of Middenheim. Whatever he had to say about you has brought attention to the county.’

Fichte blinked. For the time it took for a heart’s beat, there was a look of confusion. It was swiftly locked away behind a stoic façade, but Boney knew what he saw. Fichte let the silence following the comment linger, then scanned the hall.

‘Where is our esteemed count, captain? Where has he hidden himself?’

‘You mock me!’ Sigismund bellowed, taking a step toward the chaplain. In doing so, he unintentionally stopped blocking the sight of the count’s death.

Fichte’s eyes locked onto the puddle of bile and blood and dust, and the clothing that was laid soaking within. His eyes narrowed and then widened. He didn’t even try to hide the panic that painted itself upon him, though Boney very much doubted that Sigismund was in the frame of mind to notice. That or Sigismund would assume that it was in regards to the captain’s fury.

‘No… nonono!’ The chaplain’s head pivoted left to right, took in the others in the hall with him and Sigismund, the skinks all aiming their bows at him, the saurus with sabres held at the ready. A snort leaked out from the human’s nostrils, and he managed to rein in his panic enough to compose himself. He inhaled. Exhaled. ‘My life is now forfeit. But damned if I am not killing all of you first.’

At the clear threat, one of the skink hunters released an arrow at Fichte. The human lifted a hand, and the projectile bounced off of nothing, then he adjusted his palm’s facing and a gust of blue and pink fire burst forth, shot across the hall and wrapped itself around the skink who had tried to kill him. The skink screamed in pain, a scream that was quickly cut short.

Boney flinched back. He ignored the scent of burnt flesh, favouring instead to look to the ground until his eyes came to rest upon his sabre, lying where it had landed after he’d been disarmed. He scrambled forward and grabbed it, shouting out a warning.

‘Horror.’

He’d never seen the spell but had been warned of the potential threat it represented. Those incinerated by the fell flame would be twisted into a slave of the Ruinous forces. True to what he’d been told, once the flame subsided, where there had been a skink was now a small deformed creature with luminous pink flesh, four spindly arms, and yet it looked nothing like what was described, for its form was a constantly twisting and undulating mass. But what had been described was also the most common shape that it seemed to return to with semi-regularity.

Its cruel eyes were locked upon Boney. The chittering daemon hopped on the spot, and Boney was forced to dive as a jet of eldritch fire projected itself at him. He felt the heat, close enough that he smelt the linen of his shirt heat near to the point of igniting.

Solin let out a hiss. His foot made a sweeping motion, and Sigismund’s blade was sent sliding to its owner’s feet. In response, Sigismund snatched the weapon from the ground, armed himself.

The Pink Horror was quickly subjected to a barrage of arrows from the surviving hunters. After the fifth arrow, its form crumpled, twisted, and split itself down the middle, forming two smaller Blue Horrors where before there had been a single pink. The Blue Horrors let out identical chortles and ran at the nearest targets, more of the skinks.

One leapt, latching onto an unfortunate hunter with its four arms. It continued to cackle while the skink shouted in pain and tried to force it from his person. The pained shouts grew more panicked as the seconds ticked past, and then there was a loud cracking sound, followed by a wet squelch and a cessation of the pained scream. The daemon didn’t get a chance to revel in its kill; while it was still admiring the crushed skull of the hunter, one of the saurus charged, cleaving his blade through the daemon.

Fortunately, Blue Horrors didn’t seem to share the trait of their pink counterparts and split into more daemons on death.

Unfortunately, there was still a second Blue Horror, which, having failed to catch any skinks—a combination of distance and the skinks rapidly back-pedalling away—chose to avenge its twin and leapt at the saurus. Unlike the first, this one didn’t latch onto its target. Rather, the moment it made contact with the saurus, it exploded, turning into a miasma of swirling colour and energy.

The saurus gagged and retched as the energy washed over him. Soon the hall was filled with the sounds of bones splintering and cracking as they powdered and turned to clay, shaped by the corrupting influence of Chaos. In moments, where there had been a saurus, there was instead a wretched creature that had no mind, no will of its own, just a burning need to hate, and to destroy, maim, kill. A tumour-laden arm swept to one side, knocking aside a saurus and sending the large lizard flying. The mutant wretch let out a ghastly wail, a mixture of pain, fury, and despair all tied into that one high-pitched scream of agony. It lunged toward the downed saurus, saddled his prone body and started to slam its meaty appendages down, again and again, with earth-shaking force, the tiles beneath the pair cracking with the force of each impact.

The mutant was euthanised quickly. Another two saurus, these prepared for the threat, came forward to put it down while arrows were fired into any of the far too many eyes that chanced opening.

Boney turned his attention back to the sorcerer. Sigismund and Solin had both approached; whether by chance or design, they had circled in different directions, so the sorcerer was flanked between the two, one hand held and pointed toward Sigismund while he angled his body so that he could look between the two threats to his person.

Boney wondered if the reason he wasn’t projecting more of his baleful fire was because he didn’t want to leave himself exposed to the attack from the one he didn’t target. Boney inhaled and held his breath, focused his senses through the mental wool and stuffing that clogged his senses, focused his arcane sight upon the sorcerer.

Now that he was looking for it, he could see/feel/perceive the barrier that the sorcerer was maintaining, even without the occasional arrow pinging off it. With his arcane sense still muffled, Boney strongly debated with himself on charging the sorcerer and offering support, forcing the sorcerer to have another threat to keep track of.

His arcane sense flared, the awareness of magics being cast noticeable even through the fog brought about by his earlier miscast. Sigismund managed to duck aside as another jet of foul fire burst forth, avoiding the fate which had befallen the skink hunter. A tapestry upon the wall burst into flames, a victim of the foul magic. A pair of saurus—only equipped for melee but unable to get close to the sorcerer, who had more dangerous threats already up close—rushed to douse the flame, to prevent a spread of the dangerous fires.

Boney cursed, hissed out soft expletives, and grabbed the nearest of the skink hunters by the shoulder.

‘Come here.’

The skink neared, one eye resting upon the sorcerer even as he stepped next to Boney. The sorcerer had raised his arms, dragged more of his eldritch flame upward and surrounded himself with the blue and pink flames.

‘Aim and shoot when I say,’ Boney ordered the skink.

He barely heard the answering hiss, more aware of the arrow being pulled back against the string of the skink’s bow. Boney focused on pointing his palm at the sorcerer, at forcing his arcane sense through the mental fog and slowly growing headache, at perceiving the foul energies that the sorcerer was enshrouded in.

‘Steady, steady…’ Boney wasn’t certain whether the mantra was for the hunter or himself, but it was soothing for him while he forced his mind to perform whilst suffering the mental equivalent of pins and needles.

His mental grasp probed at the sorcerer’s energies, gentle and careful not to be noticed. Once he had a good sense of what his arcane sense was picking up, he stopped being gentle and tugged.

‘Shoot!’

The hunter released his grip. At that same moment, Boney’s dispel took effect, the flaming cyclone was abruptly extinguished, and the barrier shattered just in time for the arrow loosed by the hunter to fly straight and true until it punched through into the sorcerer’s chest. The sorcerer’s arms slumped, his mouth open in an ‘o’ of shock.

The moment the scene was fully comprehended, Sigismund lunged forward and drove his sword down upon the sorcerer, stabbed his blade deep into his gut, and then pulled, forced the weapon out sideward. The sorcerer fell, left in a pool of his own blood.

Boney slumped to the ground. His head throbbed as the mental wool stuffing was torn away, leaving a migraine as his reward for pushing through the haze. His eyes drooped as exhaustion hit. The hunter was saying something, but sound faded into nothingness as consciousness left him.


*


Solin blinked at the arrow which abruptly punched into the sorcerer’s chest, the way the air lost a vibration that had lingered at the edge of perception, unnoticeable until that moment it vanished, and the brutal way that the human captain cut down the sorcerer once it dawned on all that the chaplain’s barrier had vanished. He didn’t spend much time assessing the now-deceased chaplain. His attention was instead drawn to Boney, who stood, blinking, swaying on the spot, then slumped down, similar to the collapse of the animated armour in how he looked like a puppet with the strings being cut.

A momentary panic overtook Solin, and without a second thought, he sprinted over to the prone skink, carefully peeled one eye open to look at the amber orb beneath the lid. The pupil reacted to the light, but there was no awareness. The soft breaths escaping the skink’s nostrils, quiet but strong enough that a palm in front of Boney’s snout was able to feel them, managed to ward off the panic and replace it with a moment of relief, which was swiftly replaced in turn with irritation and a slight tinge of disappointment.

Solin released his hold on Boney’s body, watched as the sleeping skink curled up. He pointed at the skink hunter, still standing where he’d loosed the arrow which had ended the battle. Said skink was looking worried. ‘Ey, you. Erest.’ When the hunter looked up at his name, Solin redirected his pointed finger to the sleeping major. ‘Did the idiot just dispel? After he miscast earlier?’

The hunter nodded slowly. ‘He miscast?’

‘That hailstorm he created. No wonder he's out of it.’ Solin hissed in slight irritation, then jabbed his finger seemingly at random towards others in the hall. ‘Ey, you, you, you, and you. Keep an eye on the major. The rest of you, Sergeant Rood has command, finish clearing through the keep.’

The saurus sergeant led those placed under his command from the hall, exited through the door which Sigismund had entered through, other than the four that Solin had singled out, who instead moved Boney and propped him against one wall, out of the way of any who might potentially trip over him.

Solin turned to Sigismund, his eye automatically resting upon the longsword that the human still held. It was a far too familiar blade, one which had already once managed to kiss deeply at Solin's flesh. He opened his mouth, having not really finalised any decision as to what to do regarding the human. Unlike the majority of the garrison, he seemed to actually be aware and able to think for himself. He'd been loyal to the count, but not blindly so, he had pointedly refused the order to leave him to his fate.

Something about that whole scene had felt off, but Solin didn't know enough about Count Feyerabend to pinpoint why his mind itched.

Too convenient. He dies after dropping Fichte's name, points at a target that Sigismund honed in on. But dies right before saying anything else. But Fichte's reaction meant that he wasn't supposed to die, actually panicked at the idea.

There was a sound of feet hitting the ground, soft enough but with a distinct clicking that meant that it was either a skink or a saurus running toward him. Solin turned his head, just enough that he could see through the large doorway while still keeping one eye firmly locked upon the human captain.

Sergeant Kaiika slowed his pace as he spotted Solin, gave Sigismund a confused look but made the snap decision of accepting that if Solin hadn't killed him then he didn't need killing.

‘Colonel, we have a problem. Mort needs you outside now.’

Solin tilted his head, confused. ‘What?’ What problem would have Mort requesting my presence? Curious, and concerned, Solin swung his zweihänder over his shoulder, sheathed it, and made to follow Kaiika as the other saurus started to lead the way. Solin did pause, however, and shot Sigismund a significant look. ‘Well, come on then.’

‘Excuse me?’ Sigismund growled lowly. The sword in his hand was lifted, not quite into a ready stance, but one that said that the captain was expecting to need to defend himself in short order. ‘Why should I go anywhere with you?’

‘You have three choices,’ Solin said in return. ‘Either you come with me willingly, you come as a prisoner, or I kill you. I don't trust you enough to let you roam.’ Not when there are only two in this fort I trust to be able to stop you if you decide to continue fighting against us.

Sigismund glared at Solin, eyes burning with a fury and hatred that did little to move the saurus. After a moment, the human spat upon the ground and then sheathed his blade, making it clear that he wasn't happy with the choices presented but preferred moving under his own power, even if it was only an illusion of freedom.

Outside the keep, Mort instantly cast a suspicious glare at Sigismund, but was quick to turn his attention back to Solin, while gesturing to another saurus, this one leaning against a large raptor that was resting its head upon his shoulder. Solin recognised him as one of Mort's cavalry-saurus, though they hadn't been involved in the siege of the keep, instead gone with Ingwel.

‘Yackl here just gave us some bad news,’ Mort started. ‘We have a legion of undead making its way here.’

‘How many?’ Solin instantly asked. ‘And how soon?’

‘At the speed they were moving, they'll be here tomorrow morning,’ Yackl answered, absently scratching the Cold One just above its eye. ‘There are a lot of them, colonel, too many for you to fight on their terms.’

Solin's arms crossed, and a soft expletive was hissed under his breath. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but he was cut off by a shout from the motte's surrounding wall.

‘We have an army marching toward us.’ Sharpe's tone was tinged with uncertainty as he called down to them. ‘Looks like they'll be on us soon.’

Mort gave Yackl a dour look. ‘"Tomorrow morning" was it?’ he asked in annoyance.

Solin ignored Mort's irritation, called up at Sharpe instead. ‘How many undead?’

‘They aren't.’

The eternity warden's jaws shut with a click. He shared a look with Solin, then both Oldbloods stared up at the wall. ‘Well who are they?’ he asked.

‘I don't know, Mort. Shall I go down and politely ask them who they are and why they're marching toward this keep? I'm sure they'll answer all my questions with a nice cordial attitude.’

‘Do they bear the colours of the Efror Guard?’ Sigismund asked, holding a commanding tone as he asked the question despite being the stranger in their midst.

Sharpe briefly appeared, head poking over the edge of the wall to look into the courtyard. ‘Who in Sotek's cloacae are you?’

Sigismund's expression pinched, but Mort pre-empted any argument with an impatient ‘Answer the question, it’s actually relevant.’

Sharpe's head disappeared again. ‘No, I do not see any purples or boar heads on display. I see white, and I see black.’

‘Not your men then,’ Solin mused aloud. ‘Well, let's go to the lower walls and greet the newcomers.’

The lower wall was still being manned by a combination of Sharpe's skirmishers and the skinks under Mort's command, with the salamanders that Ingwel had granted Mort use of moving back and forth with impatient snarls. The drawbridge had been lifted so there was no way through the walls without smashing down a portion of the same.

The question that Solin had was whether this approaching army had the means to smash down the walls. There was no way of knowing if they were even a threat; they could be another force sent by Middenheim regarding the information that had been given about the count's supposed enchantment. In light of recent events, Solin wondered about that. There was definitely a sorcerer, that was indisputable, but something still rang false about the whole scene.

A trio of figures broke away from the bulk of the army. A white flag was held up by one of the three, signalling that they were approaching with non-hostile intent. Mort snorted, his arms crossed and an expression of disbelief crinkling his eyes. Solin quietly agreed as the armour worn became recognisable. Heavy plate mail, fur-lined cloaks and helmets with large curved horns jutted out of the tops.

‘Chaos,’ Mort snarled, his grip on his sword tightening.

Solin nodded silently, eyes narrowed. He didn't stop examining the trio approaching, took note that the hell-forged armour, while very distinctly that of the warriors of Chaos—though not with any of the distinctive markings that labelled them as followers of any one of the Four in particular—was a bleached white instead of the usual dark grey.

‘How did a Chaos war-band get this far south of the coast?’ he asked after a while. ‘We've not heard so much as a whisper of Chaos this deep into the Empire. At that size, we should have heard something.’

Mort shrugged. ‘Maybe... they avoided contact until they achieved their goals?’ It came as a question, because Mort didn't fully believe such a thing was possible. Chaos wasn't exactly known for showing restraint. They caused destruction, they raided, and they destroyed. Avoiding civilisation in order to reach a specific target unseen went contrary to what both saurus knew of Chaos.

The trio of Chaos warriors stopped a respectable distance from the walls. The one in the middle, larger and more imposing than the two flanking him, took another four steps forward and held up a hand in a gesture of apparent greeting.

‘To whom do I speak?’

Solin snorted. ‘Chaos worshipper being civil? Now I've seen it all.’ With a shake of his head, he leaned forward, making himself more visible. ‘I am the one in command of this hold. Who are you?’

The Chaos warrior tilted his helmeted head. ‘A Lustrian commands this keep?’

Solin snarled softly as he endured yet another instance of being misidentified. After a moment, he relaxed his posture, and his eyes curved. When he opened his mouth to speak his next words, he put all the friendliness and cordiality he could into his tone.

‘And you sold your soul to an abominable entity. How does it feel to strumpet yourself out like that? Because where I am standing, it makes you look sordid and lamentable. You'd have gotten more if you'd just stepped into a Marienburg house of ill repute. At least that way you'd've had some dignity left. Or did you already try that and get laughed out of Marienburg? I suppose the clients do have standards, low as they may be.’

The Chaos warrior seemed taken aback at the vitriolic barrage of words thrown at him with a tone as sweet as sugar. He turned to look at the pair he'd ridden forward with. After a moment he regained his wits enough to speak again.

‘What are your kind doing in the Reik Basin?’

‘Mind your own business,’ Solin snapped, his feigned friendly voice dropped in favour of disdain.

The Chaos warrior shook his head and raised his voice, clearly losing patience. That he had had any to begin with was unusual, and Solin felt a need to continue prodding to see how deep this well was. ‘You will open the gates and allow us entry, or we shall take it by force and make sure to make you suffer.’

‘You don't frighten us, Chaos warg-humpers! I wipe my cloacae at you, toy of the Ruinous forces, you and your brain-dead waste-monkeys.’

‘Look here----’

‘You have naught to say that I want to hear and you bore me, you still-minded leakage of a latrine-ditch. Your mother was a troll and your father was legless.’ Again, the Chaos warrior was left standing stupefied as Solin's verbal bombardment reached him. Solin stared down at the warrior in open challenge. ‘Go away or I will sneer at you twofold.’

Solin pulled himself back, ducked out of sight of the Chaos war-band. He found himself being stared at by everybody nearby. Particularly insulting was the disparaging look that even a nearby salamander was shooting toward him. Mort shook his head and made a show of rolling his eyes heavenward, visibly trying to hide his amusement.

‘Taunting the Ruinous forces now? You know, for how much you despise the Bretonnians, you certainly picked up on their flowery prose. The only thing you were missing was the accent.’

‘It's the highlight of my day,’ Solin commented glibly. ‘And don't insult me by giving credit for my wit to the lady-botherers. I can be very sophisticated when I feel the need.’

Solin turned his head to watch while the three Chaos warriors retreated back to the massive army. Even though the bulk of the Chaos war-band still wasn't close enough to be counted as actually besieging the motte and bailey at that moment, they were still close enough that even if the entirety of the Legion's troops within the walls were at the gate right that moment, they'd still not be able to escape. Their numbers were such that even with the walls, if the war-band attacked, it was the Legion that would come out on the losing side of the argument.

‘You couldn't have at least tried to find out what they are after?’ Mort huffed after a moment.

‘The real question to ask,’ Sharpe mused thoughtfully, ‘is how likely it is that they think our occupation force is larger than it actually is.’

Solin pulled his spyglass from his surcoat, aware that the two majors had pulled their own free. ‘I don't care what they want,’ he answered Mort while he extended the brass tube. ‘It's Chaos. I'm not big on letting Chaos have what Chaos wants.’

‘Good answer.’ Sharpe's wry tone gave away his grin.

With his spyglass raised to his eye, Solin observed the war-band. Like the three warriors who had come for the parley, the warriors were all wearing armour that was white in colouring. More interesting was the image displayed upon the standards held by a number of the warriors. It was a skull over a six-pointed variation of the typical Chaos star. The skull was split into two, the left half white with black detailing, while the right side was the opposite, black with white detailing.

‘I don't recognise those standards,’ he admitted to Mort, who hummed in agreement.

‘Nor I. The skull makes me think Khorne.’

‘If they're associated with the former chaplain of this keep, then doubtful. The chaplain was a sorcerer.’

Mort let out a grunt at the reveal, body stilling for a moment as he registered that there had been a sorcerer within the keep, then relaxed as he took it for a fact that the chaplain had been killed.

‘Iycan would be useful here right now,’ Mort muttered in irritation.

‘Wasn't he here?’ Solin asked.

‘He left during the night, after he made certain that the motte couldn't be sealed off from us,’ Sharpe explained. ‘He said something about investigating nearby caves.’

Solin hummed in acknowledgement, carefully adjusted his spyglass and watched the Chaos warrior who had been sent to parley with the castle. He had started talking to somebody, but the one he was speaking to was blocked from Solin's view, a large armoured troll standing in the way. He briefly entertained the idea that the Chaos warrior was talking to the troll, but for all that Solin looked dimly upon the intelligence of Chaos worshippers, they weren't so dim as to consider a troll an authority figure.

The troll moved, at the same moment the Chaos warrior stepped back with a deferential posture. Solin sucked in a breath as he took in the newly revealed Chaos leader. While to those unfamiliar with Chaos he looked like a more decorated Chaos warrior, cloak made of a finer material, more runic inscriptions, and a gait that spoke of being accustomed to being in charge, there was an unmistakable aura to this warrior.

His armour was a pristine white while the runes inscribed upon it were a gleaming gold. He looked clean, polished, but at the same time not, there were marks that should have been blemishes but somehow didn't look like dirt and smears. He almost evoked an image of a Grail Knight, less colourful, more jagged and spiky, but that same presence.

‘Take heed,’ Solin warned with an absolute seriousness to his tone. ‘We are in the presence of an exalted champion.’

Sharpe's audible inhale gave away his nerves at the reveal. ‘You are certain?’

‘He's right,’ Mort answered in Solin's stead. ‘There is always something different about exalted champions. He fits.’

‘Undivided or has he pledged?’ Solin asked Mort, trying to find any mark of a specific Chaos entity. Other than the black and white skull, he couldn't see any identifying runes or marks.

‘I want to say Undivided,’ Mort said, slowly, ‘but since when does a war-band of Chaos Undivided choose such a distinctive look?’

‘But it also doesn't match any of the Four's usual looks,’ Solin rebutted.

Any further debate was cut short as the Chaos champion began to advance toward the wall. Behind him were four lesser champions. Solin was interested to note that, in the brief examination he afforded them, they each fit the looks of a champion of one of the Four. About halfway to the walls of the motte and bailey, the four lesser champions stopped, held themselves back.

The exalted champion continued his advance, seemingly ignorant of the chameleon skinks aiming muskets at him from the wall. His horned helmet tilted, the slit that passed for a visor angled to take in the threat, but he didn't falter, so it wasn't ignorance; he was just ignoring the threat.

Was it arrogance? Or did he have some arcane defence against bullets?

He stopped his advance at the same spot that the original Chaos warrior had stood for the attempted parley. For a full minute, he stood there, staring at the wall, the only movement being his head pivoting back and forth along the wall's length.

In his hand, he held a large barbed blade, a wicked-looking thing that was clearly meant to inflict pain just as much as it was a weapon to kill his foes. It looked like it was forged not from metal, but from chitin, making it look as though he were wielding not a sword, but the stinger of an oversized hornet that had mutated into an even more maliciously cantankerous manifestation of hate than a hornet usually could claim.

After that minute of silence, the exalted champion lifted his blade, held it up as if in silent salute, then brought it down. With the downward chopping motion, the sky momentarily turned dark, not as if night had fallen in the span of a second, not as if there was a sudden moment of overcast skies blotting the sun. It was as if the very nature of light had reversed, and instead sucked away the colour and vibrancy of the world into an ink-stained grey and black.

When light returned, it was in the form of a bolt of energy roaring down from the sky and slamming into the gatehouse of the wall, which exploded on contact with this eldritch energy. The air returned to its normal vibrancy.

Solin watched this happen, watched the gatehouse turn to rubble, creating a hole in the wall surrounding the village, as well as forming a crude bridge over the surrounding moat. The skinks that had been atop the gatehouse were gone, dead. If there were any bodies left to show of their existence, they'd been thrown aside, and Solin hadn't seen where.

Behind the quartet of champions, the mass that was the Chaos war-band started to advance.

Even with the wall standing, it would have been a losing battle to defend against the war-band. Without the wall? Even with a chokepoint, the balance of power between the Legion occupation force and this Chaos war-band was even more skewed in favour of the war-band. And they couldn't count on the chokepoint being a chokepoint, not when their leader had the ability to just bring down a bolt of energy and destroy any fragments of the wall that tickled his fancy.

So, it was with utmost seriousness that Solin turned and shouted to those under his command.

‘Fall back! Fall back to the keep!’

 

Assault on Feyerabend - Part 3​

The Old World – Feyerabend Keep, Middenland
-

Captain Kro-Loq entered the keep's main hall, his blade resting on his shoulder, mostly at ease but still alert for any threats that might have escaped the first sweep of the keep. Instantly, the Scar Veteran's eyes settled upon a trio of saurus and a skink, positioned in such a way that they looked relaxed, but also had eyes on every entry into the court hall.

More interesting was the way they stood protectively over another skink, instantly recognised by Kro-Loq by the brimmed hat, green and yellow feather still pinned to the side. Major Boney seemed to be asleep, one foot twitching, and...

The captain's eyes crinkled in amusement.

'What happened?' he opted to ask one of the four standing watch over the slumbering major. He doubted it was actually a case of sleeping, not unless their newest major was a narcoleptic who'd somehow avoided being noticed as such.

One of the saurus answered, tone equal measures concern and amusement. 'The major miscast and then, not even minutes later, dispelled a sorcerer's magic.'

That would do it, Kro-Loq thought, his eyes widening momentarily. 'Is the colonel aware?'

'Oh yes,' the same saurus answered again with a grin in his eyes. 'You could just see the moment when his instincts went all paternal.'

There was a shared chuckle among all five who were currently awake. As if reacting to the sound of amusement, the slumbering skink groaned, his body shifting in a manner that suggested he was no longer asleep, just clinging desperately to the idea of remaining so.

Kro-Loq's amusement deepened. 'Wakey wakey, Major Adorable.'

Boney let out an angry hiss at the nickname, one amber eye opening to deliver a baleful glare, though the effect was very much undermined by the grogginess of one still half-asleep.

Kro-Loq shook his head in continued amusement. 'You can't complain about being called adorable when you are still hugging your own tail.'

Boney's eye narrowed in confusion, then his gaze lowered to take in the fact that, yes, at some point in his sleep, he had wrapped his arms around his tail. With a look of absolute betrayal, the skink pushed the appendage away from him and then shifted so that he was sitting upright, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

'How long was I out?' he asked.

The other skink in the hall tapped his foot on the ground as he considered the answer. 'It's been a while. Congratulations, you've managed to make the colonel, as well as everybody else, worry about your survival instincts.'

Boney mumbled something that Kro-Loq failed to pick up. The scar veteran huffed and moved closer, holding out a hand in silent offer. Boney didn't register the offered hand at first, and when he did, he leaned back with a startled hiss.

Oh, right, he's skittish around saurus. Forgot about that.

Kro-Loq pulled back his hand, nodding when Boney gave a silent look of apology and pulled himself to his feet with the help of the other skink instead.

'My instincts are fine,' Boney finally spoke up again.

'Uh-huh. I don't know much about using the Winds of Magic, but even I know that a miscast takes everything out of the one who suffers it. You then used the Winds again.'

'It was to dispel, not cast a fresh spell,' Boney argued.

Another saurus crossed his arms, and when he spoke, it was clear that he was channelling the colonel when hearing words that were missing some key point of logic. 'A dispel is still using a spell.'

Boney also crossed his arms, though in a far more mulish manner. 'I'm fine.'

'You've triggered old paternal instincts in Solin with the amount of worry you put him through. I wouldn't be surprised if he tanned your hide as a result.'

Boney's head tilted. 'What?'

'What?' Kro-Loq repeated.

'I know those words, but not what they mean put together in that context.'

Kro-Loq's eyes narrowed into a grin. 'I'm sure you'll work it out eventually.'

Boney straightened his posture, but the wobbling as he took a step told Kro-Loq that, despite the mental exhaustion-induced nap the skink had just had, he still wasn't fully recovered. When a hand moved to offer support in keeping the smaller reptile steady, it was slapped aside by the major's tail with an irritable hiss.

'What's happened while I've been out of it?' Boney asked. When he registered the look Kro-Loq aimed his way, he shrugged a single shoulder while wrapping his arms around his own torso as if warding off the cold. 'If the colonel was so worried, wouldn't he be waiting here for me to wake up?'

'Point,' Kro-Loq allowed. 'We've been sieged.'

Boney blinked, turned to look at Kro-Loq, and blinked again. 'I thought we were the ones doing the sieging?'

Kro-Loq hummed in acknowledgement. 'Yes. But at some point, somebody else arrived and besieged us.'

Boney's mouth opened and closed as he took in the words, inscribing their meaning to his mind and realising what that actually meant.

'We're being besieged after having besieged the keep ourselves?' Despite the questioning inflection to the words, Kro-Loq got the impression it was a rhetorical question, as if the major needed to say the words to truly comprehend the meaning.

He gave the answer regardless. 'Yes.'

The skink shut his eyes and pressed his palms to his temples, rubbing in a circular motion. 'I'm still dreaming; I must be. I want to be.' Then Boney winced. 'No, my head hurts too much to still be asleep.'

Kro-Loq gave a sympathetic wince. 'I suppose it's a bad idea for you to try casting any magic, then?'

Boney gave a disdainful snort. 'Not for a couple of days.' He turned to face Kro-Loq. 'What's the plan, then?'

Kro-Loq shook his head. 'I wouldn't know. I'm still searching through the keep and letting Solin, Mort, and Sharpe worry about the army outside. But unless we sally out and meet the army outside the walls, we're trapped. The rest of the Legion is a day away, and I've been told that there's an undead army between us unless the runner we got is mistaken.'

Boney hissed something in High Saurian that Kro-Loq wasn't able to catch. After he finished, the Scar Veteran clicked his tongue to get the skink's attention.

'We never found the bodies that Iycan reported being carted into the keep. And one of Sharpe's skirmishers mentioned smelling the rotting dead to me earlier, so we know they were definitely brought here, and the skirmishers didn't see them leave.'

'You want to continue searching the keep?' Boney realised and asked in one breath.

'That's our job. Primis, Fortis, and Sharpe's Chosen are the ones with the job of keeping us safe while we work.'

Boney opened his mouth, but at that moment, there was a rumbling cracking sound, muffled through the stone walls, but still enough to vibrate their bones. Boney jumped, his head tilting in the direction the sound had originated, his eyes widened and coloured with nervous concern.


*


There was a static stillness to the air, a moment where time slowed to a crawl as the fates themselves paused to take stock of the scene for posterity. Dirt and shards of rubble rained down from the sky, finally pulled back to the ground by gravity after a startled pause when an eldritch bolt had laid low a previously solid and whole structure.

Happy picked himself from the ground, his ears still ringing. It took precious seconds for his mind to catch up, to recall why he was laid flat on the ground when last he'd been aware he had been atop the wall surrounding the village. His mind forced him to relive the previous minutes, reminding him that he had just gotten very lucky.

Another couple of feet to the left and he likely would not have survived the foul bolt of energy which had destroyed the gatehouse. As it stood, he'd been close enough that he had been physically thrown aside from the force of the bolt slamming down upon the stone structure. His back ached, along with everything else. But better aches and pains than the death that almost befell him.

His ears stopped ringing, and words could now be heard.

'Fall back! Fall back to the keep!'

A saurus appeared at Happy's side, a hand automatically latching onto the chameleon's arm and starting to guide him with a side-order of pulling Happy toward the inner gatehouse, which would lead to the walkway up the scarp and to the motte and the keep atop the hill.

Under normal circumstances, Happy would have protested the treatment from the saurus, but with his head still throbbing in time with his heartbeat, he would make an exception this once. He was generous like that.

It had nothing to do with how movement caused his vision to double and blur and the ground to start spinning, no-no-no. He was letting the saurus feel useful for the retreat.

Happy swallowed back the bile that wanted to force its way up his gullet. Once they had pulled back to relative safety, then he would afford himself the time to let his body have its moment of weakness. But while retreating, best to just get on with it.

They'd barely started moving when Sharpe appeared, his eyes momentarily creasing in concern as he took in Happy's state, but he quickly buried any emotion behind a mask of stoicism.

'Happy, I have a task for you.'

Happy swallowed back the bile, shut his eyes for five seconds—he counted—and then looked again at Sharpe while pushing away any discomfort he was feeling. He listened to his newly assigned task.


*


Solin leapt down from the wall, his hand pulling his blade from its place at his back even as he dropped. Nearby, Sharpe was projecting his voice, urging the withdrawal with a calm tone, calling out names in order to urge faster movement while also timing such as to prevent confusion.

His right hand pointed at a small group of saurus, ignoring the fact that Mort was right behind him, and called out.

'Ey, you six, with me!' He redirected his gesture toward one of the skinks assigned with handling the various salamanders. 'You, bring a salamander or two, come with me.'

They didn't question, they simply started to follow as Solin moved toward the breach in the wall. Mort likewise followed close behind. Even with the deliberate movement toward his goal, Solin still paused when they passed any saurus or skinks, helping get them moving in the right direction, helping those who had been thrown to the floor and were still groggy to get to their feet.

'We are buying time for everybody to get to the keep,' Solin didn't so much as explain as tell everyone following him the objective truth of what was happening. They weren't going to try to buy time; they would buy time.

He was vaguely aware that there was an additional individual following him, one that wasn't Mort or any of those he had commanded to come with him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the human captain had decided to tag along, was in the process of strapping a new shield to his arm as he marched—had probably picked it from the ground, still littered with the fallen arms of the previous defenders. There could have been any number of reasons for Sigismund's decision to include himself, but with the threat being a Chaos war-band, Solin wasn't interested in diving into a deep contemplation on the motives of a human of the Empire choosing to fight against the biggest existential threat to the Provinces. He could be fuelled by fanatical hatred, patriotism, or he could just be some berserker who enjoyed picking a fight against nigh unbeatable enemies. Solin honestly couldn't care about the reason, just that it would be an extra sword against the threat.

The destroyed gatehouse left a gaping hole in the surrounding wall, rubble and cracked and shattered stone left the ground uneven, but Solin barely noticed. With a hiss, he planted himself in the centre of the open wound in the defences. Mort positioned himself to Solin's left, not even needing to think about his positioning, long experience having made Mort aware of the reach of Solin's blade on a near-unconscious level. If Solin were to stretch his arm, to extend his zweihänder to its limit, Mort would be a single step out of reach.

The six saurus from Mort's Primis Regiment split themselves into two trios and stationed themselves as an extension to the broken wall, holding up their shields and pressing them together. To Solin's immediate right, Sigismund took a cautious step into that space. Solin slowly swung his blade to his right, hoping that Sigismund was intelligent enough to understand what Solin was trying to say without speaking.

To his credit, Sigismund did watch the blade and, after a pause, took three large steps to the right, furthering the distance between them, putting him outside of Solin's reach, unless the Oldblood were to take a step to the side.

'Have those salamanders burn anything that tries to get around us,' Solin called back to the handler. 'And everybody be ready to run the moment I give the word.'

There were acknowledgements, but anything further was forced to be put on hold as the first of the Chaos warriors became visible, marching forward with a deliberate but not rushed pace. It was a common misconception that the warriors of Chaos had no concept of discipline, that they didn't march or use formations. That wasn't true. Chaos was many things, but stupidity and ignorance of how to wage war were not one of the many flaws associated with the armies of the Ruinous Powers.

Those armoured Chaos warriors who were now marching forward? They were warriors who had forsaken their lives in order to become instruments of the Ruinous Powers. Despite typically coming from the northern tribes, these were no fools, as much as the civilisations standing against them would like to claim. Savages in their chosen allegiances, yes, but they were not so stupid as to be called a mindless horde. Only the most gifted of warriors were granted the right to wear that hell-forged armour; these were no marauders; these were elite soldiers serving a great evil.

Solin lifted his zweihänder and lightly pressed his forehead against the flat of the blade, noting the way that the silversteel almost seemed to vibrate, the azure hue almost lighter in shade than normal. With a soft hiss, he adjusted his stance, readying himself.

The first wave of the armoured warriors reached the gap in the wall and picked up their pace, charging as though the added momentum would help smash through any resistance.

Solin swung, the blade coming down from left to right. The heavy greatsword, fuelled by the strength of its swing, managed to cut through the white armour of the first warrior, slicing through the flesh beneath, but the slowed momentum was enough that the blade was prevented from cutting out through the other side, forcing Solin to slam his foot into the corpse, pushing it back and sliding his sword free. There was a momentary pause from the other warriors, likely taken aback at the fact that he'd managed to cut through the hell-forged armour with a single swing. It was an advantage that was more than most people could boast, but not unheard of. The biggest shock was no doubt the fact that a blade had downed one of them on the first swing. Had it been a warhammer or an axe, they might not have been so surprised.

The saurus warriors to the sides didn't have the same advantage. Their shorter and more mundane blades wouldn't be slicing through the full plate mail, leaving them forced to aim for the weaknesses in the armour, or rely on bludgeoning the warriors. Solin didn't spare a glance toward Mort; the Eternity Warden was experienced enough that Solin had no doubt that the other saurus knew how to fight the Chaos warriors, armoured or not.

Solin's thoughts were momentarily cut short, the momentary reprieve that came from the attacking warriors pausing in surprise at somebody cutting through their armour short-lived. A warrior charged forward, a great two-handed axe swinging around with clear intent to decapitate. Solin ducked, letting the crescent blade whistle through the air, then straightened his legs, his zweihänder swinging up with him in an upper cleave that carved through the helmet. He quickly twisted the blade's momentum, aiming the downward chop to hack through the arm of the next nearest warrior, managing to leave the warrior howling with rage and pain as the limb fell to the blood-soaked ground. The vengeful screaming was cut short when Solin adjusted his grip mid-swing and thrust the weapon into the warrior's neck, then kicked the still-gagging warrior's body, freeing his blade yet again while launching the armoured weight into another warrior, causing the other to stumble at the sudden weight thrown against him.

Solin readjusted his grip back to how it had been previously and was already swinging. As much as he doubted he'd get the momentum he really wanted to build up, it didn't hurt to keep trying, and he'd prefer to keep the blade cutting down anybody that approached from as far as the blade could reach under normal circumstances. Half-swording was all well and good for giving extra strength to a swing or a stab at close quarters, but it cost him the reach he preferred.

Another warrior of Chaos entered within Solin's reach, was cut down quickly, the zweihänder aimed for the neck, managing to slip between the helmet and the cuirass. The headless body dropped, another obstacle on the ground for the oncoming horde to be forced to climb over, a trip hazard to make life increasingly difficult for the attackers. For the short time it would matter, the numbers were such that Solin knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was a matter of when, and not if, the Chaos warriors began to overrun the small defending group.

Sigismund was a surprise to Solin. When he chanced a quick glance to his right, he noted that the human had just blocked a blow from a large axe, and returned the favour by way of a short thrust of the longsword into the gut of the one responsible. The glimmering blade punctured through the plate with ease, such ease that even Sigismund was visibly taken aback. The human pulled the blade free, just in time to be able to block a cleaving swing from another Chaos warrior's axe, his shield arm buckling from the force, but Sigismund's expression twisted, and his stance shifted. No longer was he huddling behind his shield, only relying upon his blade to parry unless he spotted an opening to a weakness in the armour, often the joints. Now, fully aware that he was carrying a blade that was capable of rending through the hell-forged platemail, he made use of his weapon to retaliate and riposte with all the eagerness of a warrior-priest of Sigmar when faced with such foes.

There was something off about Sigismund. He fought with a blood-curdling hatred, fuelled with a raw fury that he didn't bother to hide from his features. His fighting style reflected those emotions. Armed with the knowledge that his foes were defenceless against his blade, he aimed thrusts and cuts with a clear desire to bring pain to the warriors attacking what was once his home. A hand cut free, followed by a swing that would leave the now disarmed warrior hamstrung and laid on the ground to be trampled over by his own comrades. A gut wound inflicted, the blade twisted before being pulled free, leaving the recipient of the attack to curl up and die a slow, painful death. This wasn't just a hatred of Chaos attacking the keep, though; this felt deeper.

It wasn't difficult to remember how single-mindedly Sigismund had attacked Boney in the court hall, despite his liege telling him to stand down. Whatever else could be said of Captain Sigismund, he was very clearly empowered by a rage that didn't seem to have any specific target. A rage that burned, yet was cold enough that he aimed not for simply killing his enemies, but to make them feel their lives slowly drain away.

After all was said and done, Solin needed to keep an eye on that one.

From behind the Chaos warriors, Solin noted that a large figure had appeared. It towered over the warriors, its flat, ugly face looking squashed and malformed with a large mouth gaping, which gave it a look of incomprehension. Around this large armoured figure, the warriors hurriedly moved aside, giving it a wide berth.

'Oh good,' Solin hissed sarcastically. 'Of course, they decided to bring a troll along.'

For all his sarcastic concern at the large creature, it still wasn't the worst thing that could have been thrown at the Legion. A troll was an annoying obstacle, especially without good numbers to hack away at it faster than its regenerative prowess could keep up, but trolls were also stupid creatures, replacing their brains with more muscle and even then often failing to properly make use of their own physical might. Better a troll than a dragon-ogre or a giant, or even a Greater Daemon of some variety.

The troll's small beady eyes locked onto the line of defenders and widened with some incomprehensible emotion, or whatever passed for emotion within the deformed minds of trolls. It hefted its oversized club, squared its haunches, and it charged.

Solin's eyes widened at the speed of the troll, and he barely reacted in time to avoid the wild swing of the beast. As it stood, the spiked club came uncomfortably close to Solin's face for any measure of comfort, avoided or not. The club was slammed into the ground and then dragged into an arching sweep which was hurriedly avoided by a panicked somersault, followed by a stumble once Solin's feet were once again touching the ground. He quickly stabilised himself by slamming his tail on the ground, anchoring himself for the brief time he needed to regain his bearings.

It was easy to see that the Chaos warriors had achieved their goal in sending the troll. It might not have killed Solin with either swing, but now he was out of position, and the warriors would no doubt be taking advantage of that opening once the troll moved and was no longer a threat to its own side. Mort and Sigismund were also moving out of position, both looking decidedly uncomfortable at the proximity of the troll. Fortunately for them, the troll's eyes were locked onto Solin, and it was letting out moaning sounds that were probably meant to be some indication of anger at not killing its chosen target.

It lumbered forward, hefting its club again. Solin snarled and pointed his blade at the troll, but not with the intent to get into a duel with the wretched beast.

'Salamanders!' he called out.

Though he wasn't specific in what he wanted the salamanders to actually do, unlike the troll, the salamander handler was gifted with intelligence and common sense. There was a burst of heat, the flaming bile of one or both salamanders launched at the troll. The troll bellowed, the hand not holding the club coming up to its face to rub at the flames now licking away at it.

Solin watched, taking note of the moment the troll decided that the flames weren't so bad after all. Despite receiving more burning bile to its flesh, it returned its attention to Solin and took a step forward, grumbling at each fresh patch of fire that started to sear its flesh.

'Aim for the eyes!' Solin shouted back to the handler.

The handler clicked his tongue and whistled. The salamanders paused in their attacks. Solin really hoped that it was because they were taking the time to aim their bile, and not because they were confused about the unusual order.

One of the salamanders hacked, a sound similar to a feline trying to remove a furball, and then released a stream of burning liquid. The troll let out a piggish squeal as the burning substance connected with its face. It wasn't directly upon the troll's eye, but it was close enough that the troll wasn't going to ignore it as it had resolved to do previously, not with its eye at risk. It rubbed its now flaming brow with panicked franticness.

While the salamanders kept the troll occupied with keeping its eye safe, Solin advanced, careful of the frantic and careless movements of the club. Once he was close enough, he swung his blade with as much strength as he dared, hacking into the troll's ankle as a lumberjack would a particularly resilient oak. Once, twice, five times he chopped at the troll's flesh before it finally collapsed, hamstrung and no longer able to support its own weight upon that leg.

The ground shook at the troll's girth crashing down. Mort reacted quickly to the sudden nearness of the troll's face to where he was standing his ground, slamming his shield into a Chaos warrior and then twisting around and thrusting his sword into the eye of the troll that hadn't been burnt to near ruination by the salamanders. Thick viscous fluid dribbled down from the punctured orb, and the troll squealed, flailing impotently, but was unable to prevent Mort from twisting the blade and pushing it deeper into the eye socket with a loud hiss.

Trolls were infuriating to fight. They could regenerate from all manner of wounds. Supposedly, even decapitation could be recovered from, the head regrowing over time. Even as Solin watched Mort's efforts, he could see that the ankle that had just been dealt a blow which would cripple any other was already knitting itself back together; it was only a matter of time before the troll was once again on its feet.

Despite the regenerative abilities of trolls, they weren't invincible, but at that moment they weren't equipped or numbered for taking out a troll, especially not when the Chaos warriors were still contributing against their efforts.

An armoured warrior managed to slip between Mort and the trio of saurus to his side while they were all distracted. It wasn't the first such effort—Solin had been aware on the edge of his perception that dozens of such attempts had been thwarted in the precious minutes spent holding the line—though it was the first to come so close to Solin, who had been doing rather well at keeping control of his space. The warrior quickly found himself screaming in agony as the salamanders, now unable to shoot for the troll's eyes, instead burnt the warrior, his armour heating rapidly from the flames now coating him.

There was a crack in the air, the light of day momentarily blinked into darkness then returned. In the next couple of seconds, Solin listened as even through the orchestra of combat, he could hear the collapse of another fragment of the wall. Clearly, the warlord in charge had decided to hasten the occupation of the bailey.

'Fall back,' Solin called out.

The saurus all back-pedalled, their shields still linked. This wasn't a panicked retreat—they didn't turn their backs to the threat. It wasn't a mindless withdrawal; they were keeping themselves protected. The two trios met up, quick to combine their defensive efforts, the shield wall now protecting their sides as well as their fronts.

Solin waited for the saurus to pass him before moving back himself, half his attention firmly affixed to the troll even while he took into account every warrior of Chaos that poured through the hole in the wall.

'Mort,' Solin called out to the Eternity Warden, 'where's the second breach?'

Mort shook his head even as he slammed his shield into a charging warrior, knocking the wretch to the ground, whereupon Mort stabbed down, using his weight to help puncture the armour.

'I didn't see,' Mort answered.

A group of warriors charged toward Solin. The oldblood back-stepped to avoid a wild swing of an axe, then twisted around, swinging his zweihänder using his body's momentum to add to the force of the blow, cutting down the warrior who had swung the axe and knocking the axe from the hand of a second. He side-stepped and lifted his blade, knocking another warrior's attack aside and then sliding his blade down the length of the axe's haft until he cut through the warrior's wrist. Crouching low, Solin angled his greatsword and thrust at the next warrior charging toward him, puncturing through the cuirass through the combination of the strength of the stab, the keen edge of the blade, and the warrior's own forward momentum. He kicked the warrior off of his blade and then jerked his arms abruptly, pounding the pommel into the helmet of another warrior.

The warrior who took the blow to the head staggered back and was cut down by Sigismund, the longsword still tearing through the armour with ease, no sign of blunting. The human twisted around, looking for the next foe to face. His expression twisted, not in anger or hatred, but shock, and that was Solin's only warning. Solin barely avoided the silvered blade that came uncomfortably close to being a decapitating swing. He heard the whistling of the air as the blade's edge passed him by with inches to spare.

The curved blade was attached to a long dark steel pole, held by a tall pale-fleshed man, whose face was marked with scars, eyelids torn away, and his nose missing, replaced by a gaping hole. His ears had been removed, and what remained of his lips was sewn to his cheeks, giving him a permanent rictus grin. Considering every other aspect of his face had been removed, it was honestly surprising he still had hair, dark and braided, reaching down to the small of his back. He wore purple leggings, held up with a bone-white sash. Over his chest, he wore armour in the style of those from that island nation even further east than Grand Cathay, painted upon the front was that same black and white skull that the standards bore. Tucked into his sash were two curved swords, one longer than the other.

About him, the air writhed as though unwilling to be near this entity. This was no mere warrior; this was a champion. And like the one who was in command of the war-band, this champion was of exalted status.

The champion twirled his glaive, adjusted his stance, and then launched himself forward. Solin barely managed to block the blow, but block it he did, then quickly pivoted his body and twisted his zweihänder in an effort to cut through the Chaos champion's forearm. The champion released his grip on his weapon, moved his arm aside in avoidance, and then crouched low and caught the glaive as it fell. He pivoted, slammed the steel shaft of the weapon into Solin's knee. Solin hissed, took a step back, ignored the throbbing pain from the impact, and adjusted his stance into one of protective readiness while his eyes took in the champion, assessing everything about him that he could.

The armour the champion wore did little to hide his lithe build; his feet never stopped moving, constantly bouncing in readiness for the moment when he needed to truly move. The champion twirled his glaive with an absent-minded ease. But his dark, lidless eyes, they looked upon Solin the same way Solin was looking upon him. Where Solin was trying to assess this fighter for any clues about his style or weaknesses, this champion was assessing and analysing him in turn.

Solin made the first move this time, stepping forward, swinging his zweihänder in a low sweep. The champion back-stepped, lifting his right leg enough that the blade slipped under his foot, and then lunged, swinging his glaive up and to the right. It was a matter of instinct and prediction that had Solin lift the hilt of his weapon even as the majority of the blade remained low, blocking the glaive with the lower third of the zweihänder's length, then rotating his wrists, moving the sharpened end of the sword's length in a circular motion that would cleave into this champion's upper arm, or neck, while the lower end of the greatsword continued to push at the blade locked in the bind.

The champion weaved his torso to one side, dodging the blade with the grace of a dancer, then took a step back and planted the shaft of his glaive into the ground, using it to propel himself feet-first into Solin. The saurus grunted but managed to avoid stumbling more than a single step when he used his tail to tripod himself, rooting himself in place. The flying kick hurt more as a result, but his immobility also meant that this Chaos champion lost momentum he hadn't expected to lose and landed on his back with a startled grunt. But there was no time to capitalise on the champion's startlement, for he regained his bearings quickly and looped his legs around one of Solin's and rolled, tilting the saurus sideways and upsetting his balance. Solin found himself joining the champion on the ground.

Solin hurriedly grabbed the wrist of the champion when he made to pull free one of the swords at his hip, preventing him from switching to the shorter blade. Nearby, Mort lunged toward them, sword angled to skewer the champion. The champion took note, instantly kicking his legs out with force enough to launch him off the ground and back to his feet. Despite one hand still confined by Solin's tight grip, his other hand, the fingers of which had never released their hold upon the glaive, swung the polearm at Mort. Mort lifted his shield, and Solin watched as the glaive sliced through the protective barrier with far too much ease for comfort. The champion then slammed his heel into Solin, connecting with the saurus's brow. Against his will, he released his grasp upon the champion's wrist.

The champion didn't get long to relish in his freedom; Sigismund charged him, forcing the champion to weave away with a twirl and angle himself so that he could see every threat.

And Solin was at that moment aware of a loud bellow. Turning his head, he watched as a massive figure charged. He almost mistook the newcomer for an ork, so big was he, but no, his flesh was distinctly human in hue. He towered over the rest of the Chaos warriors at seven and a half feet tall, with a broadness to match. He didn't wear armour like the warriors. Instead, he wore hide boots and gloves, a simple loincloth, and a thick cloak. His face was completely obscured, concealed by the large skull of a dragon-ogre that he wore as though it were a helmet.

In each hand, this new arrival carried an axe, both as oversized as he himself was, and yet he didn't seem the slightest bit inconvenienced at holding the great axes with a single hand each.

His roar was borderline inhuman as he charged. The saurus warriors, still slowly retreating, paused in their movement in favour of bracing themselves against the oncoming attack. The skull-clad champion swung one of his axes, didn't even try to aim his effort around the shields between him and his desired target, simply slammed the crescent blade upon the heavy shield with such force that the shield shattered, exploded into countless fragments, and the saurus who'd been holding the shield was sent flying back with one arm very clearly broken and hanging limp.

The skull-clad champion didn't stop there; he swung the other axe, cleaving through the arm of another saurus and then the first axe swung upward, lodging itself into the chest of that same saurus. The Chaos champion bellowed and lifted the axe, seemingly ignoring the fact that the saurus's body was still hanging from the weapon. With another scream of challenge, he swung his arm, the force of which removed the body, sending the corpse flying into another saurus who was sent to the ground.

Solin hurriedly kicked himself to his feet and lunged toward this new champion, swinging his zweihänder and managing to intercept the axe that would have left the floored saurus a head shorter. The champion gave off yet another roar and redirected his attention to Solin.

'Run,' Solin shouted to the still-living saurus among them. 'Just run!'

The floored saurus clambered to his feet and started to sprint for the fallback point. This was no longer an instance where an orderly retreat was advisable; speed now was the only chance they'd have of surviving, now that they were faced not with the lowly warriors but with champions, all seemingly of exalted status. It felt wrong to see so many of such status in one place, yet here they were. An exalted warlord, and a retinue of just as exalted champions beneath him.

The skull-wearer swung at Solin with a furious flurry that the Oldblood was only able to back-pedal away from in order to avoid death. As much as he loved his zweihänder, it wasn't a quick weapon for defending against a furious barrage of attacks as he was now targeted to. Again, he noted how the size of the twin axes did little to stop this champion from swinging in a blurred motion.

A small part of Solin's mind wondered whether this was what it felt like to be on the opposite side of his own flurried swings. It gave him a fresh new appreciation for just how demoralising it could be when faced with a threat that was near impossible to actually get to.

One of the retreating saurus screamed in panicked fear. The skulled champion paused in his flurry for a brief moment, which gave Solin time to take in the sight of the saurus in question. Or rather, to take in the sight of the literal cloud of swarming insects, their buzzing inaudible over the sound of Sigismund and the first champion still fighting. Seconds later, the swarm dispersed, and the skeletal remains of the saurus were revealed, stripped bare of any meat. Nearby, a man cackled, stepping out from behind one of the buildings, dressed in faded green clothing of silks and cottons, finery that looked out of place with his face, which was mottled and twisted by a combination of age and boils and sores, his lips pulled back into a mocking smile, eyes alight with a fanatical glee.

And from behind the old man came a woman, her own flesh permanently marred by mottled scarring that looked to have come from terrible burns. The only clue that existed about where she originated from were her clothing, equally as rich in material as that of the old man, but with a distinct style that came from Araby.

The woman lifted a palm, and the embers of blue and purple flames began to spawn. A sorceress then.

With a snarl, Solin turned away from the skulled one, whipped his tail around to slam into the champion as he did so, and moved at the sorceress and the old man. The old man's eyes widened in manic glee as he took in the approaching Oldblood, spoke words that Solin wasn't able to hear. The sorceress redirected her palm, while her burnt face gave away no emotion. Purple and blue flames shot forth, toward Solin. Solin dove, managing to slide beneath the flames, close enough that he felt the heat, but not so close as to actually be burnt by the foul magics. The moment the fire ceased, he was back on his feet, swinging his blade in an upward cut.

The sorceress barely managed to move her hand out of the way of the weapon's passage, the first expression to grace her features emerging in the form of startlement while she hurriedly backed away. The old man also looked shocked, but the gleeful mania returned quickly, and his own hands came up. The scent of decay and sickness thickened in the air, but any pestilent magics he might cast were willingly cut short when Solin angled himself so that the sorceress was between them. The old man's expression shifted, became bemusement, his hold on his foul powers faltering, before then he adopted a mocking sneer, the scent thickened again. He was planning to cast even if it caught his own comrade in the crossfire, something that she immediately realised if her own expression of disgust was any indication.

Except then the old man gagged, hand lifted to press on his temple as if to ward off a migraine. He shook his head, mouthed words silently, then gagged a second time. Finally, the grin fell from his face in favour of raw hatred. His hands lowered, and he stared at Solin and the sorceress with a hollow glare.

The sorceress glared back, but returned her attention back to Solin the moment the saurus shifted, ready to run her through while he'd thought he distracted. Her own hands came up, fingers curled, and the air felt charged and warm. The air twisted and flaming spheres appeared, hovered in place behind the sorceress, and then shot forward Solin.

Solin backed away, weaving from side to side to avoid the flaming projectiles, using his sword to bat aside those he wasn't certain he'd be able to dodge. Moments after the projectiles stopped flinging themselves at him, Solin felt his back make contact with a living body. A glance over his shoulder revealed Mort, looking worse for the wear, his shield so damaged that it barely counted as a shield any longer. The skulled champion was standing a small way back, heaving. Sigismund backed away from the glaive-wielding champion, his own shield likewise utterly destroyed, and he sported freshly bleeding cuts about his person.

'We can't win,' Mort hissed, jerking his head at the tide of warriors trickling into the scene, all watching their champions fight with jeering anticipation.

Solin grunted, eyes moving to check whether all the other saurus and the salamanders had managed to retreat yet.

'We run. Now!'

At the shouted final word, Solin turned and sprinted for the walkway to the top of the scarp, to the motte. Behind him, he was distantly aware that Mort was close. There was a furious scream, the thunderous cacophony that was dozens, maybe hundreds, of armoured boots slapping against the paved ground as the warriors of Chaos all registered that the three had bolted.

As they ran, Solin strained his senses, working to determine how close the pursuit was behind. The majority were distant, and the gap between them was growing. But there was one set of footfalls that were getting closer, gaining rapidly. With that awareness, Solin rested his zweihänder upon his shoulder and slowed his pace, ever so slightly. Mort and the human passed him, but he waited just a moment and then spun, swinging his blade with as much force as he could.

The glaive champion couldn't physically widen his eyes, but he managed to convey shock as he barely managed to bring his polearm up in time to block the strike. However, the force that Solin brought to bear was too much, and the champion was thrown, landing with a harsh grunt, the haft of his glaive bent from the massive sword's impact.

Solin didn't hang around to admire his handiwork, fully aware of the continued threat now catching up. He hurriedly sheathed his blade and ran, perfectly willing to go on all fours when he stumbled, so long as he kept moving. He reached the walkway, but still, he didn't stop, ascending the inclined path until he reached the gatehouse at the top which marked the entrance to the motte.

'Fire!' Sharpe's voice rang out.


*


Sigismund cursed softly when the skull-wearing Chaos barbarian appeared at the edge of his vision. He stilled his run, braced, and barely held back the axe that was swung for him. The longsword he had been gifted continued to endure, the shimmering blade looking as pristine as the moment he had first laid hands upon the weapon.

He was starting to suspect that this was no mere master-crafted blade, but had been imbued with some measure of magic. It cut through the armour of Chaos with an ease that should not have been possible otherwise, and the more he swung the blade, the more he noted that despite being larger and longer than his previous arming sword, he was swinging it with far more speed than his previous weapon. And now it was surviving a blow that Sigismund was under no illusion would have left his previous sword in pieces.

A muttered expletive escaped Sigismund's lips. He scrambled back, trying to put some distance between himself and the Chaos barbarian. Not a moment too soon, the distance he managed to gain was such that he was able to see the other axe and react in time, ducking beneath the crescent blade and then managing to parry the follow-up swing from the first axe. Unfortunately, the barbarian then followed up with a kick that connected solidly with Sigismund's chest with force enough that even the padding beneath his chainmail wasn't sufficient to cushion the blow. He managed to stay on his feet, but was short of breath and not about to be given time to catch that lost breath.

Another flurry of powerful swings from the barbarian's axes was launched at Sigismund. Worse, the captain of the Efror Guard could see the lesser Chaos warriors approaching, looking to surround him.

He couldn't win this one. Not by himself, and he couldn't see the lizardmen anywhere. It was entirely possible that they had simply left him by choice, though if he was feeling generous he would concede that it was possible they weren't in a position to take note of him and any trouble he was in.

The Feyerabend Estate was lost. There was no recovery from this. No salvaging his home.

Sigismund swallowed down the bile that the last thought had threatened to bring up. His home was gone. That marked twice now he had lost a home.

He would survive; he would rebuild. The Feyerabend Estate was lost to him, but the people, the Efror Guard, they remained, and they were waiting for him.

With a scream of fury, Sigismund lunged forward, as though to thrust at the skull-wearing barbarian. At the last moment, he redirected his momentum, swung the blade, and cut down one of the lesser warriors, then ran through the opening that it had created, eyes focused not toward the outer wall surrounding the bailey, but to where he knew survival lay within.

Behind him, the Chaos warriors were momentarily stupefied by his abrupt change from fighting a futile battle to seemingly fleeing like a coward. They recovered their wits quickly and started to chase after him. A risked glance over his shoulder before Sigismund rounded one of the buildings showed that the skull-wearer wasn't following, just glaring after him.

Good, that just meant that Sigismund might actually survive.


*


Happy cursed softly. It sounded like whatever delaying action had been made was no longer delaying. He carefully pushed another canvas satchel filled with gunpowder against the underside of the walkway leading up the scarp and to the motte. Nearby, another skirmisher hissed softly as they almost dropped their own satchel.

'Sergeant,' a third skirmisher whispered. He was only visible by virtue of Happy knowing where he was already. 'Looks like Solin and Mort are retreating.'

'Then we're out of time,' Happy said with a tone of anger. 'Damned Chaos gobshites. Last charges, plant 'em and move!'

Even as he spoke, he forcefully grabbed another satchel and decided against elegance and simply shoved it forcefully into a gap in the criss-crossing support structure keeping the walkway partially elevated at a shallow incline. Once he was certain that it wasn't about to slip free, he pushed himself away, fell to the far steeper slope of the motte's scarp, and dug claws and talons into the ground, climbing sideward to get himself out from under the walkway. The three chameleons that had been with him were quick to follow his example.

From the scarp, Happy was able to watch as Solin and Mort sprinted the length of the walkway, the flying bridge or whatever it was that the humans called the wooden artificial slope.

'Fire!' Sharpe's voice was heard.

The order was followed by the sound of thunder in chorus, echoing as every other skirmisher under Sharpe's command all fired as one.

The first of the Chaos warriors to step foot on the walkway were torn to shreds by the barrage of bullets sent their way, their armour good, but not good enough to save them. Few things were capable of defending against a veritable wall of projectiles propelled forward at such speed.

Happy kept one eye firmly upon the two Oldbloods, making careful note of their progress. Once they'd reached two-thirds of the way up the walkway, he tilted his head enough that the eye previously watching the Chaos warriors was instead able to look upon one of his fellow skirmishers. He held out a hand in silent request.

The chameleon handed over the end of a long string-like object, which snaked its way back to the part of the walkway that had only moments earlier been where the quartet of skirmishers had been positioned. It was with great satisfaction that Happy carefully pried the pistol from the strap keeping it secured to his wrist. This pistol wasn't loaded, no gunpowder within. But that wasn't its purpose at that moment.

Happy felt great glee as he held the end of the fuse against the flintlock hammer, pulled back that same hammer, and then pulled the trigger. Without loaded gunpowder, the pistol didn't discharge, didn't make any sound, but the hammer still slammed down, created sparks, and ignited the fuse. The wick lit up, and quickly that small flame trailed down the length of the fuse. The moment it reached the opposite end of the wick's length was immediately apparent.

There was heat and light and fire and sound as the walkway was torn asunder from the concussive force created as the dozen satchel charges planted in the support structure detonated. The walkway cracked and splintered, was ripped up and destroyed completely and utterly. What remained smouldered and burnt, the fires would destroy the wreckage.

Down in the village, the warriors of Chaos stopped, staring up at the motte and screaming obscenities.

Happy laughed manically, taking great pleasure in seeing Chaos foiled in any capacity. After a minute of enjoying the sight, he twisted and climbed the scarp until he was back up to level ground. Only then did he allow his scales to return to their preferred vibrant shade of green.

Sharpe was quick to notice him, giving a nod of appreciation and gesturing to where Happy and the other three skirmishers had left their clothes. Happy was quick to grab the discarded uniform, pulling on the breeches, even as he listened to the conversation around him.

While the green of the uniform could well have been close enough to the colour of the grass growing on the steep incline, it had been decided that it wasn't worth risking themselves at that moment. Better to allow their adaptive scales to do all the work and remain utterly unseen. Setting up the explosives had been delicate enough that they really hadn't wanted to chance it.

'Well, that should buy us some time,' Sharpe commented. Despite the attempt at a light tone, there was a definite undercurrent of fear. No doubt fully aware that there was no room for complacency.

'You rigged the walkway?' Mort asked.

'I had Happy start planting the charges the moment that champion opened the wall.' Sharpe crossed his arms. 'But we're trapped here now.'

Mort made a sound that was barely legible. Sharpe shot the Eternity Warden a look, then shook his head. Mort stared at the chameleon in silent conversation, and then gave a low sigh. 'They have at least two sorcerers. Not including their leader.'

'Which means they can keep blasting us with magic even after we've run out of ammunition,' Sharpe snarled softly. 'We're stuck here.'

Solin, silent since he'd got to the courtyard, looked around, eyes narrowed. 'Where did the human go?'

Sharpe tilted his head. Happy, still in the middle of fastening his breeches, shook his head and answered in his stead. 'He never reached the walkway.'

Solin and Mort shared a look. Mort's eyes were narrowed in what Happy recognised as the look of suspicion and distrust. 'There was something wrong with that man.'

Happy chose to ask, 'What do ye mean?'

Solin answered, 'The way he fought. I've only seen two types fight like that: Khornate berserkers, and Dawi slayers.'

'I get the berserker, but how did he make you think of slayers?' Mort asked, while his distrustful gaze softened to confusion.

'He didn't fight like he cared if he survived or not. He would defend himself but only in the way that it meant he could cause more harm to the enemy.'

'Emphasis on harm,' Mort mumbled. 'I saw him inflict a gut wound when he had a clear opening to decapitate.'

Solin nodded. 'Always fatal. But slow and painful deaths.' He turned his head, clearly looking down at the village below.

Happy followed the Oldblood's gaze while he shrugged on his undershirt. He wondered if the colonel was trying to see anything in particular. Standing at the inner gatehouse that had granted access to the now destroyed walkway, there were five figures staring up. Happy shivered, feeling the vengeful hatred the five projected.

The armoured figure in the middle, the apparent leader, didn't give any outward sign of such hatred, not the way that the four who stood at his sides did. Where they shook their fists and were clearly expressing their hatred and anger and fury, the armoured leader just stood, strange sword rested point-first on the ground and balanced upright from the single palm rested on the pommel. He looked almost at ease, but Happy got a definite sense that the thick and heavy feeling that coated the air was mostly from that one single entity.

For a leader of a Chaos warband, the armour seemed borderline bland. The gold runes decorating his armour almost blended in with the white metal if viewed at the wrong angle, there was a distinct lack of skulls, unless one counted the sigil that was displayed upon the standards held by the lesser warriors under his command.

But Happy could still recall that moment that he had swung his sword and brought down a bolt of energy that had so utterly destroyed the gatehouse. Had sent Happy flying despite what had been a fair distance between himself and the target of the bolt.

Bland, but in that way that meant he was supposed to be unassuming. Or maybe he was just strangely frugal about decorating his armour, pragmatic in a way that Chaos usually wasn't.

Happy shivered again.


*


Boney stared, wide-eyed, at the desecration of what was supposed to be a chapel dedicated to Ulric. Kro-Loq made a sound of understanding, his own eyes resting upon the banner that had once displayed the wolf, now torn and covered with an image of a skull bisected in two, half white, half black.

The eight-pointed star taking pride of place was hardly a surprise at that moment.

'Say what you will about Chaos, but subtlety is not their strong suit,' Kro-Loq mused thoughtfully, prodding at the ruined banner.

Boney huffed softly and moved sluggishly toward a strangely barren part of the wall. Where nearly every available surface had been decorated with banners and iconography related to the white wolf—or they had been before they were soiled and perverted by the iconography of Chaos—the presence of a large six-foot-wide breadth of wall left completely bare had the major curious.

'Is there a reason to leave a bare patch here?' Boney asked absently, staring at the stonework.

Kro-Loq answered with a hum of consideration, and Boney was aware that he had turned to look at the wall himself. 'None that I know of. But nobody ever accused the warmbloods of making sense at the best of times.'

'But they still often make a twisted kind of sense,' Boney argued, recalling everything he'd been taught about humans, particularly of the Empire. He wasn't going to claim to be an expert on the subject—he was taught second-hand knowledge, whereas the Legion's senior members had actually spent time mingling. 'And human fanaticism follows its own logic, doesn't it? Follow the rules of their deities as interpreted by the priests, show faith in excess, or be judged not truly faithful.'

The Scar Veteran chuckled. 'Not that different from us then. We follow the Great Plan of the Old Ones as interpreted by the Slann. Annat'corri, and the Legion, is proof that even the Slann don't always agree on interpretations.'

Boney shook his head in acknowledgement of that. Back on the Madrigal Isle, it was just an accepted fact that their Lustrian cousins saw them as odd outliers, mostly harmless in that the Legion had never interfered with the more mainstream interpretations. Even on Madrigal, Annat'corri was one of three Slann presiding over the isle, and one of the other two was known to disagree with Annat'corri's vision of how to move forward. The third was more neutrally ambiguous, though he accepted Annat'corri's project, as the Legion's existence hardly hurt the Great Plan.

Still, Boney tapped his knuckles against the barren patch of wall. It just rubbed him the wrong way to see this empty space in a sea of iconography and ostentatious religious decoration.

Boney and Kro-Loq both blinked at the sound that came from Boney's knuckles making contact. It wasn't the low muted sound of knuckles lightly tapping solid stone and rock. It was loud, the kind of loudness that came from air vibrating with the sound and echoing it back. This wall was hollow.

Both skink and saurus shared a look. The Scar Veteran opened his mouth as if to suggest something, but then closed it, clearly second-guessing whatever he thought to say. Instead, he moved to the space where the emptiness turned to decoration, rested his palm upon the wall, and slid his hand against the rough stone. He stopped abruptly.

'I feel air,' he announced, slowly peeling his hand back and looking at the space it had previously inhabited.

Boney leaned closer to see for himself. Now that he was paying attention, he could just barely make out a line, a seam in the otherwise ordinary stonework.

'A door.' Boney spoke the word with curiosity, wondering what lay behind this hidden portal. 'How do we open it?'

Kro-Loq made a rumbling sound, his eyes now fixed on the floor. 'I think it opens inward.'

'Why?' Boney asked, head tilted in confusion. Despite that, he lightly pushed at the wall, as if it would just swing open now that he was applying pressure.

Kro-Loq pointed at the ground. 'Didn't notice that before. The floor has been scratched, looks like something has been dragged across the floor repeatedly. But the wall? No scratches on the floor near it, not on this side.'

Like the seams in the wall, it was only because Boney was looking specifically that he was able to see what the saurus was talking about. Twin marks formed a trail, leading from the doors into the chapel and into the wall. But as Kro-Loq had said, there were no marks that suggested that the wall had scratched the floor on opening.

The Scar Veteran tapped at his sabre's hilt, eyes narrowed in thought, then eyed the large double doors that had led into the chapel, then looked again at the marks on the floor he'd pointed out. He looked like there was something just at the edge of his mind's awareness, a thought that hadn't quite come into being, but was on the precipice.

Boney crossed his arms, waiting for the saurus to finish whatever thought it was he was building up. After ten seconds, Kro-Loq spoke.

'Remind me, we were told it was a cart of bodies that was brought into the keep?'

Boney nodded, having memorised everything he'd been told before leaving for the Feyerabend estate. 'A cart full of dead bodies,' he affirmed.

'We haven't even found a cart in our search. It wasn't in the courtyard.' As he spoke, Kro-Loq held his hands out as if measuring something. Boney caught on to his thought process.

'You think the entire cart was taken through that secret door?' he asked.

'The marks look wide enough to have been from the wheels of such.' Kro-Loq had a distracted tone as he answered. He turned, scanning the various decorative details lining the chapel. 'Look for something that seems out of place.'

Boney made a sarcastic show of examining the chamber. 'Hmm, that eight-pointed star looks rather out of place. So does that bloodstain made to look like some symbol of the Ruinous Powers.'

Kro-Loq didn't seem to take offence at Boney's sarcasm, his eyes crinkling in amusement. 'Something not Chaos-related, Major Adorable.'

Boney swallowed back the reflexive hiss of irritation at the nickname. With a sharp shake of the head, he instead moved around the edge of the room, taking careful note of everything hanging from the walls, every painting, every banner, and every shelf that was supposed to be covered in Ulric-related objects.

He stopped abruptly at a small squared incline in the wall with an object that hadn't been torn out and thrown aside. It was a potted plant. A flower. A black flower.

'Does Morr have anything to do with Ulric?' Boney asked.

'Not really?' There was a questioning lilt to the answer, equal parts confusion at the question and uncertainty as Kro-Loq started to second guess his own answer before he'd finished voicing the two-worded reply.

Boney stared at the potted black flower. It was a real flower, a rose, the thorns jutting from the stem looked needle-sharp, and the flower's petals a dark black that seemed to absorb all light. Despite the appearance, the flower gave off a pleasant scent.

'There's no reason you can think of that a black flower would be kept in a chapel of Ulric then?' Boney asked further.

Kro-Loq shook his head. 'Not that I know of, but'—he shrugged a single shoulder—'I haven't taken the time to learn the relationships between the various gods of the warmbloods. I know Morr is god of the dead, that Ulric is god of war. Oh, and that Sigmar was once but a man, one who ascended through... methods?'

Boney shared a shrug and confused headshake of his own. The tales of Sigmar Heldenhammer's ascension were vague on just how the king had become a god, and surely the Slann should have been able to explain in detail how a warmblood had accomplished such a feat, but no, if they knew, they'd never shared the details.

Boney prodded at the pot in which the flower had been planted, curious about why a physical symbol of one of the Empire's gods hadn't been desecrated as the decorations to Ulric had been. It didn't move; it was rooted in place. The flower was real, the pot clearly filled with dirt, but the pot itself was not a clay container but stone built into the alcove, as much a fixture as the very walls. A second prod and Boney noticed that his touch had actually pivoted it, ever so slightly. Lacking any other ideas, he grabbed the flower pot with both hands and twisted.

There was a yelp behind Boney, and when he twisted around, he found that Kro-Loq was looking at the newly opened wall, his posture shaken. It took the skink a moment to piece together that Kro-Loq had been pushing against the wall when it had abruptly swung inward and almost sent the saurus rolling down the sloped corridor on the other side.

'Worked it out,' Boney said in a light tone. 'The flower pot was a switch.'

Kro-Loq shot Boney a bemused look, though his attention quickly returned to the wide passage that had been revealed, his nostrils flaring as he took in a new scent. Boney took a few sniffs of the air himself. It took him a moment to place it. He was standing next to a black rose, so at first, the scent was masked by the pleasant aroma. Decay, rot, and death.

'Smells like we're going in the right direction,' the Scar Veteran huffed out.

Boney nodded his head once in agreement and then tilted it sideways as he considered the passageway. 'If we're going in there, I'm getting some of the cohort to come with us.'

Kro-Loq made a sound of acknowledgment, then cast a stern eye upon Boney, crossed his arms, and made it clear that his next words were not up for debate.

'I'm going in there; you will wait here.'

'Excuse me?' Boney hissed softly. It didn't even occur to him that he outranked the saurus and could just outright say that no, he was going in with the captain. Instead, his immediate indignation had him stare at the saurus and demand an explanation.

'You're still moving sluggishly,' Kro-Loq said quietly. 'And your voice is slurring.'

'No, it's not,' Boney rebutted, though he did try to listen to his voice as he uttered the words to determine the truth for himself. He couldn't make out any slurring, but while paying attention, he did register that there was a pause between each word that there shouldn't have been.

Kro-Loq raised a brow ridge. 'You're still suffering from your miscast. I cannot, in good conscience, let you go into what might be a fight.'

Boney sucked in his protest, much as he wanted to debate the point that he felt fine. Logically, he knew that nowhere near enough time had passed since his miscast and follow-up attempt at using magic for a proper recovery. The fact that it had been to dispel an enemy's own magics was irrelevant; the fact that he had collapsed afterward meant that he had blown through his mental stamina in a way that only time could recover from. Time spanning at least a day. As much as he felt fine, he was aware of every warning ever made to every skink with a talent for utilizing the Winds of Magic. How he felt was irrelevant. Apparently, his feelings were a lie, if he wasn't even able to notice his own voice slurring.

'Fine,' he finally grunted in reluctant agreement. 'I'll grab a few saurus and skinks, they'll go with you. I'll go see how the majors are doing and let them know we found this... tunnel.'

Kro-Loq's eyes narrowed slightly into a thankful smile.


*


Sharpe watched the Chaos forces below. There was something unusual about how they were conducting themselves. Typically, a war-band of Chaos would be sacking and burning any towns and villages they came across. As a marauding force that didn’t settle and kept on the move, causing devastation, they had no need to garrison and occupy captured settlements. The village below should have been no different. Yet as the chameleon watched, the warriors weren’t burning any of the buildings down. Doors were kicked in, and anything of worth was taken from those same buildings and tossed into a pile for sorting at a later moment in time, but no fires.

It was remarkably restrained for the Chaos-aligned.

The whole time, the leader of this war-band stood, still as a statue, helmet never looking away from the motte atop the hill. Sharpe had been tempted to fire at the white-armoured figure but restrained the temptation. If this exalted warlord wasn’t killed—which was likely considering how good the hell-forged armour of Chaos had proven itself to be—then Sharpe would have only provoked the warlord into repeating his use of arcane magics with a specific target in mind.

That the warlord restrained himself from his eldritch blasts was probably only due to the fact that smashing the wall atop the scarp didn’t stop the steep incline from making it just as difficult a target to rush as if the wall was still standing. This warlord knew restraint, and that in itself was its own brand of worrying. It was the warlords and champions who knew long-term planning and scheming that caused the most trouble; they were the ones that didn’t burn themselves out by overextending and pushing too hard.

The other four champions were nowhere to be seen. That was also worrying. From what Sharpe had seen of them, they were each an army unto themselves. Each was easily powerful enough that they could have been leading this war-band—they’d survived and pushed back against both Solin and Mort when both were fighting side-by-side. A clearer picture of their prowess one did not need after such a showing. Just how capable was the warlord if he was able to have such individuals as his subordinates?

Sharpe absent-mindedly widened the space between his skirmishers on the wall. He didn’t want to chance one of those champions sneakily climbing the scarp in a space where there was no attention directed.

There was a sound behind him. Sharpe angled his head so that his right eye could look behind him. Major Boney approached, his gait had that stilted motion that suggested that his entire body was fatigued, though the smaller skink didn’t seem to be aware of his own aches, so probably some numbness on top of the fatigue.

Sharpe had never envied the skink priests the risks that came from using such skill sets.

'You know, Major, the amount of worry you put Solin through is triggering his paternal instincts.'

Boney paused in his approach, head tilted, and eyes narrowed in confusion. 'What? Why does everybody keep saying that? What does that even mean?'

'You think the Colonel doesn’t worry?' Sharpe asked, choosing to ignore the slur in the smaller skink’s voice. 'You’re young, under his care, and you miscast and then decide to say screw it and cast again shortly afterward.'

'I wasn’t thinking about myself, I was more concerned with the sorcerer throwing fire around,' Boney argued, continuing to climb the stairs so that he was atop the wall. 'Not really in a position to worry about the consequences.'

'Maybe start thinking about them regardless,' Sharpe said, turning his head back so that both eyes could continue scanning the village below.

'Who are they?' Boney asked after a pause, during which time he examined the warriors of Chaos for himself.

'Chaos. Couldn’t say more than that.' Sharpe shrugged in feigned nonchalance. After a moment, he re-angled his head so that he could look at Boney again. 'As a priest, you would be more educated than I on this subject. Does a skull, half white, half black, mean anything to you?' Even as he described the symbol used on the war-band’s standards, a hand pointed out one such standard for the smaller skink to see for himself.

Boney hesitated a moment, eyes fogged over as he trekked through his memories for anything that might be similar to the described sigil. He eventually shook his head in the negative.

'Doesn’t match anything that I was taught about.'

'Damn. Here’s hoping that Iycan continues to live up to his role as intelligence keeper.'

Boney chuffed in amusement, even if ignorant of just the full extent of Iycan’s reputation within the Legion as the one who knew something about everything.

Movement caught Sharpe’s attention, and his eye focused on the appearance of the champion wearing the Far Eastern armour. The champion was approaching the warlord, steps short and deliberate. His glaive was held in one hand, no sign of the previous damage from Solin’s swing earlier.

'What armour is that?' Clearly, Boney had just noticed the champion’s appearance.

'At a glance, it looks like the armour of the warrior caste of the island of Nippon. You occasionally see some of them in Marienburg as guards on trade vessels or as sellswords. Can’t recall the name they use to describe themselves, though.'

Sharpe was careful not to make a definite statement as Chaos could be prone to deception. That, and Sharpe wasn’t exactly educated on the Far East beyond Grand Cathay—what experience he had with the lands to the east of the World’s Edge was limited to the four years that he had spent fighting in Ind in a failed attempt by Annat’corri to establish a second force that would work the East while Ingwel and his subordinates would focus on the lands between the World’s Edge mountains and the western shores. With that failure, those who would have created that second force had instead been sent to Ingwel, and thus what had at the time been the Outland Company had become large enough to re-brand as the Outland Legion.

'Nippon?' Boney asked.

'Not a place the Legion has any experience with,' Sharpe explained. 'Though, if they fight anything like that Chaos champion, I’m not sure I want to have any experience with them.'

Boney hummed absently. 'We found where the bodies were taken,' he said after a pause, changing the subject.

'Oh?'

'Secret passage in the chapel. Wide enough that the entire cart that we were told about could fit with space to spare.'

Sharpe fully turned away from the village below to focus exclusively on the other skink. 'A passage?'

Boney nodded with a single sharp jerk of the head. 'Leading downward. Captain Kro-Loq is exploring.'

Sharpe let out a soft sound of understanding. Realisation then had his posture straighten. 'Underground tunnels... we might not be as trapped as we thought.'

At that moment, Solin and Mort approached, both arguing with each other, but their voices were soft enough that Sharpe wasn’t able to make out the words. That was a good sign, it meant their arguing wasn’t serious, likely more about throwing ideas at each other and then shooting them down.

'Colonel, Major,' Sharpe called out, waving a hand at the two saurus in a come-hither gesture.

Both Oldbloods looked up sharply at the chameleon’s calling. Solin’s eyes then slid to Sharpe’s side, drilled holes into Boney, narrowed. Anything he wanted to say wasn’t released into words though.

'Good news, we might have a way out,' Sharpe said once the pair were near enough that he wasn’t raising his voice to be heard. 'A secret tunnel.'

Mort blinked at the reveal. 'A secret tunnel? Leading where?'

Boney opened his mouth to give an answer, but snapped his jaw shut with a click, turning his head toward the village below. Sharpe followed the other skink’s gaze and let out a sigh of bemusement.

'Hey, Solin, looks like he wants to be "sneered at twofold" after all.'

With a queer look on his face, Solin leaned over the edge of the wall so that he could observe the Chaos warrior who was approaching the keep, carrying that same white flag of truce that he’d had previously. The Oldblood examined the warrior for ten seconds, then pulled himself away with a shake of the head.

'Let’s actually hear what he has to say this time.'

Mort snorted. 'Really? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the reaction to your last display of wit towards him, would it?'

'No.' Solin’s tone made it clear that this wasn’t an attempt to deny the accusation but a simple truth. 'This time we want them to waste time. And I want to know what they want. Specifically.'

The flag-waving Chaos warrior reached the edge of the sharp slope of the scarp. Once he was aware he had the attention of four lizardmen upon him, and no thinly veiled insults were thrown his way, he started speaking.

'To the Lustrians who hold the Feyerabend Keep,'—he clearly didn’t hear the triad of disgruntled groans that came from the misidentification for the second time—'the Lord Skaros has decreed that he is not without mercy. There is no need for further bloodshed. Lord Skaros is willing to discuss a surrender.'

The warrior continued to speak, a constant spiel of how surrendering was in the Legion’s best interest, as they were in a position where they couldn’t win a battle if violence commenced after all. Sharpe shook his head, feeling a surge of disgust and hatred at the Chaos warriors below that seemed to believe anybody could possibly take such platitudes as truth when uttered from the mouth of one who’d sold themselves out to the Ruinous Powers.

Solin nodded with a quiet hum. 'Okay, I’ve heard enough.' He turned away from the wall, head bowed, chin resting between thumb and index finger while his eyes clouded with thought. After a moment, his other hand waved dismissively over his shoulder. 'Kindly tell him where he can stick his offer of surrender.'

Mort leaned over the wall and gave a considering look at the warrior, who finally paused in his tirade once seeing the saurus looking down at him.

'We haven’t got enough room,' Mort finally shouted at the warrior. 'So we can’t accept your offer.'

There was a pause, one of bafflement, which even Sharpe shared as he tried to work out where that had come from.

'What?' The warrior finally found his wits again to ask, though it sounded more akin to a stuttered "wut" than the actual pronunciation—an achievement for a single-syllable word to be mangled so.

Mort began anew. 'We would love to accept, except we don’t have enough space for so many prisoners, so we can’t accept your surrender. Sorry about that, but it was a nice offer.'

The warrior below stared, his body language giving away that the man was completely lost as to how he was being told he wasn’t allowed to surrender when last he knew he was offering them the chance to surrender. 'What...?' he finally choked out.

'Did you need anything else?' Mort asked in a mockingly polite tone, as if genuinely looking to help the warrior with his needs.

After a full half-minute, the warrior finally shook his head and turned, walking back toward the majority of his war-band. Solin snorted, shoulders shaking from the effort he was visibly making to not burst out laughing.

'Sometimes... often times, I think of you as a boorish old coot,' Solin said to Mort once he regained his self-control. 'And then you go and remind me that you truly are a fellow Madrigallian.'

Mort’s eyes narrowed in a rare grin of humour. 'I have to remind you younger whelps what it means to be Madrigallian.'

Boney let out a choked sound, wide eyes staring at the pair of saurus. 'What just happened?'

Sharpe took pity on the skink, curling an arm around his shoulders. 'It’s a saurus thing.' It was the only way he could describe what had just happened. Sharpe himself would have taken Solin’s command quite literally and far more colourfully, while Mort had done... that. He had no doubt that any other saurus would have done similar while any skink would have just introduced a verbal barrage of expletives.

'So, what did you work out from that verbal excrement?' Mort asked.

'They want the keep standing,' Solin answered swiftly. 'They have at least one hellcannon down there, and their warlord, "Skaros" I assume, has shown that he has the power to bring down stone structures with a gesture. They want the keep standing and undamaged.'

'Reaching a bit, aren’t you?' Sharpe asked. 'And they have three,' he added as an afterthought.

Solin and Mort both blinked at Sharpe. 'Three of them? I only see the one.' Solin shook his head in bemusement.

Sharpe sighed and pointed down at the village below. 'Hellcannon.' His finger drifted to the right, pointing at a second of the daemonically possessed war machines. 'Hellcannon.' His finger then lifted, pointing out the last that he had noticed, barely visible where it had been placed mostly hidden behind what had once been a blacksmith’s foundry. 'Hellcannon.'

'Solin’s right.' Mort finally spoke after staring at the three war machines. 'They easily have the means to wipe us out. Instead, they just offered surrender.'

'Since when does Chaos offer the chance to surrender?' Solin added with a sarcastic snort. 'Depending on the patron, they’ll trick a surrender out of their victims. But openly offering it? That doesn’t fly with any Chaos followers. Not unless they have a specific reason. They want us to lay down our arms. Why? The keep is the only thing I can think of—the keep or something within.'

As one, the four lizardmen turned to stare at the stone structure.

'You think maybe they wanted the count?' Boney asked. 'That sorcerer didn’t react well when he realised he was dead.'

Solin crossed his arms. 'Maybe?' But he didn’t sound convinced by the answer.

There was a shout from the courtyard. Kro-Loq came out of the keep, eyes scanning and locking onto Solin and Mort. 'We have a problem.'

Sharpe sighed, turning away from the approaching captain with a dismayed 'Oh, what now?' but he otherwise resolved to let the oldbloods worry about whatever new development had arisen.


*


Mort stared around the vast cavernous hall that had been at the end of the sloped tunnel from the chapel, ignoring the foul stench of rot that came from the dark depths of the many branching tunnels. There was an empty cart nearby.

'Catacombs?' he repeated incredulously.

'Supposed to be.' Kro-Loq sounded troubled. 'There were certainly enough black roses growing at one point. However...' he trailed off and pointed to a nearby vine, the flowers withered and long dead.

Solin snorted in disgust. 'The sanctity of this place has been fouled. You found no bodies?'

Kro-Loq shook his head. 'I've seen signs that there were corpses and remains laid to rest, but nothing remains. I think our necromancer found his supply of bodies here.'

'The question now is whether the count was aware that this tomb beneath his keep was desecrated in such a way.' Mort glowered at nothing in particular. 'How does one come to have catacombs under their home?'

'And supposed to be blessed by Morr at that?' Solin added. He turned to Kro-Loq. 'How far do these catacombs go?'

'Far.' The single-syllable answer was given in a tone of concern. 'And I've seen no sign of any remains still being here.'

Mort tilted his head. 'There has to be another way out of here then.'

Kro-Loq looked at the Major with a questioning gaze. 'Why do you think that?'

Mort waved a hand at the empty cart. 'We haven’t seen any undead in the keep, nor have any left the keep since this cart of bodies came here. But the bodies it brought have to be somewhere.'

'So, either they're hiding somewhere deep within the catacombs, or there's an exit.' Kro-Loq nodded his understanding of Mort's thought process.

Solin made a sound of contemplation. 'If there is, that means Chaos wasn’t responsible for the undead, or they’d have known about another way in and wouldn’t have had to start a siege of the keep.'

Mort huffed out a breath of air from his nostrils. 'I was hoping that stopping one would stop the other.' Despite the dour tone, he wasn’t disagreeing with the Colonel’s logic. There was still a possibility that they were wrong, that the Chaos war-band were indeed responsible for the surge of undead, but Mort wasn’t going to get his hopes up.

Solin rubbed a palm against his temple. 'Now the question I ask myself: is that war-band aware of the undead presence? If so, are they allies?'

Mort shook his head. 'The Ruinous forces aren’t exactly fond of the undead. And didn’t Iycan once mention that the various necromancers have aligned themselves against Chaos?'

Solin shrugged. 'So what was the sorcerer’s role here? He was definitely Chaos-aligned; he mutated one of my saurus into a pink horror and another into a spawn. An effort to control?'

'Let’s not think about it until we’re no longer threatened by the war-band,' Mort spoke after a pause of consideration. 'Not like any ideas we have will magically give us an advantage against them anyway.'

'True,' Solin muttered. 'Iycan went to check out nearby caves?'

'That was what he told Sharpe.' Mort answered automatically, but then straightened as he registered what that potentially meant. It was another point in favour of the idea that there was another exit to the catacombs. He looked to Solin, who nodded, having clearly had the same realisation.

'I’m going to go get everybody into these catacombs, and I’m going to set the keep to the torch,' Solin resolved, steel in his tone. 'If Skaros does want the keep intact, I feel obligated to disappoint him. If he wants the catacombs? He’s going to have to dig for them or search the hills for the other entrance. Captain, with me. Mort, you get started on finding us another way out.'

Mort didn’t question Solin’s order, and at that point, it was indeed an order. This was the superior on the hierarchy; this was Solinaraxl, and Mort felt no need to question him. He turned and looked to the six other saurus and the dozen skinks within the chamber, who had been listening to the conversation between the three without any input. They weren’t Mort’s usual, but at that moment, that wasn’t important. He started giving orders.


*


Skaros stood, staring at the keep atop the hill. Though he had given no outward reaction when he learned of the answer his generous offer had been met with, he felt a simmering of two emotions welling up and fighting to be felt within him.

The obvious emotion was rage. Rage against those creatures who would defy him. Even when being generous, they spat in his face. They weren’t his true enemy; they were an obstacle that, at that moment, happened to be in his path, blocking him from his goals. It was only because they weren’t his true enemy—they weren’t the ones that he had long since dedicated himself to erasing—that he had been willing to give them mercy. They had spat in his face, whether they knew it or not.

On the other hand, there was a not-so-small measure of respect that he felt for their response. They had to know they were in an unwinnable situation, and yet their response was to make it clear that they would prefer to fight and die on their own terms rather than trust the mercies of a Chaos warlord. Admirable. Die free rather than live to regret it.

Naturally, he would have to grant them their request for death.

Around him, his followers scurried about, scavenging through the buildings of the village for anything of worth. They likely wouldn’t find much of value. This was a pitiful village of no name, only ever referred to as an extension of the keep that hovered over them, which itself was only named after the family that had owned it since it had been built. A no-name village for a count of no real worth who was only gifted that title because of a marriage generations back but never got close to the level of respect and glory that those who called themselves the Elector Counts claimed.

Oh, Skaros knew of Count Feyerabend and his charming title among the real powers of the Empire as the "Count of Farmers." Fools—he counted Feyerabend himself as one of those fools. It seemed that nobody knew what he had. Except somebody else had apparently found out and made moves upon the Count of Efror.

It was irrelevant though, whatever other designs were being made upon this land. Skaros had come for a purpose, and no tales of necromancers or strange Lustrians pretending to be men of the Empire would get in his way.

An argument could be heard. Skaros considered ignoring it, but once he heard the screech of the Incubator, he knew that he had to intervene.

The old man was still screeching when Skaros approached. Strangely, it wasn’t Fatesaw he was arguing with—that would have made the most sense considering how he had almost killed her as collateral to kill that one lizardman, would have had Skaros not imposed his Will upon the disease-ridden old bastard—but he was instead in a shouting match against Valnar the Everwrath.

It would be more accurate to state that the Incubator was screaming at the Everwrath rather than it being an argument. The Everwrath, despite his name, was calm, stood silent in the face of the hate-filled tirade being levied at him, arms crossed and the eyes of the skull he wore angled to convey a sense of dismissal, which, knowing the Incubator, was only fuel to the fire. No doubt the Everwrath was fully aware of that fact.

Skaros projected his Will, and both men screamed in pain as he made his displeasure known. None of the lesser warriors around them reacted to two of the exalted champions in their midst suddenly screaming in a pain that normally only came from torture. Skaros continued to make his displeasure known for about two minutes before he pulled back his Will.

The Incubator, panting, turned to look upon Skaros. 'My lord...'

'Shut up.'

Skaros didn’t want to hear excuses, didn’t want to hear any form of justification. He had four exalted champions under his command, but they fell prey to the typical self-defeating nature of the vast majority of Chaos and feuded amongst each other like the cats and dogs of the southern realms. It took a firm grasp and a strict mindset to keep them under some semblance of control and restraint.

When they were allowed to lead individual war-bands, far from each other, all was fine. It was whenever they were in close proximity to one another that the constant need to bicker and feud and try to kill each other arose. Fortunately, the times they were in close contact with each other also meant that Skaros was nearby to force the matter. He needed them alive.

Nearby, Kranax Soulshriver looked away from his naginata—not a glaive, he was very specific about the name of his weapon. The mutilated Nipponese warrior rested the ruined weapon against a wall and approached, shooting a look at the Incubator which was probably supposed to be scorn, but even with a near lifetime of knowing Kranax, which even extended to before he had been mutilated, Skaros had a hard time truly reading the champion’s expressions when he had no eyelids, no lips, even his brows were torn and scarred in such a way that they didn’t rise or furrow.

'Our warriors haven’t found any other way up the hill to the keep.' Kranax spoke with a rough voice, an indication that while his throat looked unmarked outwardly, the mutilation was still there, but hidden on the inside. 'The only way we’re getting to the keep is to climb the hill.'

Skaros didn’t vocalize any sign of his feelings on that news, just spoke in a bland tone as he answered. 'I suspected such would be the case. It would make for a poor defense otherwise.'

He angled his helmet to face the keep. Something about the walls surrounding the plateau atop the hill felt off; there was something different. Unseen, Skaros narrowed his eyes as he considered the wall.

'If I were to task you with climbing the hill with a band of your own choosing, could you get over the wall?' His tone was no longer bland; now it was colored with a dangerous undercurrent.

Kranax tilted his head to look upon the walls for himself. 'Easily.'

Skaros continued to consider the wall. 'Do it. Clear out the scum.'

Kranax nodded a single sharp nod and then turned to gather his chosen warriors.


*


Sigismund slowly climbed the hill, half an eye constantly turned toward the place that had been his home. It was home no longer. First, it had been conquered by the lizards, then the count had died, and now Chaos had come to defile what lingered.

A small part of him felt like a coward. He had spotted an opportunity, one only afforded to him if he ran by himself. So he had left the lizardmen to battle Chaos and keep the army of the Ruinous Forces distracted while he made his escape. He was now in a position to get back to his men and organize a proper counter-attack.

The sun was beginning to set low. It was the gradually darkening sky that allowed Sigismund to first take note. An orange glow was starting to make itself seen in the keep.

'Did those reptiles start a fire?' he wondered aloud. More quietly, he wondered about the reasoning if they had indeed started a blaze. Were they trying to deny Chaos their prize? Surely they'd wait until the last minute before doing so; the keep allowed them to rack up a body count when the slaves of Chaos inevitably made their attack. Wait until the last moment before giving up your defensive advantage, surely?

Then there was a crack of thunder, and one of the walls of the keep crumbled.

Looks like the fire was in the gunpowder stores. Gunpowder that had largely been useless without the mortars, destroyed so soon into the lizardmen's own assault on the motte and bailey.

A second explosion of fire. Sigismund amended his previous assessment. It looked like the lizardmen had chosen to spread the gunpowder to better bring down the walls around them. Unless...

Sigismund wasn't certain how to feel about the idea that entered his head. Had the lizards found the old mines? The ones that had been converted into catacombs wherein all deceased within the county could be interred at no cost? The Feyerabend family's final kindness to those living under their lands, a cheaper alternative to the Gardens of Morr, blessed by the priests of the same.

Few knew of the catacombs.

Sigismund felt like he should have been annoyed at the idea of these strange creatures walking through the final sanctity of the peoples of the county. But on the other hand, if they were destroying the keep... that lessened the chances of the army of Chaos stumbling across those same catacombs.

Another explosion sounded in the air.


*


Kro-Loq cursed softly. That first gunpowder deposit had detonated prematurely, and the corridor leading to the chapel had collapsed. There was another way around, fortunately, just a bit of a detour.

'Are you alright?' Solin's voice called from the other side of the rubble.

'I'm fine. I'll have to go around.' Kro-Loq replied quickly. 'You go on ahead, Colonel, I'll catch up.'

There was a sound of reluctant affirmation from the other side of the blockage. It was hardly as if Solin could change reality just because he wasn't happy with getting split up from the captain. With a bemused huff, Kro-Loq turned and hurriedly moved, aware of the heat from the many fires that the pair had started in their effort to deprive the Chaos war-band of anything of value from the keep.

Let it all burn, let them have nothing but heated rocks and scorched earth for their troubles.

Left turn, right turn, follow the corridor... Duck the swing of a great axe!

Kro-Loq hurriedly unsheathed his sabre and parried a second swing, then reposted, managing to stab the point of his blade beneath the white-armoured figure's left shoulder, into the armpit. The warrior gargled and fell, leaving Kro-Loq wondering just how he'd gotten into a short bout of violence with a warrior who should by all rights still be in the village below the keep.

There was a shout; Kro-Loq didn't wait to find out who it was that had yelled, whether it was a call to mark out where he was or anything else. He needed to move. Get to the secret tunnel to the catacombs.

One corridor away from the chapel, another Chaos warrior appeared. This one managed to put up a better fight than the previous one, swinging the huge axe quickly enough that he was making it difficult to even see where any weaknesses in the armour lay, never mind acting upon them. With a rough exhale, Kro-Loq chose against elegance, waiting for the next swing of the great axe and then charging, slamming his left shoulder into the torso of the warrior, wrapping his arm around the torso and not stopping his forward charge. They only stopped moving once the warrior's back slammed into the wall beside the large double doors that led into the chapel. Kro-Loq released the warrior and used his left arm to press against the right arm of the warrior, pinning it against the wall to prevent the warrior from swinging the axe again.

His sabre was carefully positioned so that the edge was pried into the gap between helmet and cuirass. Kro-Loq felt no remorse as he slid the blade sideways, carefully cutting through the tender flesh of the warrior's neck. Blood dribbled from both the wound and from within the helmet itself. Experience with neck wounds meant that Kro-Loq knew this was normal—that the extra blood was being drooled from the mouth of the warrior. It meant the warrior was dead without magically assisted healing, something that Chaos was not known for, even among their more talented sorcerers. He let the body crumble to the ground and pushed his way into the chapel.

The secret passage was shut again. With a slight groan, the captain moved to the potted flower that was the secret lever and twisted it, watching as the wall opened up. It would have been easy for him to just step through and shut the wall behind him, but Kro-Loq's eyes trailed to the massive pile of black powder, one of several that Solin and he had positioned throughout the keep. Of all of them, that was arguably the most important one to detonate; it would bury the entrance to the catacombs, maybe even collapse the tunnel, further hindering any effort to unearth the labyrinth below.

Ideally, the fire would spread and be the catalyst for the gunpowder to detonate. But with an unknown number of Chaos warriors already within the keep...

Kro-Loq grunted softly and moved to the gunpowder, grabbing the improvised wick with one hand while the other carefully fished out a block of flint from his coat's pocket. With that, he could use his sabre against the flint and start the fuse. That would make absolutely certain that at the very least this particular explosion happened.

One swipe of his sabre was enough, as he'd predicted. He stood, admired his work, and then turned... and threw himself back frantically as a scarred man in Eastern armour swung a curved sword at him. It was a near miss, so near that there was a large gash where the blade had sliced through the wool of his coat and even through to the linen of the shirt beneath.

The sword was swung a second time, this one intercepted by Kro-Loq's sabre. The Chaos swordsman tilted his head and adjusted his stance. He seemed to flex his fingers before firmly securing his grip upon the sword's hilt.

Kro-Loq was not the swordmaster that others in the Legion could claim to be. He knew enough to survive against most threats, but when even a number of skinks were capable of besting him in one-on-one duels more often than not, Kro-Loq knew his strength didn't lie in swordsmanship. But he considered himself knowledgeable enough to recognize those who were talented.

This swordsman before him—while the stance and the weapon were foreign to him—he knew, just knew that he was looking at a master of comparable skill to the tailor Marz, to Mort, to Iycan, maybe even to Solin and Ingwel.

He couldn't win.

But he was a captain of the Outland Legion, he was a Child of the Gods, and this before him was a wretch who had sold himself to the Great Enemy. He might not win this fight, but he would not be found lacking in his resolve.

With a snarl, Kro-Loq lunged, stepping forward and swinging, putting everything he had ever learned throughout his one hundred and seventy summers into his efforts. He skipped back as his initial swing was intercepted, avoiding the attempted counter, taking into consideration the speed of the swing, the angle, and the force behind it. One hit, and Kro-Loq knew it would be the end. Unfortunately, he was a large target—arguably the worst thing about being a saurus as opposed to the skinks: big builds, big bodies, big targets.

Forward again, wrist pivoting, his sabre flashing in a flurry of blows that would hopefully prevent the Chaos swordsman from countering.

Slash, thrust, slash, slash, slash...

Kro-Loq stumbled when the swordsman parried one swing in such a way that the saurus was momentarily thrown off balance. The swordsman lunged, but before his own sword swing was able to reach the Scar Veteran, Kro-Loq's tail whipped out, striking the swordsman's leg with such force that he staggered and had to regain balance, during which time Kro-Loq's offhand was quick to grab one of the swordsman's arms and tug.

The swordsman turned the fall from the sharp yank into a rolled tumble, came up on his feet, and was already lunging.

A roar escaped Kro-Loq's maw as the blade pierced through his flesh, just above where his kidney lay. A clawed foot lashed out, connected with the swordsman, and sent him stumbling back. Ordinarily, Kro-Loq would have followed up with an attempt to cut down the enemy while unbalanced, but the moment he tensed in preparation to lunge after the swordsman, his chest flared up with a burning pain at the stab wound. His hand automatically moved to the injury, pressed against it, and felt the warm blood spilling from the opening.

Noticing the swordsman tensing up in readiness for another strike, Kro-Loq hurriedly lifted his sabre, met the blade... and watched in dismay as it was wrenched from his grasp, clattering to the ground and sliding out of sight. He didn’t dwell on the weapon he no longer had, leapt forward, and slammed a fist against the swordsman's throat, managing to actually connect and feeling some grim satisfaction at the pained gasp. He followed up with a second punch, this one aimed at the leg, hopefully enough to cripple or at the very least reduce him to a hobble. He made it a point to aim his fist for where his tail had connected earlier, to work upon what had already been dealt. He felt a crunching sensation beneath his knuckles on impact and had to assume that it was enough.

The wick was nearly burnt down. The explosion would happen soon. He needed to leave before he died.

Burning, blistering agony. A scream escaped Kro-Loq as a line of fire scored itself across his chest. His hand automatically pressed against the new injury, despite it being large enough that a single hand would never cover its entire length. Spinning around, he felt his tail connect with the swordsman but didn’t linger, diving through the still-open passage in the wall, only barely having the sense of mind to press at the lever on the other side to have the passage seal itself behind him.

At that moment, he lost the balance he had barely managed to maintain, and he felt himself hit the ground and then keep rolling down the length of the tunnel to the catacombs. Behind him, there was a sound of reality burning in a fiery fury as the wick finally burnt out.

If there was any mercy, the swordsman was dead.


*


Boney felt the ceiling of the catacombs shake, accompanied by a rumbling. Whatever Kro-Loq and Solin had done back in the keep, it was making him question the structural integrity of the catacombs. A morbid part of his mind felt the need to tell him that at least if they were to die from the tunnels collapsing, at least they'd be dying within catacombs meant for the internment of the dead. A more ideal place to die one couldn't find.

Boney also really, really hoped that there was actually another way out from the underground labyrinth. That it hadn't just been wishful thinking on the parts of Mort and Solin. Dying of starvation wasn't on the list of ideal ways to go.

There was something absolutely unnerving about traversing this labyrinth. Maybe it was the knowledge that it was supposed to be a resting place for the dead. Would it have been so unsettling if the dead were still there in their final slumber? Was it only because the dead had left that their resting place was so disquieting?

He lost track of how long they traversed the catacombs. Mort and Sharpe both led them, seemingly at random, but their occasional whispered conversations meant that they were choosing which turns to make. There was no way to tell the passage of time, but Boney got the sense that they were traveling for a long time before Sharpe made a sound of celebration.

After what felt like an age, they trickled out of the catacombs, feeling fresh air upon them. They found themselves upon a hill, a distance away from the keep. Time had certainly passed, for the sky that greeted them was dark, the sun long since set, and the twin moons visible in the sky. But there was a light. The keep was in flames, burning brightly as the orange fires licked and devoured all they could touch.

'Oh?'

Boney started in surprise, turning to see Colonel Iycan nearby, sitting a ways away, apparently having been watching the keep collapse and burn. The other skink had a perturbed look on his face.

'I didn't realize that the caves were connected to the keep,' Iycan said, casting a look at the opening that had just allowed them to exit. Iycan's eyes were clouded with concern.

'Catacombs,' Mort said. 'As Solin said earlier, the catacombs have been fouled. We think the necromancer got their initial wave of thralls from here.'

Iycan nodded slowly. 'Okay.' He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the remains of the keep. 'What happened there? I came out from my exploring and saw the keep in flames.'

'A Chaos war-band decided to siege us. We don't know what they were after,' Sharpe explained.

Iycan shook his head and gave the major a look that Boney wasn't immediately able to identify. 'Chaos? Okay, I had assumed undead, but... that's even more concerning. You think it was a war-band?'

'Why would you think otherwise?' Mort asked.

'Where's Solin?' Iycan asked instead of answering, concern flickering across his eyes.

'He should be a short distance behind us,' Mort answered after a grimace of annoyance at not getting his own question answered. 'He and Captain Kro-Loq were the ones to set the fire.'

A shuffling sound from the cave they had exited from had a number of Sharpe's skirmishers twisting around to face the entrance with muskets shouldered, hammers pulled back. Their weapons were lowered as they recognized the form that exited as Solin. Boney knew instantly that something was wrong—the Oldblood's eyes were a storm of fury and grief in equal measure.

Solin lowered himself to the ground and gently rested the corpse of Captain Kro-Loq. The wound that had felled him was clear, a gash from hip to shoulder, entrails only kept within the body by the hasty bandaging from Kro-Loq's undershirt until all that remained were scarlet-stained linen strips. It hadn't been enough to save the captain. Maybe if they'd had access to magically gifted healers, he could have been saved. But even that would have had a low chance of actually being enough with such a wound.

'You suggested this was not a war-band?' Mort asked in a disgruntled tone.

Iycan didn't verbally answer but instead pointedly looked toward the keep. Boney, and likely everybody else on that hill, followed his gaze. It took Boney a while, but he eventually realized what it was that Iycan was looking at.

When Boney had left the Temple-City of Tiamoxec to join the Legion, he knew that there would be days he would feel worried for his safety, days that he might question if he'd survive. There would be cause for concern, for his safety, for those he would work alongside. He thought himself prepared.

He didn't expect to ever feel the deep bone-chilling fear he felt at that moment.

Only barely visible in the light of the flames, he could see that Iycan was right. That wasn't a mere war-band of Chaos. The numbers stretched as far as the light of the flames could reach, warriors and giants and Daemons. This was no war-band...

This was a full-fledged Warhost, the likes of which were only spoken of in hushed whispers. Thousands of the slaves to darkness stretched out, and more besides not revealed by the flickering light of the flames.


*


Through the thick overgrowth of the Drakwald he trod. He didn’t let the night’s darkness hinder him; he moved with purpose. He entered a glade, a wide space barren of trees, even the slightest of plants. A small pond and a long-dead stump that had once been a tree were the only things within that large clearing.

The man stopped his march, eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He waited. One hour. Two hours.

On the third hour, there was movement, and he was no longer alone in the glade. He turned and looked upon the newcomer.

The newly arrived figure wore dark armour and a heavy cloak, hood drawn as though it would hide the absence of a face beneath but instead just highlighted the lack. Glowing blue novas stood where the eyes would have been, were there a face beneath the cowl. Those glowing orbs fixed themselves upon the man, examining him just as he looked upon it.

‘Captain Sieger,’ the man eventually spoke.

For a moment, the dark figure didn’t react. If the man was worried, he refused to show that weakness. Finally, the wight bowed low.

‘My lord.’ The voice came as a whisper, but it was clear as though it had been shouted at volume. ‘It is good to see that you have escaped even without our success.’

The man grimaced; he didn’t enjoy the reminder that he had almost been chained to a servant of the Ruinous Powers. But for a single mistake, he would have been lost, forever held in confinement. He chose not to voice his feelings about such.

He didn’t speak an answer. He just stared expectantly at the wight, waiting. The wight straightened itself and pulled from its back a blade. It was a broad-bladed longsword, the dark silver crossguard decorated with a skull. The metal of the blade was blackened as though it had been overheated and left to burn in flame, but when the man grasped the offered hilt, it was frigid to the touch. Despite the freezing temperature of the weapon, he felt no unease at holding it.

‘This body won’t last. It will serve the purpose for now, but the sooner we get the one that won’t reject me, the better. Good news on that front, he believes himself safe.’

‘Where?’

‘He now lingers in Middenheim. We aren’t ready to provoke the full fury of Todbringer, and even if we were, I don’t want to attract the attention of the rest of the Empire, so we’ll have to be subtle.’

‘What would you have us do, Count Adelbreckt?’ As the wight asked the question, more undead entities marched into the clearing, ordered themselves behind the wight, whereupon each dropped to a knee in a mark of servitude.

The man whose body used to be Cruniac gave a grim smile.

 

Interlude - State of the World

The Frozen Summer​

The Dark Lands – Zorn Uzkul
-

Anten had dedicated his existence to a purpose. It was what some would argue to be a fruitless endeavour—he was a solitary skink fighting a one-skink war. Those were typically ventures destined to fail. But he thought he was doing a reasonable job of it.

His name was Anten—actually, his name was a mouthful even for his fellow Children of the Gods, so even before leaving Madrigal, his name was shortened to Anten by his cohorts, because really, who wanted to have a name with eleven syllables? He was one of those that his fellows within the Legion called an "Irregular". Roughly translated, that meant he was one of those brave individuals who operated independently of the Legion, a solo agent working to unearth any knowledge for the Legion as a whole, to learn of events outside of wherever the Legion was romping around at a given time. And while at it, the Irregulars could do what they felt they needed to assist.

Sometimes, an army wasn't needed to help people. And sometimes, the Great Plan only needed a delicate touch to protect.

There were only ever a small number of Irregulars at a time, and all spread across the four corners of Môrdl—Lustria exempted; there was no need to step on the toes of their Lustrian cousins. Anten had dedicated himself to the Bad Lands and the Dark Lands, those inhospitable lands east of the World's Edge. He was aware of four of his fellow Irregulars who had chosen to station themselves within Bretonnia, though whether that was to spite the Lady Botherers or a sacrifice to spare the majority of the Legion from passing into those lands as much as possible, Anten couldn't say. There was also one who had, last he'd been seen, declared that he was going to try and fill in the Legion's missing knowledge about Nippon and boarded a merchant vessel headed in that direction. Anten didn't know if he'd made it to his desired destination, or even if he still lived. Irregulars didn't communicate with each other; they barely communicated with the Legion outside of missives with whatever they'd learnt that were sent to Colonel Iycan. They might get a missive from the Legion with a specific task from time to time, but that was about the extent of communications between them.

Anten's self-imposed task had been to learn about the Chaos Dwarfs. While he was at it, he had also given himself the challenge of being a nuisance to their efforts. It was a task that was made easier by the vertically challenged mutants’ fondness for slaves, and even greater fondness for mistreating those slaves.

Many a slave riot had happened after Anten had dedicated himself to being a perpetual thorn in the side of the Dawi-Zhaar.

Of course, there were other threats within those barren lands. There were the savage greenskin tribes, the black orcs, there was the occasional visit from the Hobgoblin Kharnate, usually in response to the Kharnate getting annoyed at the Dawi-Zhaar taking some of their own for slaves, and then there were semi-regular appearances from Skaven, who caused problems for everybody and then some, for no real reason other than the oversized rodents being spiteful little shit-bags. So Anten wasn't at a loss for ways to hurt the Chaos Dwarfs; it was typically a case of directing the other threats to his desired targets through underhanded methods. That such riots and attacks from everybody that the Dawi-Zhaar had upset—meaning everybody and everything—meant that their attention was focused away from Anten's actual targets at a given moment was just a nice bonus on top of everything else.

But despite his efforts, he was aware that he was only permitted to do what he did so long as he wasn't given a specific task from the Legion. It had been a while since he had been given a specific task.

Which was why, when he woke up that morning, he was not really that surprised to see a large bird perched nearby, preening itself. Attached to the leg of the bird was a message.

It took a while longer than it should have to actually reach the bird—he vaguely recognised it as being Solin's messenger bird, what did he call it? Moya, that was it—because he still ached and was tired from having spent most of the previous day coaxing a tribe of greenskins into attacking a camp of Dawi-Zhaar, and using the confusion and chaos that came about from that to kill a particularly cruel slave-master. He had then been privy to witnessing the resultant rush of orcs and goblins forming their own miniature Waaagh and start marching onward, still flush from victory over the "pointy-stunty gits". The littlest Waaagh had then marched south, in the general direction of another Dawi-Zhaar position, a problem for the cloven dwarfs to worry about instead of scouring the lands for Anten, something they would no doubt prefer to be doing.

His eyes read over the words inscribed on the parchment, felt a weight of concern lodging itself within his chest. In the grand scheme of things, Anten wasn't that far away from the realm of Kislev, but this was still news to him. The realm had been enduring a multi-year winter, which was... interesting and concerning in equal measure. It didn't surprise him that he hadn't learnt of this beforehand; it wasn't like the denizens of the Dark Lands were prone to gossiping about their neighbours.

The good colonel wanted Anten to investigate this prolonged winter. Well... drat.


*


It took roughly a month of non-stop riding for Anten to reach Kislev, the realm, not the city. It didn't take long at all for the skink to learn that no, the notion of winter not yet having passed into spring, never mind summer, was not an exaggeration. For the time of year it was, there should not be snow this thick, maybe further north than even Kislev, but not within Kislev's borders.

Anten was quick to find a collection of furs with which he could wrap himself; his usual black shirt and breeches were very much not suited for the cold climate. He even swallowed his pride and put his old artisanal talents to use, working some leather into some rudimentary gaiters so that he wasn't walking barefoot upon the snow-covered surface. It wasn't pleasant, for all that the Legion and its Irregulars had taken to wearing clothing, footwear was just one of those things that had never taken. Even spatterdashes and gaiters felt irritating to them.

Now draped in about three layers of heavy hides and a heavy cloak, hood pulled over his face, Anten began asking around. He quickly got the lay of the land, worked out where to ask for answers that weren't just zealous spiel from those within the Great Orthodoxy, which was a fairly new institution as far as Anten was aware—but then he would be the first to admit that Kislev had a bit of a gap in his contemporary knowledge. Further out from the Orthodoxy’s lips, he began to learn the political climate of Kislev. Two weeks of keeping an ear open and talking to the right people, often over a drink of vodka, and Anten wasn't sure which was colder: the Long Winter, as the people were calling it, or the tensions between the Great Orthodoxy and the Ice Court of the currently reigning Tzarina.

He was quick to write down the political details in his report. It might not have been the reason he was in Kislev at that moment, but it was an important update to the state of the world in a region usually avoided by the Legion.

Of more importance to his task was learning of the reason for the Long Winter. At first, he assumed that the claims that Ursun hadn't shown up for the past few years were just rumours and the people of Kislev trying to find a cause for their suffering. But the more he heard it, the more he came to believe that they believed it, that it might well be true.

Ursun not appearing for his annual roar was unprecedented. Multiple winters in a row? Opinions were split as to why it had happened—or hadn't happened, as the case may be. There were those who seemed to believe that Ursun was punishing the people of Kislev, which was then further divided to those who blamed Tzarina Katarin and the Ice Court.

'It is a heresy that the Tzarina is an ice witch! Ursun is clearly waiting for us to replace her with somebody better suited!'

Others blamed the general populace without really explaining what these people were supposedly doing to warrant punishment.

'Ursun has judged us and found us wanting. We have failed to live up to his expectations, and now he punishes us for our misdemeanours by making us endure the cold winter until we have been washed away of our sin.'

Then there were those who claimed that Ursun was testing their faith, or had a plan that would be revealed in due time, or had just overslept and would be yawning away the winter soon.

'Year afta' year, coming to roar away the winter. Who wouldn't get bored and tired? I'd sleep in from time to time if I were in his place.'

Admittedly, that last one came from a fellow deep into his vodka.

Another two weeks, these ones now in Kislev—the city—in the hopes of hearing word from those with an ear within the Ice Court. He was rewarded with learning that Prince Yuri had been dispatched by Tzarina Katarin to the north on a quest to find their lost god.

Another week was then spent deliberating about whether he should follow after the expedition north. Arguably, he had learnt enough that his report to the Legion would be interesting reading that Iycan would no doubt be overjoyed to dig into and dissect. But the expedition could learn more, and while Anten had dedicated himself to being a thorn in the cloven feet of the Dawi-Zhaar, he was still an Irregular of the Legion, and learning and uncovering details was his passion.

After that week, he sent a messenger bird back to the Legion with what he had learnt so far, and then hopped onto the horse which had carried him across the frozen lands of Kislev—it had been a horse and not one of the large raptors his kind usually favoured as a mount because a horse was less noticeable and better suited to his needs as an independent agent—and he followed after Prince Yuri's expedition. His curiosity was burning; he needed to learn what they found, even if it was a disappointing turnout where the Prince chose to give up and turn around.


*


Anten pulled his furred cloak tighter about his body as he neared the large structure. He had lost track of the number of days which passed; food was scarce, it was getting increasingly frigid, and the skink was seriously considering turning around and writing off the whole venture. Had he not seen the distant form of the artificial structure, he might very well have done so.

And so it was that Anten walked through the gates of Fort Dervingard.

His eyes instantly tracked the signs that gave evidence of recent occupation. Other details told him that the current vacancy was planned to be temporary; supplies and spare arms and wares were ordered and neatly placed. In these frigid northern wastes, there was no reason not to carry your food supplies with you unless you were leaving them at a place you believed to be a sanctuary to return to.

Though it was interesting to note that there was no sign of a garrison; one would think there would be a permanent garrison left behind to keep out any unwanted trespassers. Trespassers like Anten. The only reason that Anten could puzzle out that would have had the entirety of the fort's occupants leave without even a token guard was that they had a goal which required every available sword to assist with.

In the barracks, Anten found a stack of parchment, a quill nearby. A cursory glance revealed that they were letters of a personal nature, though with no way to have them sent off, they were serving more as a journal of sorts that could then be given to the intended recipient once the author of these letters returned south.

-

My Dearest Annika,

I miss you dearly and can't help but think of you in every moment that I spend in these frozen lands. It is the memory of you which grants me the strength to continue marching in spite of the coldness which threatens to turn my very blood to ice.

-

My Dearest Annika,

The men are starting to doubt Prince Yuri. Even his own brother has moments of questioning his leadership. He is desperate to find Ursun, to bring an end to the suffering. But he marches ever forward, and yet we see no sign of the bear-god.

-

My Dearest Annika,

We have had our first sighting of hope in so long. Where the men and I all started to doubt, Prince Yuri's faith remained unwavering. He speaks now of hearing Ursun calling to him, of guiding him. And within days, we finally found and reclaimed the lost fortress of Dervingard. From here, we have a sanctuary. From here, we can now begin our search in earnest.

-

My Dearest Annika,

As time passes, this faith in Ursun, in the way that Prince Yuri claims to hear him... I start to doubt again. Some of the things that the prince has whispered. But then he goes and leads us to further accomplishments. I am confused, Annika. He makes claims of purifying the taint of Chaos, now holds a weapon previously held by one tainted by the foul forces. What am I to think? Is he right, is his devotion truly burning away the taint of Chaos? Or is he lying to himself?

-

My Dearest Annika,

Prince Yuri has us marching on Northmen, killing all between him and his destinations, be they man or daemon. When we reached the Lucent Maze, a foul place that I would sooner forget, Prince Yuri spent a full two weeks within. When he exited, none of us knew what to make of our prince. He has become cold, bitter, and I fear that he took offence when we did not cheer his return.

Even his brother is not being heard when sharing our concerns with the Prince. I fear his heart has turned to ice.

-

My Dearest Annika,

Prince Yuri continues to fall into depravity. It is not my place to question the prince, but when you see what I have seen, questioning is all I find myself able to do.

The prince has had the savage Northmen gift him tributes, come offering friendship and alliances where before they would do all within their power to remove our presence from these lands. And worse still, Yuri accepts the tributes of the Northmen.

Yesterday, Prince Yuri had us march on the Howling Citadel. If Ursun is truly giving Yuri such commands, I do not know, but surely the Bear-God would not have our prince be blessed by the Ruinous God of Blood and Skull, to have Yuri summon a daemon to his bidding. I do not believe that he hears the voice of Ursun any longer. Maybe he never did.

-

My Dearest Annika,

Soon we might finally return home. Prince Yuri has assured us that our final challenge is before us. While I fear what depravity I might witness next, I find myself praying that this is indeed the end of our journey; that we turn and come home following this last conquest. Maybe Prince Yuri will turn back to his old self, but I fear that once the Grand Orthodoxy learns of what Prince Yuri has committed in this expedition, he will die.

The prince has ordered that the entirety of the expedition is to march on Screaming Chasm. While I am concerned that we are leaving our sanctuary unprotected, I find myself not caring; I simply want this to end. I wish to return to you, Dearest Annika, to return to your warm embrace which never failed to chase away the chill of the Long Winter.

But, as I write this letter, hopefully the last before I can hand them all to you, I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the cold and snow and the ice. I feel a dread, and I know I am not alone in this. I hear the other men talking, the way they keep looking around them as if trying to find somebody spying on them. There is a constant sense that eyes are upon us, watching us and waiting. I am... scared, that I will not get to see you again, Annika, that Prince Yuri is leading us to our deaths. But, I have faith. Maybe no longer in Yuri, but in his brother, who still remains with his sanity intact and never afraid to question Yuri.

We begin our march within the hour.

Your Faithful Husband,

Dalmir Gosparad

-

Anten lowered the last letter, looked upon the crude map of the region which had been painted upon one wall. He trailed a finger along the various marked-out landmarks, trying to find this so-called Screaming Chasm. It was quite the journey away, especially when marching in number.

With an idea of the journey he needed to take, the skink turned to a nearby window, looked out in the direction of the Chaos Wastes. It looked increasingly cold and miserable, and Anten was not looking forward to the trek.

Any thought of his oncoming journey was put on hold when the sky chose that moment to explode. It was the sound that hit first, the roar of a creature in untold agony, and a sorrow that almost made Anten fall to the ground from the aching pain in his own heart. In the distance, the sky brightened as pillars of light burst forth from the ground and stretched skyward until something seemed to explode and a ring of raw Winds of Magic suddenly visible to the naked eye of even those not born with witch-sight rippled and stretched across the sky, leaving behind it a tempest of writhing energy as the Winds were disturbed and unable to settle in the aftermath.

Anten turned his head and covered his eyes as the energy came close and passed over him, the light and mishmash of colours, some of which weren't supposed to be seen by mortal eyes, causing his own eyes to burn. Because of his protective reaction, he missed the orb of light that was separate from the stretching energy, which crashed down somewhere to the west.


*


Down in the Reik Basin, Skaros paused from his watch over his warriors while they worked to dig through the remains of the destroyed keep. When the sky writhed and the Winds of Magic became visible in the wake of a ring of energy expanding outward from some distant origin, he looked upward, helmet tilted in momentary confusion.

Half a minute later, the exalted warlord dismissed the event as irrelevant and turned back to his warriors. He had his own agenda; what happened up north had no bearing on his own actions. Further down the line, maybe he would have cause for concern, but so long as whatever machinations were at play stayed away from his own agendas, he had no cause for concern.

Miles away from the warhost, the battered remnants of those of the Legion who had escaped Skaros's warhost likewise paused in their trek to reunite with the remainder of the Legion. Iycan and Boney both retched as the maelstrom of energy washed over them, unable to explain to those not gifted with the ability to harness the Winds as to why they felt a deep sense of loss and pain aching in their chests.


*


Down in Reikland, in the city of Altdorf, Emperor Karl Franz was taking a short break from affairs of the state, having chosen to step out onto one of the balconies of the Imperial Palace of Altdorf. Though even if he was trying to take a short break, there was really no such thing; it was just a switch to a different, less formal duty.

In this instance, he was in conversation with Volkmar the Grim. The topic was one of those that he almost went through automatically, details were minor enough that really, Volkmar was just updating the emperor on ventures that didn't truly need his attention but which he was interested in knowing of.

What was supposed to be a simple breather from affairs of court turned into something more when a maelstrom of energy washed over the skies above the city before then fading before it could pass outside of the Reik Basin. Franz stared in silent bafflement, for how often does the sky explode and leave the Winds of Magic visible in its wake? He turned to Volkmar, took in the Grand Theogonist's pained expression and hand pressed to his temple. The other man quickly recovered, though his flesh was slightly paler than was normal for him.

'What was that?' Franz asked.

Volkmar shook his head. 'A portent, a sign of dark times coming.' He breathed in a deep breath and straightened his posture, letting any weakness of the moment wash away from his frame, making himself the image of devout strength, despite the clear evidence that he had been affected by whatever it was that had happened.

When aren't dark times coming? Franz secretly thought to himself, mind unconsciously bringing up the countless instances he'd endured listening to doomsayers and their claims of the "End Times are coming". He was more inclined to believe Volkmar's words over those many others, but it still felt as if his entire life had been underscored with an ominous approach of grim times and news of constant ill tidings from both within the Empire, and beyond its borders.

Karl Franz, Emperor of the Provinces and Prince of Reikland, considered the event which had just passed, took in the turbulent skies and recalled everything that he knew of current affairs within the Empire and its neighbouring realms. With a sigh, he turned to a nearby page, whose flesh had turned pallid. The page was frantically performing the sign of the comet while whispering near-silent prayers. Probably wasn’t going to be in the right frame of mind to be of much assistance, so he turned back to Volkmar.

'Summon the Elector Counts.'

Maybe this would be a blessing in disguise, something he could unify the Elector Counts over. Unfortunately, a part of his mind was quick to dash any optimism with more reminders about the history of his own peoples.

Somebody had once commented within Karl Franz's earshot that being the emperor looked more akin to herding cats than being a leader to men of intelligence. It was hard to disagree, but that wouldn't stop him from trying.


*


It took some time, but Anten tracked down the origin of the explosion of magic. It had not surprised him to learn that it had originated at the very place that Gosparad's final letter made mention of—the place the expedition was marching toward.

The sky continued to writhe, though as time passed, the Winds of Magic were fading back to their default state of invisibility to those not so magically inclined.

When the skink arrived, he arrived to a mass grave. He hadn't passed any Kislevites travelling in the opposite direction, and a small portion of his mind had logged that detail and wondered as to what had happened to the men of Kislev who had come this far north. Now, it appeared that he had found the answer. It looked like Dearest Annika wasn't going to be getting any of her husband's letters, or even her husband back.

Even wrapped in the furs, the cold was only barely that side of tolerable. Anten would stick around only long enough to learn exactly what had happened and then he would leave back to habitats less inclined to kill him with naught but temperature.

A battle had been fought in that cold, distant waste. Kislevite bodies joined with Norscan in death, littering that barren land, now equal in the way that death makes all; be they noble or peasant, prince or pauper.

A voice attracted Anten's attention, calling out, beseeching spirits. A necromancer, or something else? Anten advanced, his hand resting upon the hilt of his rapier, ready to draw it should the owner of the voice prove hostile. His thoughts trailed back to those letters he had read, the suspicions that Prince Yuri had been listening to a voice that was not benevolent in design.

Stood amongst more of the dead was a robed and hooded figure, attention fixed firmly upon a thick tome that levitated before him, its pages flicking back and forth without any input from the human. From the bodies, ethereal spectres flickered; souls still bound to their remains, whispering in chorus an answer to the man's questioning.

As Anten watched, the souls flickered and faded from view, and the man's attention, firmly placed upon the tome, was momentarily startled as a shadowing form seemed to reach from the pages for him. The man's reaction was to snap shut the tome, dispelling the shadowed form, dark vapours now dissipated into the chilled air, leaving behind a different kind of chill. The man looked up at nothing, his expression troubled.

Anten chose that moment to make himself known to the man, though his right hand was still firmly wrapped around the hilt of his trusted rapier, whilst the other now reached for the length of braided leather coiled about his hip.

The man noticed Anten quickly, eyes momentarily widening in surprise, then narrowing into a speculative gleam as he examined the skink.

'What brings a skink of Lustria to the Chaos Wastes?'

Anten suppressed the annoyed grunt at the misidentification of his ethnicity. He wasn't as sensitive as his fellows in the Legion to the mistake, but he was aware that was mainly due to rarely having to experience the mistake in person, one of those little quirks of working independently in the Bad Lands most of the time, where typically he was addressed more often as the 'scaly bastard' by the Dawi-Zhaar, or as a 'scaly runt' by the greenskins. Still, just because he wasn't so sensitive to it didn't mean he didn't find it annoying being referred to as one of those who tended to look down upon his kin as mavericks.

'Not quite Lustrian,' he simply said while he tilted his head and paid close attention to the tome held protectively in the human's arms. 'Investigating.' He added the last word as an answer to the question directed at him.

The human made a sound of understanding. 'Yes, the tide of arcane energy was quite noticeable. But to be here so soon after means that you were already near. Were you warned ahead of time?'

Anten shook his head. 'I was investigating the Long Winter that Kislev has been suffering. I heard of Prince Yuri's investigation and was interested in seeing what was happening on that front when the explosion of energy happened. What's your excuse for being here so soon?'

The man hugged the tome closer to his chest. 'The Tome of Fates reveals secrets and events of the past, present, and future. It guided me here, so that somebody might profit from what I have learnt, though who that might be is yet in question.'

'Not yourself?' Anten asked incredulously.

'That is the curse upon the tome: it can only be used in service to others.' The man gave a rueful grin that was quick to fade, and he opened the tome, which immediately flicked through its pages without any further input, stopped seemingly at random and allowed the man to read the page revealed. 'Ah, the Outland Legion? I have heard tales of your kind. Maybe you would be the ones looking to profit from the secrets revealed?'

Anten shook his head, still didn't relax, his body still tense for the possibility of violence and conflict. Maybe the offer was honest, but the tome itself and the description given gave Anten a bad feeling. It felt like something a particular Chaos entity would have a hand in, which made him very reluctant to get involved.

'Just looking to learn of the reason for the winter’s length. Nothing more.'

The man didn't look overly upset at his offer being declined. Quite the opposite, he actually looked understanding. 'The God-Bear Ursun has been wounded, through a machination of Be'lakor. A bullet fuelled by renounced faith. The God-Bear is dying.'

Anten let out a soft grunt at the name. He knew of Be’lakor, of course he did. The Daemon Prince, the first. He was a figure of myth, so far before Anten’s time that the idea of Be’lakor almost didn’t feel like reality. Not a problem that Anten was equipped to deal with, especially not if the Daemon Prince had already accomplished his ends. Tricking somebody into renouncing and wounding a god? That was quite the feat…

'Prince Yuri?' Anten asked. 'He's the one who shot him, isn't he?'

The man's brow lifted ever so slightly. 'Indeed. How did you know?'

Anten huffed in bemusement. 'His men noticed that he was changing. He claimed to hear Ursun but performed acts of a questionable nature. He started to carry a Chaos-tainted blade, and there was something about summoning a daemon.' The skink nodded his head at the tome in the man's hands. 'Not everything requires a cursed tome to learn of. Sometimes, you just have to look around.'

An amused huff left the man's lips. 'And if the tome might offer a way to save the God-Bear?'

Anten hesitated for a moment, seriously taking the moment to reconsider whether or not he was too hasty in his choice to turn down the offer of the knowledge within the man's tome, knowledge beyond what had already been learnt. Eventually, he shook his head.

At best, Anten could send a missive to Iycan and Ingwel informing them of the situation, and they could in turn forward that missive to Madrigal to see if they could get insight from the star mages or astromancers back home. That way, they wouldn't need to worry about the catch that came from getting their knowledge of the situation from a tome with Tzeentch's stench all over it.

'My advice,' Anten spoke after a lengthy pause, 'is to go speak to Kislev and offer the Tzarina your service. It is their god, even if the Ice Court were to hold no loyalty to Ursun, it would be politically prudent for her to act on the knowledge regardless, considering the Great Orthodoxy is questioning Katarin’s legitimacy and tearing the realm in two. It would be quite the feat for her to sally forth and find their God-Bear.'

The man hummed in thought and nodded a single shallow nod, as if less outright agreeing but more adding to a list of possibilities in his mind.

Anten stepped back, removed his hand from the whip and rubbed at his arm, trying to warm up the limb. 'I shall be taking my leave. I have learnt all I needed.'


*


The man watched the strange skink leave the shadow of the portal, a small corner of his mind cataloguing every detail he could discern. It was not often that one encountered something that seemed to defy expectation in such a way as that one skink had done. His limited dealings with Lustrians had taught him that they were very rigid in culture, so to see a member of that race dressed as a human would, carrying a rapier and a bullwhip of all weapons, and then to learn that it was but one of a number of such… He had never heard of this Outland Legion before the Tome of Fates had deigned fit to inform him what the strange lizardman was a part of, the reason it was different. After the skink had long since gone, he lowered his eyes to the Tome of Fates which was still levitating before him. It flicked a single page and his brows rose at what was revealed.

'Maybe it is a good thing that you do not involve your Legion,' he murmured. It was so quietly uttered that it went unheard, wasn't meant for Anten to hear, only himself. His eyes fixed themselves upon the symbol that dominated one page, and the feeling of malice that leaked from the inscribed image. 'Your kind will be busy in the times to come.'

He had come to expect the moment when the Chaos sigil warped, and a daemonic visage appeared, glaring at him with utter loathing and disgust as it then tried to reach through time and space, to emerge from the page in an effort to grasp at him and bend him to its will. It was an unfortunate consequence of the nature of Chaos, those certain entities with power enough to sense when they were being observed or learnt of, when mortal eyes dared to look upon even their likeness, even through the pages of an artefact as powerful as the Tome of Fates. The Slaaneshi daemon N'Kari had been quite the wake-up call on that front, and the hardest to resist.

He snapped the thick tome shut before a clawed appendage could come near, dissipating the limb which turned to smoke and faded with the harsh winds of the wastes.

After a moment gathering his thoughts, the man took a breath and turned to find shelter. He would need to learn as much as he could through one of the few loopholes he knew of to the curse of the tome, learn of all who might benefit from his wisdom, and who he might also possibly benefit himself in the process.