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.



-TBC

 

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.


-TBC

 

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.