Fiction The Outland Legion

Battle on the Mud - The Central Conflict​

Northern Middenland
Battle Duration: 4 hours
—

Solin ducked, heard the whistle of air parting before the keen edge of the glaive as it sailed overhead. Planted one hand in the thick mud, pushed, used that hand as a pivot point to swing a leg around until his heel slammed into the ghoulish samurai's face with a loud crack.

The samurai staggered back, grunting in what sounded to be a mix of pain and disgruntlement. Wasn't enough to keep him distracted for long, even before Solin had straightened himself back to his feet—hand absently shaking off the mud before returning to the hilt of his blade—the samurai had already regained his wits and hopped back, twirling his polearm with dexterity borne of mastery.

Solin hissed softly, hopped back a few steps himself, widened the gap between them for a brief moment and allowed his eyes to drift—never so far as to have the samurai gone from his vision, but enough to get a sense of their surroundings. Blood stained the mud, bodies littered the ground—mostly Chaos. But Solin couldn't ignore the sight of his own dead. Red coats, muted by the sodden mire, the wool heavy with water and streaked with filth.

No time to mourn, just don't let their deaths be a waste.

He ducked and weaved through the flurry of strikes, each swing of the glaive cutting the air where his neck had been moments before. Stepping back, he felt the disturbed breeze of another near-miss. He twisted, avoiding a thrust aimed to skewer him, then bent low, ducking beneath a horizontal swipe.

His blade flashed up, parrying with a clang, though not fast enough to avoid the sting of a shallow slice across his forearm. Blood welled, but he felt no pain—just another nick among many. Swung in a counter-strike that was in turn avoided. Leapt back, twisted his body around, rolling in the air, putting distance between them while also evading the attempt to sweep at his ankles. Landed lightly, looked no more ruffled for the abrupt somersault than if he had simply skipped jovially.

Solin tightened his grip, not by much, but enough so for the leather wrapped around the hilt to groan in protest. Exhaled, adjusted his stance, lowering his left hand while raising his right, guiding the greatsword until it was held parallel to the ground. Eyes locked onto the samurai, watched as the ghoulish champion adjusted his own stance in answer. Assessed, considered.

The proper thing to do would have been to re-adjust, shift his feet and alter the blade's position. But Solin chose not to. Deliberately kept his stance in one that was apparently weak to that of the samurai. Mind raced, considered. Tensed.

The samurai, seemingly recognising that Solin wasn't about to shift his stance—had decided to keep this posture—flew forward, bladed polearm swinging.

Again, the proper thing to do, would have been to parry, riposte and counter. But their fight had gone long enough that Solin already knew how that sequence of events would pan out. History was rife with the mistakes of the past being repeated time and time again. Sometimes, the proper thing to do was not the right thing to do. Sometimes, a chance needed to be taken. A momentary break from the established rules.

If he parried, history would just repeat.

So Solin would not repeat himself pointlessly.

Ducked, used the slick mud to fall to one knee while twisting his body around. Released his right hand's grip on his weapon, and snatched at the haft of the glaive. Fingers coiled around the weapon, chilling cold spreading from that physical contact, unnatural and numbing.

Couldn't hold for long, not when the corruption of Malice was so pervasive from so simple a touch. Didn't need long. Pulled, didn't expect to upend the samurai's balance, even if the Chaos champion was taken by surprise, his discipline and experience would most likely already be compensating, body reacting to the apparent threat before the mind could catch up.

Except pulling over the samurai wasn't the goal. He let the mud work for him, pulled, and allowed his body to be pulled forward, feet sliding back under him and then he was upright again. Didn't stop the momentum, didn't even try.

Forehead met forehead.

Solin might not have been gifted with the typical bone crown of the standard saurus spawning, but never let it be said he didn't have a hard head. The crack when they made contact echoed loudly, almost like another gunshot. The samurai flinched back, lidless eyes momentarily clouded from startled pain.

Swung his zweihänder, tried to take advantage of the opening afforded to him. The samurai reacted even before his eyes cleared—a testament to his skill as a warrior, able to react to threats even when dazed—tried to dodge aside. The samurai wasn't fast enough, the armour affixed to his shoulder—the sode, if Solin had his Nipponese terminology correct—failed to hold back the Gromril blade, was cleaved into, a thick gauge carved into the rectangular plate.

At the instant Solin's blade bit into flesh, the samurai let out a startled cry—and then his body darkened. A loud, ominous buzzing filled the air. Resistance vanished, sending Solin's sword lurching forward, nearly throwing him off-balance.

The samurai's body continued to darken, turned into a shadow, which split apart into a mass of droning shapes. It took a blink of the eyes before it registered that the squirming mass were hornets, each formed of the same black shadow. Solin swallowed back a startled oath, fought down the instinctual panic at hornets being so close to his person.

The swarm of insects floated in the same space previously occupied by the samurai, then flew, still together in a thick swarm until they took up a space a rute away. They swirled in that space for two seconds before condensing together, and the buzzing of their wings was silenced. In their place was once again the samurai, clutching at the shoulder that Solin had managed to injure, breathing heavily, almost panting.

What was that? Solin wondered privately, racing through what he knew of magic. Some form of Steed of Shadows? Or does Malice have a variation of Skitterleap?

'Kisama,' the samurai called out. Solin reckoned that the samurai would have been gritting his teeth, if his rictus grin hadn't already forced that permanently upon his features.

Solin didn't understand the word that the samurai had used, but the tone was clue enough that it wasn't complimentary. Some things just transcended the language barrier. He chose not to answer verbally, instead lifted his zweihänder into a mocking salute while he assessed and considered his next options.

The samurai growled, then grimaced when he moved his injured shoulder. Solin couldn't help but tilt his head in curiosity at the way that the samurai's attention shot to the injured shoulder with the closest approximation of surprise that could be managed with his ghoulish face.

Curious. What's got him so shocked? Or is he only just registering the pain?

While the distance between them existed, Solin took the moment to just watch, resting his blade against his shoulder, one eye affixed to the samurai while he turned his head this way and that, kept the other eye open for any of the lesser Chaos warriors who might suddenly think themselves capable of getting involved.

Fortunately, it seemed that the warriors of Malice had largely learnt to keep their distance. Cut enough of them down without them even counting as an afterthought, that was a lesson they were quick to take in. It was a little regrettable, it would have been better if they had constantly come at Solin with the belief that they were capable of fighting him—the more who tried to involve themselves with Solin and this samurai's duel, the less pushing against Solin's subordinates.

It wasn't normally an issue, but this samurai was just as prone to cutting down anything that got too close, friend or foe. So the lesson had been taught, Solin plus champion in a duel equalled death to anybody close.

The samurai finally seemed to get over the injury to his shoulder after he tested his mobility and found that he could still use the shoulder through the apparent pain. The samurai twirled his glaive and shifted into a ready stance. Solin waited for a moment, eyes locked onto the champion, before widening his stance and tensing. But he remained still, waited for the Malice champion to make the first move.

A gunshot from somewhere in the background echoed through the grove.

The samurai moved—lunged forward with a new furious energy.


*


Mex ducked under the swing of a wicked-looking halberd, the black metal of the weapon stark against the gleaming white armour of its wielder. The saurus hissed softly, twisting his body as he drove his spear forward. The blade pierced through the uncanny white plate and buried itself deep in the chest of the Chaos thrall.

A wet, gagging cough escaped the warrior—a grotesque signal of death unacknowledged by the body. Mex kicked the thrall away, wrenching his spear free with a sickening sound. He spun on his heel, scanning for the next threat.

Exhaled softly, twirled his spear to a more comfortable position and back-stepped, fell in-line with another trio of saurus, formed an improvised phalanx with them even as they continued to steadily retreat. They were near the edge of the grove, the only natural obstacle left being the pond that marked the fallback point.

A narrow bridge spanned the pond's centre—the only practical crossing without circling around the grove's edge, which would leave anyone exposed, or wading through the water. Mex doubted the Chaos warriors would take to swimming, not while clad in their hellforged plate armour.

That bridge was the grove's only true chokepoint, and their final chance to hold this patch of contested ground. With the constant stream of Chaos warriors in their gleaming white armour, swarming forward with numbers and reckless abandon? That small chokepoint was their last chance to keep the grove as contested territory, to hold back the warriors and deny them the cover of the trees to get close to the central hill where the Legion was stationed.

Mex felt the weight of the pistol tucked away inside his coat; it seemed to grow heavier the longer the fighting carried on, the closer that the warriors of Malice got to reaching that proverbial line upon which it had to be acknowledged that the Legion couldn't hold the grove.

Thrust his spear as another warrior charged forward, joined by his brothers-in-arms. They linked up with more saurus, all of whom had been pulling back. Skinks ran past, took up positions behind the wall that the saurus formed.

'Are there any more coming?' he asked, raising his voice to be heard despite the constant roar of violence filling the air with noise, while he glanced at the latest saurus to appear.

Fighting retreats were slow, and with their forces within the trees scattered and out of sight, it got difficult to tell who had fallen, and who was still yet to arrive because they were moving slowly.

There was a volley of gunfire from the skinks. As the sound of thunder faded, the saurus Mex had spoken to looked toward him, eyes narrowed in consideration.

'I saw a few more saurus and skinks a way behind us,' the saurus rumbled at last.

Mex considered that for a moment, frowning in thought.

'Skinks, form firing lines on the other side of the pond. Saurus, form a phalanx on the bridge, but leave a gap one side so any of our kin still out there can get through,' he ordered in a sharp tone.

For a brief moment, his mind recalled that the colonel was among those fighting among the trees. It had been a while since that particular storm of violence had been sighted. Considering they weren't being attacked by the Nipponese warrior? It was clear that Solin hadn't fallen.

Or if he has, he took down the champion with him, a traitorous corner of his mind whispered.

A sharp shake of the head and a hiss of self-reproach dispelled such thoughts. Not the time for doubt. He has survived centuries of conflict, this won't be the moment he dies.

Ground his teeth and hurried to join the formation of saurus on the bridge. He took his place in the centre of the front rank, shoulder-to-shoulder with the saurus standard-bearer. As the highest ranking saurus among them. this was his place—at the front, where the risk was greatest. It was both his duty and his honour, no matter the danger.


*


Kordak wasn't like many of the followers of Malice, who had only come to serve the Lord of Anarchy after coming to realise the shortcomings of the Gods they had previously served. Kordak had served Malice all his life, had come from one of few hearths that worshipped Malice exclusively.

Didn't begrudge the other warriors. They had at least made the right choice eventually, learnt that the other gods were lesser and had survived whatever ordeal had caused that revelation. They were now fighting for the true god of Chaos.

Growled lowly, wrenching his axe free from the lizard's back, the red coat it wore darkening to a near black as the wool was stained by blood. Turned and swung his axe at another lizard, forcing aside billhook that was aimed at him, then swung again, cleaving through flesh and bone, shortened its height by a head. Shouted, bellowed out a challenging cry, an invitation to any other lizards to come and try their luck, he was waiting for a challenge. He was ready for them.

Except the lizards apparently were cowed by him, more and more as the fight in this grove had continued, they had been pulling back. Less willing to engage in straight combat, even less willing to be underhanded and try stabbing him in the back, which Kordak was of mixed opinions about. It was a valid tactic, he wasn't some honour-bound lout who would be looking down his nose at such methods, but on the other hand, the absence of such attempts was a relief. Having to constantly look over one's shoulder got tiring.

'Cowards!' he eventually bellowed in a fury. 'Stop fleeing and face me!'

He didn't flinch at the crack of a gunshot, merely raising an unseen eyebrow as a comrade staggered and fell, a hole punched clean through his helmet. Kordak let out an irritated breath, grabbed a discarded spear—no, wait, this was one of the lizards' billhooks—and after a moment of testing the weight, hurled the polearm. The small lizard who had fired the handgun dropped the weapon and gargled, blood pooling from its mouth. The thrown weapon had punctured through its body and pinned it to the tree it had been standing beside, leaving it to let out its death rattle.

Kordak let out a huff of satisfaction and surveyed the scene, before feeling his satisfaction shift, morphing instead into irritation.

'Come on," Kordak growled, waving his axe toward the retreating lizards. "They're pulling back—this way.'

He led the warriors, his forehead aching from the force of the frown that was painted across his features, not that such was visible behind his horned helmet. Surely if they want to keep us from passing this grove, they wouldn't be retreating to the edge that we want to be reaching. Or are the lizards just that badly on the backfoot?

Even as that question reached his mind, he shuddered, absently turning his head to the direction that Lord Soulshriver had last been seen fighting that lizard champion. Had to be a champion to be capable of matching ghoulish samurai. Too many warriors had been cut down for trying to get involved in that duel. If Soulshriver hadn't been leading this push into the grove, hadn't been there to distract that particular lizard, how bloodied would the warriors of Malice be? How many deaths just to fight one single lizard?

If the lizards had been depending on that champion as the key focus of their defence, then it was no wonder they were on the back foot. But yet, something about that comment didn't ring true to Kordak.

Kordak would never make claims to being intelligent. Even in combat, he wasn't a strategist, he had only the barest grasp on proper tactics. He was a fighter, he was aware of that, proud of it even. He knew his role, and that was to be the hammer smashing down the enemy.

But even with that lack of intelligence, he didn't feel himself stupid. He knew when something was wrong. The lizards' retreat was not a panicked withdrawal. It was calculated. He could see that, he just couldn't fathom why. Why pull back and allow the warriors of Malice to come deeper into the territory they were trying to take? Maybe if one of the more knowledgeable or one with a grasp of strategy were nearby he could ask. Unfortunately, those gifted with that kind of a mind were either relegated to the back of the formation, to protect that precious resource, or they were champions and warlords, and none of those were nearby, excepting Lord Soulshriver, and Kordak was not feeling any real desire to die a pointless death trying to get close to that.

Pushed through the overgrown vegetation, and paused a moment, taking in the sight. It was a large pond, or a small lake. The specifics weren't important, what was important was that it was blocking any more forward movement without either swimming across, circling around—which could very well mean leaving the grove at the sides—or crossing that stone bridge in the middle, where the larger variety of the lizards had formed up into tightly packed overlapping lines, their billhooks held at the ready.

Once again, Kordak wasn't stupid. He might not have the intellectual grasp of strategy, but even he could see just how that position, how their overlapping lines of billhooks had just made that bridge a very dangerous chokepoint to attack head-on.

Even if Kordak wanted to command the warriors of Malice to circle the large body of water, the smaller lizards, the ones with the handguns, had lined themselves on the opposite shore—does it count as a shore when it's a pond?—and would no doubt be shooting at any warriors who was foolish enough to not stand with the larger lizards blocking their line of sight.

'Bastards.' He spat out the insult.

His eyes drifted to the water, tried to puzzle out how deep the murky waters truly were. There was no chance that any of the warriors of Malice would be swimming across, not while wearing armour. But if was shallow enough, it would be uncomfortable, but they could wade across.

No way to tell how deep the water was though.

Let out a frustrated breath and glared at the lizards, who seemed quite happy to just stand there, staying still on the bridge in their formation, polearms held ready. Never before had Kordak felt such disgust. Such a craven method of fighting, to stand there in a position of power and just wait.

But as much as Kordak wanted to prove that he and his fellow warriors were the superior fighting force, he was not stupid enough to charge headfirst into such a position. Not when they had such an advantage. Couldn't even take proper advantage of the fact that the lizards weren't carrying any shields; the warriors of Malice weren't exactly carrying a surplus of javelins or spare axes to throw.

'Somebody run back and find either Lord Fatesaw or Lord Skaros,' Kordak snarled eventually, after swallowing his pride. 'We need a sorcerer.'

He hated the idea. Hated the very thought that he was in a position where being a mighty warrior of Malice was not enough, that he had to rely on the arcane prowess of a sorcerer to tip the balance of a battle in their favour. It felt like admitting weakness.

Somebody broke away and retreated the way the warriors had come, to do as Kordak had demanded be done. Even though it was what he had ordered, it still left a taste of bile lingering in the back of Kordak's throat. That none of the other warriors had argued and suggested other ideas meant that they had come to similar conclusions. There was no way that they would be forcing their way across this bridge without some aid.

Well, unless Lord Soulshriver makes an appearance.

Fortune smiled in one regard, the smaller lizards with their handguns weren't just raining gunfire on the warriors, even those who foolishly moved to a more exposed position. Maybe they were concerned about their ammo reserves? Kordak didn't know, didn't care.

Regretfully, even if a warrior stood at the very edge of the water, few would be able to throw any javelins or axes far enough to actually hit any of those smaller lizards. And those who managed would no doubt be shot quickly to remove that particular threat to their safety. A pity, as maybe killing the smaller ones could have angered the larger ones into reacting and coming off that bridge.

Kordak moved to the shoreline of the pond, staring at the smaller lizards disdainfully. They aimed their weapons at him, but the lack of any threatening motions on his part meant that as he reasoned out, they weren't shooting.

'Cowards and fools. Stand and watch all you want.'

They couldn't hear him, he wasn't shouting, more talking to himself than anything else. Like a silent vow, though voiced aloud as if it was more impactful that he actually heard his voice making the declaration.

Nearby, the water shifted. Kordak's attention briefly turned to the murky water. Again he wondered how deep it was. Could he have everybody wade across? Was the bridge just so that the weaklings of the Empire didn't have to get their frilly little socks wet if they decided to pass through this grove?

A ripple danced across the surface. Then another. Kordak's eyes narrowed.

The water erupted.

The beast's jaws were impossibly wide, clamping down with ferocious strength on his shoulder and chest. Armour buckled like tin, and Kordak roared as pain shot through his body. His axe slipped from his hand, the strength draining from his arm. He slammed his fist into the creature's snout, but it didn't flinch.

The lizard twisted sharply, rolling in place, its iron jaws locked onto Kordak. His armour buckled under the pressure, and the sickening sound of cracking bones filled the air. It was not to his benefit that he managed to retain his consciousness the whole time. If he'd allowed himself to blackout, or to simply die from the number of hits his head took during the lizard's furious rolling, he wouldn't have had to suffer the moment that the lizard—jaw still clamped with an ungodly strength—dragged his body into the water. If he'd been unconscious, he would have been blissfully unaware of his death by drowning.

Instead, his last moments were pain as he struggled to draw breath beneath the murky waters which swiftly turned crimson over the space where he vanished.


*


That first kroxigor's appearance was like a signal, all across the edge of the pond, kroxigors lunged from the water, either clamping powerful jaws on warriors who were standing apart from their comrades, or swinging their weapons, if near a group of the warriors clustered together.

The warriors of Chaos were taken by surprise, their focus fixed on either the saurus phalanx or the skink musketeers on the opposite side of the pond. They had clearly not anticipated any threats within the waters. That was their folly.

Mex kept his satisfaction hidden—not that the Chaos warriors would recognise it in his reptilian features. The trap had worked perfectly, but there was no time to dwell on victory. Distraction meant death. If anything aggravated the warriors into a suicide charge against the phalanx, their angered reaction to seeing comrades mutilated by kroxigor death-roll would certainly be it.

Especially when the Chaos thralls learnt that killing the kroxigors wouldn't be a simple task. After the initial strike at the armoured warriors, the kroxigors then pulled back into the water. It left the warriors unable to retaliate, unable to take out their frustrations on the crocodilians. That frustration would inevitably lead to anger—anger that clouded judgment. A suicide charge against the phalanx was the only outcome of such anger.

If that was what the Chaos thralls chose, then Mex would be only too happy to assist them in their desire for death.

True to his prediction, after a few moments where the thralls of Chaos shook their fists in impotent rage, or throwing javelins and axes at the water as if they could hope to actually harm the kroxigors hidden in the murky depths, they then fixed their sights on the saurus. Common sense dictated that charging a phalanx in a chokepoint was suicide, but rage had stripped the Chaos warriors of reason. They charged anyway.

Mex braced himself, felt more than saw the way those at his sides did the same, and they received the initial rush of armoured warriors. Spears punctured through plate armour, a combination of the natural strength of the saurus paired with the momentum of the warriors' charge. The charge was thusly halted as the thralls met an unmovable wall of scale and spear.

Crowded as the warriors of Malice were, they left themselves open to the skinks on the opposite bank. Gunfire cracked in volleys, and armoured warriors were felled as bullets punched through their exposed sides. And that was saying nothing of the kroxigors still lurking beneath the water, perfectly capable and willing to lunge out and pull their prey deep into the murky depths. The kroxigors swung their heavy weapons at nearby foes, casting them into the water alongside their captured prey. The murky depths quickly claimed them.

Despite the position of strength upon the bridge, it wasn't going to last forever. It couldn't. Numbers were against them, and any more Chaos thralls that came wouldn't be provoked into throwing their weapons at shadows in the water. That left the phalanx as the only target of opportunity.

It wasn't often that Mex bemoaned the way that shields had stopped becoming a mainstay of saurus arms. The Legion's saurus rarely fought like this anymore, standing firm in a defensive formation, pretending to be an unbreakable wall. It wasn't their way. Not like Mort's saurus. His warriors, his guardians, they would have turned this bridge into a fortress and held it until the last star burned from the heavens. Even Zak's regiment would have held longer.

The problem had always been the shift in tactics. The original plan was to use the woodland terrain to their advantage: strike and fade, hit and run. Tactics where Mex's saurus and skinks excelled far beyond Mort's or Zak's commands. The bridge was never meant to be anything more than a fallback point. If not for the sheer scale of this battle, Zak would have been stationed here, his troops ready to hold the line when the time came.

No use dwelling on would could have been. Focus on the now.

The reminder to focus came in time for Mex to register the latest Chaos warrior charging toward him. A thrust of the spear punctured the neck, caused a spray of blood to stain Mex's scaled hands. Without a moment of hesitation, he wrenched the weapon free, then twisted it so that the hook caught another warrior's armour. With a hard yank, the armoured thrall stumbled forward, weapon lowered as he fought to regain his balance.

He was never given the chance.

The saurus to Mex's left lunged, driving his spear through the warrior's breastplate. Hellforged metal buckled under the force, and the blade punched through to the flesh beneath. The Chaos thrall crumpled, his body toppling onto the growing mound of carcasses that already littered the bridge. The pile rose higher with each kill, the slick, blood-soaked remains turning steady footing into a challenge for their enemies.

No time to savour the kill. No time to bask in satisfaction at how well the line was being held.

An axe hurtled through the air, spinning end over end, hurled by a warrior at the back of the mob. Mex hissed softly at the sight. He swung his spear up in a sharp arc, the blade striking the weapon mid-flight. The axe veered off course and fell into the water with a soft splash.

Ducking might have been safer for him, but it could have meant the axe buried itself in the saurus behind him. Unacceptable. Mex refused to let his line falter because of one stray weapon.

'How long are we to hold?' A saurus behind Mex asked with a low hiss.

'As long as we can,' Mex answered, thrusting his spear forward, the blade finding flesh with a sickening crunch.

Again he was reminded of the weight of the pistol tucked in his coat. The absolute last defiance that they would enact were they to be pushed away from the bridge. There was no more falling back and still being able to defend the grove. Fall back from this position, the Chaos thralls could exit the other side of the grove, close enough to the hill that Ingwel was commanding from that there would be no artillery support to soften their charge.

But while the colonel was still somewhere in the grove, Mex wasn't eager to enact that final middle finger to the worshippers of Malice. He would do it. He was still a saurus. As much as the Legion played up their emotions for the benefit of the warmbloods, the cold reptilian logic still reigned in their minds—even for those who had embraced the display of emotion.

War was calculation, a ruthless and unflinching arithmetic that left no room for sentiment. Even the life of the colonel could be weighed and measured, his death evaluated as a net positive if it tipped the scales against Malice's thralls.

Logic offered no comfort. But it was irrefutable. Objective. It made the impossible choices bearable. Mex might not like it, but if it needed to be done, he would do it.

That didn't mean he wouldn't delay as long as he could, buying the colonel every precious moment. Whether to win his duel against the champion or to break away and retreat, time was all Mex could give. And time, for now, was enough.

It wasn't sentiment. It wasn't an emotional choice. Solin's life might be weighed as an acceptable casualty, but that didn't make it an ideal outcome. If Mex could delay long enough to ensure the colonel's survival, there was no logical reason not to. It could flavoured it as an emotional choice, and might even be done so if he had to recount the moment to a warmblood.

But it was still cold, reptilian logic at the core of it.


*


Shoulder burned with a fiery pain. Beneath the sode he could feel blood pooling out and staining, causing fabric to stick to flesh and chafe. Ignored it. The bruise on his forehead throbbed—a lingering gift from that brutish blow. He gritted his teeth, forcing down the surge of anger that threatened to override his focus.

Had to maintain his discipline and focus. Could not let mindless rage take over, much as he wanted to embrace that feeling.

The lizard parried another blow, then moved back, used the slick mud to its advantage.

Soulshriver growled lowly, planted his feet and felt his grip on his naginata tighten. Any satisfaction he was getting from fighting an apparent equal in martial prowess had long since faded. Now he wanted nothing more than to skin this reptile alive, to flay the flesh from it while it could still feel every agonising moment.

Control. Focus.

Breathed in. Exhaled. Adjusted his stance. Didn't wait for the lizard to adjust in answer, leapt forward, naginata swinging. It was blocked. And again. And then a third time.

Didn't let up though. Refused to give the lizard a moment to counter-attack. The naginata lashed out—again. And again. And again.

Aimed a strike for the hand. Didn't hit, the lizard angled the oversized sword so that the naginata's blade hit the crossguard. Kicked at the lizard's knee—maybe not the most elegant move, but if the foul reptile wanted to fight like a dishonourable cur, then that was just invitation for others to do the same in turn.

His foot met the lizard's knee with some force, but there was no satisfying crack of bone. The lizard's leg seemed to slide out from under it, but it wasn't an uncontrolled stumble.

Soulshriver would give the lizard that much credit—it had mastered the terrain. The slick mud became an extension of its movements, allowing it to twist, shift, and flow around attacks. That strange, dancer's grace had nearly won the fight more than once. Even the headbutt that had given it the opening it needed to cut his shoulder had been born of its mastery of movement.

Soulshriver would admit to underestimating the creature. Had seen that sword, and even with the initial show of speed and grace, had still mentally catalogued it as a fighter dependent on brute force and reach. It was a mistake he wasn't about to make again.

Blocked the lizard's upward strike, felt his shoulder ache, the deep gouge carved into it protesting the strain, the fiery heat reminding him constantly that he has been injured.

That burning sensation was concerning though. He had been injured in the past, he knew what pain felt like, even before his time at the Serpent's tender mercies. But something about this wound was different. Whatever it was, it was making it harder than it should be to ignore the pain, something he usually had no difficulty doing.

Every blocked strike—his and the reptile's both—sent vibrations to his shoulder, and that fire in the open injury seemed to flare up and any progress he had made on shunting the pain to the back of his mind was undone by that renewed sensation that was just as vivid as the moment he had first been given the injury.

It made him eye the lizard's blade with a new sense of wary caution. It had to be the blade. The faint azure glow it carried marked it as something significant. The dark metal was clearly Gromril; had it been forged by a dwarven runesmith? Was it marked with runes? And if so, what power had they bestowed upon the blade? Unnatural sharpness?

The longer he examined the blade, the more Soulshriver felt a sense of unease. He shook his head and dismissed all thoughts of the blade from his mind, refocused on the muddied and bloodied lizard.

Couldn't ignore the state of his shoulder though. As the fight carried on, it was getting worse.

Pained as he was to admit it, even in his own mind, that one strike had lost him this duel. Unless he found some way to turn the tide in the next clash, he was going to have to withdraw. His dominant arm was weakening. Each block or parry he made was becoming less structured for it.

He swung high, felt his arm vibrate as the strike was blocked. Backstepped, then swung low. It too was blocked. Made to swing again, but the lizard was faster, that greatsword came up and was thrust at Soulshriver. Parried, but the lizard turned the redirection of its blade into a circular swing.

Planted the haft of his naginata upon the ground and pulled himself toward it, used it to vault over the swing of the lizard, and slammed his heels into the lizard's chest. Remembered that moment months ago he had used the same trick and how the lizard had used its tail to keep itself upright. Planned around that.

As expected, the lizard slammed its tail to the ground, absorbing the impact of the flying kick with barely a step backward, its claws sliding slightly in the mud. But this time, Soulshriver was prepared and swung one foot upward while he still had momentum. His foot caught the lizard on the underside of its jaw, then continued upward, gave enough movement to allow Soulshriver to somersault back, landed on hit feet with the slightest of wobbles, not used to that particular level of acrobatics. The kick caused the lizard's head to snap upward and its balance was upended, eyes crossed, tail suddenly slack, whether from startlement or pain, Soulshriver didn't know, didn't care.

Soulshriver twisted the naginata, reversing his grip as the lizard fell, its guard momentarily open. He lunged. But the creature recovered fast—faster than he expected. Its massive sword swept around, deflecting the naginata's strike and sending the blade plunging harmlessly into the mud. The lizard snapped its knees to its chest, muscles coiling like a wound spring. Soulshriver cursed—he saw it coming, knew exactly what was about to happen. But knowing wasn't the same as stopping it. He was too slow. The lizard kicked out, legs firing skyward with explosive force. It launched from the ground and landed upright in a single, fluid motion—greatsword already in motion.

The greatsword crashed down. The haft of the naginata shrieked in protest—then splintered. Steel cracked, wood shattered. The weapon snapped in twain.

Soulshriver swore softly in his native tongue, backstepped and dropped the lower half of his naginata's haft from his hand, moved his right to his hip and grabbed at one of the two blades, didn't take the time to check which. Grabbed the hilt and hurriedly pulled the weapon free.

Thankfully, instinct guided his hand—he drew the right blade. His katana flashed from its sheath, the edge biting through the air in a lethal arc. The lizard recoiled, forced to backstep or feel steel carve through its belly. As soon as he bought himself space, Soulshriver reset his stance—both hands on the hilt, blade angled defensively.

The lizard's gaze widened—briefly—at the shift in stance. But then its crimson eyes flicked to his wounded shoulder, and a knowing glint sparked within them. In an instant, it pressed the attack, its blade a relentless blur.

Soulshriver was a talented fighter. But the katana was not his weapon—it was his fallback, his last resort. He had mastered the naginata, wielded it like an extension of his own will. This blade? It was a badge of status, not a weapon of war. If he was using it, it meant he had already lost.

It did not help that against that oversized sword, the katana was at a disadvantage. Even his katana, master-crafted and enchanted as it was. Couldn't rely on parries, even if his shoulder wasn't injured. And avoidance was getting tiring.

He knew it now—he had lost this duel. His wounded arm slowed him, his favoured weapon lay in ruins. But if he was to fall, he'd make damn sure the lizard paid the price.

The greatsword came for his neck—a killing stroke. But it met only smoke and buzzing shadows.
Soulshriver dissolved, his form unravelling into a swarm of hornets that scattered, hanging in the air before surging together again a few paces away. He reformed, breath steadying, eyes fixed on the reptilian kensai once more. The lizard stared back, knees bent, clearly ready to pursue, to try and finish the fight with Soulshriver's death.

Let him try.

He stared back at the lizard in silent challenge, then deliberately looked in the direction from which the background chorus of gunfire could be heard. There was a low hiss from the lizard, and then it stalked toward Soulshriver with a very clear intent to stop him from moving that way. Soulshriver hummed, tightened his grip on his weapons, but took a step backwards, further from the fight.

Come then, beast. How badly do you want me dead?

The lizard paused a moment, eyes narrowed, searching, considering.

No, no you don't.

It was difficult to smirk without lips, trapped in a perpetual rictus grin. But there were other ways of taunting, other ways to convey mockery without words. A slow twirl of the katana, the lazy and contemptuous flourish of one who saw no threats.

The lizard didn't appear to take the bait. Tilted its head, ever so slightly, but continued to stay back, staring.

Maybe that was too obvious, or else it doesn't understand the mockery.

He flicked a glance toward where the other lizards had gone. A calculated move—just to see. And that, at least, got a reaction. The kensai tensed, muscles coiling, weight shifting forward as if preparing to intercept him the moment he tried to follow.

Soulshriver exhaled, steady and measured, then took another step back. Not turning, not running—just moving. Just watching.

The lizard mirrored him, shifting its weight, tracking his every movement with those unblinking crimson eyes. It was wary now, more cautious than before, yet not so hesitant as to let him simply leave.

Good.

He didn't need to go far. Didn't need to force the fight now. But he needed to keep this one isolated. Away from the lesser lizards. He had lost the duel, but he would be damned if he let the lizard win.

Another step back. The lizard tensed, ever so slightly.

He let the barest flicker of amusement glint in his eyes. Let it follow. Let it chase. Let it think it was in control.

Then, with a final glance, he turned—just enough to invite pursuit—and disappeared into the overgrowth.

 

Battle on the Mud - Flight​

Northern Middenland
Battle Duration: 4.5 hours
—

It was a low rumbling sound. Like thunder in the distant skies. But close, intimate. And far more dangerous. Dangerous, but not indiscriminately. This sound wasn't in the distant skies, wasn't a far-away rumble of thunder. It wasn't in the skies. It was on the ground, closing fast—a cavalry charge. But no horses galloped this way. No banners fluttered above lances. This was the charge of aggradons.

Preda leaned into the motion, the rhythm so familiar it was almost a comfort—even in danger. If he closed his eyes, he could almost believe he was riding for the joy of it.

But he was a saurus. His lot in life was to fight and kill for the Great Plan. To defend it. With his life, if that was what it took. And Preda had no problem with that. That was the true comfort for Preda, that knowledge of his purpose. He knew his place in the world. He knew why he existed.

For a moment, brief as it was, the sound seemed to fade away. Like existence itself held its breath in the eager anticipation of the next few seconds.

Preda tightened his grip upon his sabre and braced himself.

His aggradon mount leapt—launched himself the last few metres, flying through the air, all snarling teeth and razor-sharp claws. Landed amidst the Chaos warriors, crescent talons eviscerating one warrior, while another warrior found his head within the raptor's maw, jaw clamping down with force enough to buckle the helmet. A third warrior was felled by a thrust of Preda's sabre to the neck, the height advantage of sitting upon a large aggradon more than enough to allow him to aim that stab without any hindrance from the Chaos warrior's gorget.

Around Preda, his fellow cavalry-saurus landed from their own charged leaps. The violence was brutal, primal—but tempered by training and experience. Even in the heat of slaughter, the aggradons heeded their riders—trained not to lose themselves to bloodlust, but to kill with purpose. A nudge of a knee here and the aggradon would turn away from whatever had its attention, a click of the tongue there and the aggradon would direct its aggression to a different target, trust forged through long bonding having the raptors believe that their riders knew best.

An ironclad gauntlet rose in a vain attempt at defence. That hand was swiftly removed as fangs tore into it—ripped it free of the arm it had been attached to. Another warrior tried to angle his halberd to fend off the large raptor charging him. It was a futile effort—its rider struck first, a swift kick disrupting the warrior's stance before he could even raise his weapon properly. The warrior had no time to recover before the aggradon's claws finished what its rider had started.

The Chaos warriors had been focused on butchering the retreating infantry when the aggradon cavalry struck. Unwittingly, they had trapped themselves against the rock—leaving the saurus riders to play the hammer. Empire halberdiers made for a very dangerous rock for the Chaos forces to be slammed against.

Chaos reigned among the warriors of Malice. Some turned, raising shields against the charging cavalry. Others braced for the wall of steel ahead. None could do both.

Do they stand against the disciplined wall of halberds and bayonets, steel tips aimed at their throats? Or do they turn to the snarling raptors, with riders ready to cut them down?

Despite the moment going in their favour, Preda was keenly aware that it was a temporary state. This was but a single band of the ruinous warriors, more would come—soon. And the Malice warriors had cavalry of their own.

They needed to finish this skirmish quickly. The infantry had to reach the hill. And Preda had to ensure they made it—by leading the aggradon cavalry against the Chaos riders who would try to cut them down.

Fortunately, Preda's cohort wasn't the only one working to protect the retreat. Overhead, a terradon swooped past. Seconds later, an explosion thundered through the Chaos ranks—the rider had dropped another grenade into the gathering of ruinous warriors. That wouldn't last long. Terradon riders rarely carried many grenades—they weren't meant for frontline battle. But Preda was thankful for what they did carry. Explosions deep within one's ranks always had the same effect—turning cohesion into chaos.

But not the kind of chaos that the Ruinous thrived on—despite the name.

Preda's sabre felled another warrior, its keen edge finding flesh, cutting him down in a single stroke as his mount tore into another foe. This clash of warriors was coming to its end, The infantry were already turning away, resuming their withdrawal, leaving Preda and his saurus to cut down the remaining stragglers.

He took a moment to survey the battleground, took note of where the hordes of Chaos warriors were, and more importantly, where their cavalry was. His eyes locked onto a band of Chaos knights, riding a small distance away. Knights with actual horses, unlike the apparently far more common daemonic pillbugs that this warhost favoured.

That was fine. Horses made for good meat for the aggradons.


*


Captain Yen'ayes scowled down the hill, assessing the fighting retreat below. He gave a silent thanks to Yackl for having alerted him that going to the farmhouse would have been pointless. He preferred the hill anyway.

Though unlike the suggestion passed on from Preda, Yen hadn't moved to the peak of the hill, but formed up the regiment under his command upon the sloped inclines. Saurus armed with spears formed a perimeter around the rest of the regiment, while the skink musketeers stood in staggered lines at different elevations, all lined in such positions that they could see over the heads of those in front of them. Even if the thralls of Chaos reached the saurus walls, it wouldn't be shield enough to spare them the gunfire.

Behind the musketeers, Yen repositioned the small number of bastiladons and infantry from the hilltop, integrating them into his regiment to bolster both numbers and firepower.

Between the bastiladons, a crate of musket ammo sachets. The skinks from the farmhouse would no doubt need more ammunition. Yen would provide it, allowing them to hold the newly drawn line—like a scaly St Nicholas, delivering gifts to the noble and righteous while striking down the wicked.

Allowed himself a small chuckle at that mental image. The Empire would probably have something to say if he actually voiced such thoughts. Likely nothing good, what with defensive warmbloods got regarding what they considered "theirs".

Yen huffed, fingers tapping an irregular beat on the hilt of his sabre. Though a captain, Yen never relished command. His true passion lay in teaching—drilling skinks and saurus in the art of swordsmanship, the skill that had become a mainstay in the Legion. But like most saurus who reached a certain age, leadership found itself thrust upon him. Fortunately, he was rarely needed to act as such. As a captain, he was usually serving under somebody else—typically Colonel Solin—so he rarely needed to command more than a cohort or two. But then, battles like today's happened, and Yen was forced to step into the role of leader for a force, of which he had likely tutored at least half in swordsmanship and fencing.

As a saurus, his ultimate duty was clear. As an individual, he wished he could just be the teacher, to live through the successes of his students.

But the Old Ones had their plan, and as much as he might wish that he never had to set foot upon a battlefield, this was where he was needed.

He closed his eyes for five slow seconds. Inhaled. Held it. Then exhaled, expelling hesitation, doubt—anything unnecessary for the fight ahead.

End of the day, he was a saurus Scar-Veteran. He knew his duty. He would fight. Win. Prevail.

Mind clear of distraction, he refocused on the retreat below. Preda's cavalry was doing a good job of disrupting the efforts of the thralls of Chaos to run down the retreating infantry. It also helped to tell Yen that the retreat wasn't from a broken force, morale shattered. The infantry fell back in as good an order as the circumstances allowed, their focus sharp on approaching threats. Halberds turned into a bristling wall, warding off the warriors of Malice.

It improved their odds of surviving long enough to reach Yen, their ability to turn themselves into a rock upon which Preda could be a hammer.

Yen's gaze shifted from the retreating force to the seething mass of Chaos warriors. His regiment had been noticed. Unlike the retreating infantry, the enemy surged forward, unburdened by repeated attacks. The Chaos warriors split themselves, forming multiple war-bands.

Must be a handful of leaders within that mass, to break apart so cleanly. Not perfectly—some warriors hesitated, uncertain which mass to join—but by Chaos standards, it was almost disciplined. Especially since there did not appear to be any arguments or confusion about which way each would start to move. They divided, and they all moved in different directions, but with the same destination.

They were coming. From different angles, with different leaders, but one goal—him.

Well, aside from the ones still chasing the retreat, Yen conceded.

Four war-bands. Four angles of attack—if he counted the one still pursuing the retreat. He never assumed the war-band veering away was retreating. They were trying to circle around, crest the hill, and strike from behind. But Yen had chosen his ground well. Even if they reached the peak, the slope was too sheer for a direct descent. They'd have to move at an angle until level with his position—turning their attack from a rear strike into a flank assault instead.

No downhill charge for Chaos. Not today.

His fingers drummed a steady beat against the hilt of his sabre. Even with his mind clear, a measure of something remained—not quite impatience, not quite tension, but the weight of waiting for battle to begin.

That moment when all anyone could do was wait. Wait for the charge. Wait for the enemy to come into range. Wait for them to break.

Yen never believed for a second that Chaos warriors would be wise enough to break at the sight of a prepared foe. Their sheer numbers had already proven enough to overrun opponents—hence the infantry's retreat from the farmhouse.

No, Chaos needed more persuasion than a disciplined battle line in their path. Chaos needed blood. Violence. Something to rattle them.

Not that Yen would ever complain about killing Chaos warriors. Their lives were forfeit the moment they gave themselves to the Ruinous Powers. The Legion's duty was to put such wretches down.

A blink. Or it felt like one. But when he looked again, everything was closer. Nearly time. Another blink. Closer still.

Close enough. Yen drew his sabre, the blade sliding free. He was ready.

The fight was here.

Inhale. Exhale. Open mouth. 'Fire!'

At his hissed command, the musketeers fired.


*


Yeucan cursed softly, slipping on the slick mud, the frantic footsteps of everybody in front of him having churned the ground. Was spared a faceplant when the human behind him grabbed his shoulder and steadied him before the sliding of his feet could tilt him to the point of no return. Mumbled his appreciation, quickly adjusted the musket in his grasp and continued to move.

Some distance away, thunder cracked, but not with the fury of the sky, but with the regular rhythm of volleyed gunfire. Yeucan couldn't see past the crowd of his fellow soldiers before him, but if he was to make a guess, the reinforcements at the hill had begun to secure their position. He hadn't been able to see who the commanding element of the reinforcements was, but with any luck, they were smart enough to use their position to good effect.

Hills were the unsung heroes of many a battle. A good solid place to plant oneself down and refuse to budge. Good for gunfire as well.

'Right!'

At the shout, everybody halted, turned in the direction called out and braced, halberds and bayonets aimed for the coming charge. It would never be as solid a spear wall as if they hadn't been moving, but it would do. It had to do. There wasn't much else that they could do in this situation. Brace against attacks, become a wall upon which Preda and his cavalry would hammer the enemy against.

One would have thought that the warriors of Chaos would have learnt after a few repetitions of this exact sequence of events. But then, Yeucan recalled that there was a saying about insanity that described this same pattern. And nobody ever accused the thralls of Chaos of being sane.

Yeucan felt it the moment the Chaos warriors slammed into their wall of blades. The entire formation shuddered, like a fortress struck by a battering ram. Yeucan pushed his shoulder against the human that would have backstepped into him, lending him some extra strength to remain unwavering against the pressure applied to the bladed bastion.

Screams of anger and fury, not all of which was from the warriors of Malice, but replies from those being struck at. War was bitterness and hatred, and Chaos was always an acceptable target of such rage, a victimless recipient of the worst emotions that could be levied at anybody.

Step. Step.

Slowly, the block of men and skinks pushed back against the Chaos warriors—refused to be static and idle. Even if their best defence was to hold until the hammer could come down, pride decreed that they still fight with everything they had, to not rely on the incoming charge.

Step. Step.

A squelch of mud. Yeucan twisted his head, looked over his shoulder. Cursed softly, then louder.

'Behind!'

At his shout, the back half of the block turned fully around, bracing weapons.

Maybe Chaos wasn't quite so insane then, to have decided to mix up their play somewhat this time. To try and hammer and anvil the retreating force instead of constantly being the ones to suffer it.

Yeucan felt his arms shake, vibrating from the force of which the Chaos horseman ran into the bayonet at the end of his musket. He would have been bowled over if not for the same human he'd braced moments earlier. Still felt an agonising ache in his limbs from the force, fingers rapidly numbing.

The warhorse screamed—a horrible, snarling sound—its eyes burning with fury, as if it blamed Yeucan for its rider's mistake. Yeucan hissed back, twisted his musket—twisting the blade still buried in flesh—before ripping it free and driving it straight through the beast's eye. The horse convulsed, then toppled, taking its rider with it. The rider was cut down by a halberd before he could recover.

Yeucan acknowledged that he had gotten lucky, could have easily been crushed beneath that horse. Probably should have been. The horse must have slowed before it had reached him, but not enough to avoid impaling itself. Had still had enough force in its momentum that Yeucan could now barely lift his weapon, the strange mixture of ache and numbness engulfing his limbs, but it hadn't been able to slow itself enough to avoid running into the bristling line of pointed steel.

But Yeucan was not representative of everybody who had been at the front of that flank. Humans and skinks alike were crushed beneath the charge of the large warhorses, slammed to the ground and trampled, or cut down by the over-sized axes of the riders before those behind the front line were able to retaliate.

Heaved out a breath, fought against the leaden weights now pulling at his arms, and lifted his musket back into position and lunged forward, stabbing the bayonet into another Chaos warrior.

An explosion erupted somewhere behind the Chaos cavalry. Overhead, the terradon flew past, the skink riding the majestic creature having his finger in an obscene gesture at the now panicked Chaos horsemen.

And following the explosion, a rush of aggradons charged, leaping with tooth and claw at the ready. The Chaos cavalry charge had been halted by steel and grit, now it was ripped asunder by talons and fangs.


*


Ingwel growled lowly. The problem with command? He had to be the voice of order, reading the battle and shifting the tides through others, not his own blade.

Watching those who entrusted their lives to him fight and bleed while he stood at a distance, forced to send others in his stead? Infuriating. Even when he locked away emotion—suppressed every instinct—it burned to not be there, fighting beside his saurus and skinks with blade and claw.

Breathed in, calmed the fire within that demanded he forgo common sense and charge. Charge in which direction? He couldn't even say. To the east: troops retreated from the farmhouse, its walls collapsed, any strategic value lost. To the west: Mort fought against a Chaos champion who was managing to fight on near equal footing.

Probably a good thing that Ingwel wasn't able to see through the canopy of trees to the grove that lay at the foot of the hills, who knew how that front was faring? But at the same time, not knowing was almost as bad, let his imagination dredge up worst-case scenarios.

Moved his spyglass back to the eastern front. Hummed in unheard approval as the latest charge against the retreat was driven back. Captain Preda, as ever, struck like a viper—always at the rear, always where the enemy least expected. An anvil of flesh and steel. Cold? Some might think so. Necessary? Absolutely. The cavalry was too few, the Chaos warriors too many. Preda couldn't stop them all, but he could make sure they broke against the infantry instead of overrunning them. Outside of those decisive hammer-and-anvil strikes, he still cut down Chaos troops wherever he could—though some managed to slip past, only to face the hunting aggradons.

It wasn't as if Preda wasn't striking at any Chaos troops outside of those moments. The hammer and anvil moments were those that slipped past the hunting aggradons.

Shifted his attention slightly, took in Yen's position on the hilltop and rumbled in approval. A good solid position with good firing angles. A small bastion where the retreating troops could recover from their flight and regroup. Assuming that the retreat reached Yen's position.

Ingwel had faith that they would.

Looked back toward the bulk of the Chaos warhost, aligned the spyglass with the warlord in charge. He studied this pristine white form that was borderline regal and not at all like one would expect a Chaos champion to look. With colour and heraldry, he could have passed for a Bretonnian paladin—proud, regal, heroic. Where a noble house's sigil should have been, the dreaded star of Chaos leered back. His sword did not shimmer with the Lady's grace but pulsed with something far fouler—black, jagged, and needle-sharp, it looked like the stinger of some monstrous hornet.

For a moment, the Chaos warlord paused, his head tilting ever so slightly—almost as if he sensed he was being watched. Then, just as quickly, he turned away, gesturing to a lesser warrior. His head moved subtly, the way one does when speaking, though from this distance, no words could be heard.

There was a sound of surprise from behind him. Ingwel lowered the spyglass, was about to turn to address whoever had made the sound, but the moment his vision was no longer locked to the view gifted by the brass tube, he could see what had caused that surprise. From that wooded grove, a sudden burst of red light shot through the canopy, a lance of fire streaking into the sky. Against the pale afternoon sun, it burned like a bloodstain in the heavens, vivid and impossible to ignore. For a moment, it lingered—then it dimmed, leaving only a faint trail of smoke curling in the breeze.

'Damn,' Ingwel cursed in saurian.

There was no need for him to make any commands, for the presence of that flare had been planned for in advance. The knight of the White Wolf had commented on that plan, given it a fitting term.

Scorched earth.

Fitting. Because that was exactly what was about to happen.


*


Yen listened to the choir of gunfire, twisting his head around to stare impassively at the Chaos warriors who had clambered awkwardly down the hill. As he had predicted, they'd been forced to angle their descent in such a way that they hadn't been able to strike at the rear but instead side-on.

Admittedly, he hadn't predicted their attack angle perfectly. His skink musketeers had adjusted their lines hurriedly—not ideal, but not disastrous. Even without repositioning, they still fired from a position of strength. But with the numbers against them like this? Every little detail that could tip the balance of power in Yen's favour was going to be taken into account and used to best effect.

The real problem? The Chaos warriors were nearly level with Yen as they charged. No way to stack musket lines from elevation—not really. Had to treat those Chaos warriors and cavalry as if they were fighting on open ground.

Ah well. At least it's only the one band and not all four of them, Yen hummed, seeking that silver lining and finding it. Better to have only a portion of the Chaos force fighting on as close to equal footing as they could get, rather than all the Chaos force.

Another volley of gunfire cut a bloody path through the Chaos warriors. Further down the hill, a second line of skink muskets fired, this time aiming down the slopes at the first warband to reach them—the ones who had abandoned clever manoeuvres in favour of a direct charge at Yen's position. That warband had quickly learnt the folly of trying to charge uphill against a wall of spears and muskets.

So far, none of the warriors of Chaos had managed to break through that wall. The saurus warriors were quite adept at stabbing at anything that came within reach, and had strength enough to puncture armour. Meanwhile, muskets were the great equaliser in warfare, didn't need strength to puncture armour, just point and shoot. And that was exactly what the skinks carrying those lethal weapons did, firing down the hill into the mass of armoured warriors, bullets punching through hellforged armour.

'Where's the retreating battalion?' Yen asked aloud, craning his neck to find the topic of his question. He'd lost track of them after the initial clash with Chaos warriors, had to focus on the immediate threat rather than the trials of his allies.

A nearby skink pointed. 'Over there. Looks like they've circled some to get around the warriors who reached us before they did.'

Yen stared in the motioned direction, easily spotting the block of retreating infantry. At the skink had said, they were slightly off-position than if they'd made a direct line for Yen, which would have had them fighting through a mass of Chaos warriors blocking their path.

Though how much of their detour was intentional, and how much of it was because they'd been attacked and it had thrown their path off-kilter? Yen couldn't say. Wasn't important anyway—they were still making their way toward him, still being helped by Preda's cavalry.

A nearby bastiladon rumbled, the cannon mounted atop its shell firing. The shot blasted through Chaos warriors, but they weren't the target. The real mark—a hulking, mutated troll—let out a guttural roar as the cannonball detonated in its face. It clawed at the bloody ruin where half its skull had been. It might not have been a salamander shot, but the explosion should have had enough heat to it that the regeneration should be slowed for a moment.

And even if it wasn't enough, the troll was more occupied with being in pain than it was with charging the saurus lines.

Another volley from behind. Yen ignored it, instead turned his attention to the Chaos warband that had yet to reach him, the one that seemed to have taken its time, wasn't even nipping at the retreating infantry's heels.

In Yen's opinion, if any of the four warbands were to break Yen's position, it would be them. They were smart enough to not exhaust themselves before reaching the fight. Would be fresh and ready while everybody else exhausted themselves.

For a moment, he wished he had a spyglass at hand. But then another chorus of gunfire pulled him from those thoughts. He refocused his attention, took in the flanking force trying to push forward despite the gunfire and the spear blocking their path.

'Captain!'

At the call, Yen turned to the skink, who was pointing to the west. Yen followed the skink's finger and cursed softly at the sight of the red flare over the grove.

'That's a bad sign,' he mumbled to himself.

'Do we answer or does Major Boney?'

'Both.' Yen answered sourly. Then, louder: 'Bastiladon crews! Load salamander shots—fire on the grove! Burn it to the ground! And pray to whatever Old One listens that our spawn-kin make it out in time.'

He turned his attention back to the Chaos warriors. No time to think about the fact that the defence in the grove had failed. Failed to the point that the only answer was to turn that grove into an inferno to temporarily stay any Chaos advance from that direction, and even after, there would be no cover for an advancing force.

But the grove being gone would also remove any camouflage regarding the Legion's numbers. Once the flames died, there'd be no more shadows to hide behind. No more illusions of strength. Anyone with eyes would see the truth—just how badly outnumbered the Legion really was.