Fiction The Outland Legion

Regrouping​

Middenheim – Middenland
-

The past few weeks had been trying. Hardly a surprise, as events seemed to be happening in haste, as if each new moment of bad news was racing the other to win some arbitrary award for undermining all efforts at damage control. Undead marching across Middenland? Better bring in news that some little-known count was involved in some way. Sent off a mercenary legion to resolve the situation? Apparently, the sky decides to have a seizure.

That last detail was especially concerning. Rauscher had never seen the Winds of Magic before, had never wanted to see the Winds. He would wager that most sane people shared that desire, or lack thereof.

Not even a day after that horrifying moment, the Graf of Middenheim had been sent a missive from Altdorf, one bearing the Emperor's seal. The moment he saw that scroll, Rauscher didn't need to read its contents to know what it contained. Emperor Franz had no doubt witnessed the same event that the entirety of Middenland had—depending on how far that expanding ring of energy had traveled, it was entirely possible that there wasn't a single soul within the Reik Basin who hadn't borne witness—and he had summoned a council of the Elector Counts in response.

Smart—whatever else the Prince of Altdorf was, stupidity was not one of his flaws. It would have been easy for somebody far more arrogant or incompetent to ignore the other provinces. Instead, he called for a council. What this council was supposed to actually do, that was beyond Rauscher's comprehension. Maybe it was just a moment of consolidating what theories and intelligence those closer to the northern borders might have. Nordland and Ostland in particular might have more to share, what with being nestled against the Sea of Claws and Kislev respectively. It was possible they were privy to something that those to their south had missed.

Regardless of the why, it left Middenheim temporarily without its graf. Todbringer had left almost instantly, taking with him a retinue of state troops for the journey south to Altdorf. It wasn't like Middenland was now helpless—the graf's court had plenty of qualified individuals to run state affairs while Todbringer was away—but there was always a sense of discomfort in the city when the Grand Duke was away. And to Rauscher's mind, it was asking for problems to not have their highest authority at hand while the world seemed determined to give so many problems one after the other. It honestly wouldn't surprise him if at that moment they were told that the beastmen within the Drakwald had started another rampage, led by that one particular figure that the graf had become so fixated on killing. Though at least if that were to happen, then Todbringer would very swiftly turn around and return to Middenland.

A young man—still a boy really—approached Rauscher as he stalked the corridors of the palace, visibly hesitant to disturb Rauscher while he was stewing in his thoughts. Rauscher swallowed down a grimace and turned to face the lad properly, straightening his posture into something better befitting his station rather than the hunch he often adopted while deep in thoughts of a less than positive nature.

‘Yes?’ he asked, controlling his tone, keeping it somewhat mild.

‘There are a couple of visitors looking to talk with you.’ To his credit, the boy was able to hide away any nervousness in his tone, only the wringing of the hands gave lie to the apparent confidence.

Rauscher's eyes narrowed. ‘And what about them requires that I take the time to indulge them?’

‘One of them is the same man you spoke to a few weeks ago. Curly hair, big nose...’

Rauscher grimaced. ‘Wearing a flat cap?’

The boy nodded. ‘And a hooded frock coat.’

Understandable that the lad would mention that, as it was an article of clothing that implied some level of wealth or status. And certainly combined with everything else, it made it very clear who was being described.

Rauscher let out a soft sigh. ‘And the other?’

The boy's face scrunched up, brows furrowed. ‘Not a human.’

I had a feeling that would be the case. In the time after the last meeting with Iycan'ceya, Rauscher had taken the time to go through whatever records could be found of the Outland Legion, previously the Outland Company. Surprisingly sparse, for all that they had existed for going on five centuries—that was the earliest recorded instance at any rate, maybe they had existed earlier than that, but there were no records of them further back than that. They were constantly cycling between Arabi, Estalia, Tilea, and the Empire, though with sporadic visits to Bretonnia and Kislev. Maybe they visited other places, but Rauscher couldn't find any recorded instances of such. The deviations from their usual cycle never seemed to have any rhyme or outward reason, though each time it was noted that they almost immediately involved themselves in a large conflict or crushed an emerging threat before it gained traction or even the awareness of local lords, as if the Legion had been previously aware, or at the very least suspected the situation beforehand.

Rauscher had also taken the time to read up on what was known of the Lustrian lizardmen, despite Colonel Iycan'ceya's comment on the Legion not being Lustrian. What was known about the Lustrians was also sparse, and sometimes contradictory. Why did one city of Lustrians seemingly welcome visitors and let them leave with as much gold as could be carried, while another city was instantly hostile?

Helped put the comparison the colonel had made in perspective—they weren't a single culture, they had their own realms, or something akin to such. Too bad the term “Madrigallian” hadn't come up with anything no matter how much he searched. A land that no men had yet found, in the same vein as the New World before Marco Colombo had sailed the vast distance? Something to wonder about another time though.

Rauscher found his way to the same chamber where he had previously met with the representative of the Outland Legion. As before, Colonel Iycan'ceya was standing, foot tapping, the sound of which was definitely not that of leather against the ground in spite of what Rauscher's eyes would have him believe, but a distinct click-click-click. At first, Rauscher didn't see the other individual that was supposedly there to meet with him. It took a deliberate clearing of the throat for him to realise that he had walked right past the other one, who had been leaning against the wall to the side of the doorway he had entered through.

Rauscher had to quickly suppress a shiver as he took in the large reptilian figure eyeing him, taller than both he and Colonel Iycan'ceya. He wasn't openly carrying any weapons, but at that size, with those claws and those teeth, he likely didn't need weapons to be dangerous. A small part of Rauscher's mind had previously wondered whether Iycan'ceya was actually wearing clothing, or if it had been a part of the illusion he used to make himself look human. He no longer needed to wonder—the giant reptilian before him was garbed in simple slacks and an undershirt, with a heavy red overcoat worn over the top.

‘Ah, Lord Rauscher.’ Colonel Iycan'ceya beamed with a wide toothy grin. ‘How good of you to see us so soon.’

Rauscher continued to stare at the large reptilian whose crimson eyes stared back. ‘Colonel, I can hardly keep a guest waiting.’

Iycan'ceya hummed in acknowledgment. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my superior. This is Marshal Ingwel'tonl.’

At his name, the marshal dipped his head once. ‘Pleasure.’

This time there was no hiding the way he started in surprise. For as large as the pale green-scaled individual was, the voice didn't come across as he expected it. No raspiness, no harshness—it was a surprisingly normal voice, a mix of accents blended together, but that was hardly unusual; some of the smaller villages closer to province borders tended to have such accents. He could place the Marienbergese in the accent, but the other... Reiklandish maybe?

Another part of Rauscher's mind wondered how exactly the large lizardman had managed to traverse the city without making a spectacle of himself. The men of the Empire weren't the most tolerant sorts towards non-humans, even if the Empire was host to other races within the Provinces—Imperial dwarfs and halflings being the most well-known examples. Lizardmen? They didn't even share a basic human-esque appearance; point of fact: to the uneducated, the lizardmen actually better resembled daemons. Obviously, these particular lizardmen had perfected some method of managing to communicate with humans without pitchforks and torches getting involved, but to stroll through the city of Middenheim without causing a scene was quite the feat. Made sense for the colonel, who clearly had some talent with illusions, but the larger lizardman's lack of an illusionary disguise just made Rauscher ponder the minor mystery.

Rested atop one of the chairs surrounding the table was a large black mass of fabric. Rauscher peered at it questioningly for a moment, then dismissed it as unimportant. The lizardman's eyes narrowed and Rauscher got a sense that the large figure was amused. As a result, Rauscher's mood dipped.

‘I assume you're here to report on Count Feyerabend.’

The grin left Iycan'ceya's face, and Ingwel'tonl's eyes shifted such that Rauscher no longer felt he was being laughed at.

‘Yes.’ Iycan'ceya crossed his arms. ‘We have a problem.’

Rauscher's eyes lifted to the ceiling and the next words to leave his mouth had a tired exasperation. ‘Of course we do.’ He didn't even try to suggest that it was only the Legion's problem. After a moment where he mentally steeled himself, he looked at Iycan'ceya. ‘Let's hear it then.’

It was Ingwel'tonl who answered. ‘You have a Chaos Warhost in Middenland.’

Rauscher was glad that he wasn't drinking anything, but that didn't stop him from choking on his own spit. A feeling of dread pooled up in his gut, like a weight made of gromril settling in his stomach and making him feel sick. ‘Excuse me?’ He really hoped it was a misunderstanding, a mistranslation. ‘I think we'd know about a Chaos incursion—they'd have to pass through Nordland or Ostland just to get to Middenland. Relations with our neighbours aren't so bad that we wouldn't be warned.’

Ingwel'tonl spoke, ignoring or just ignorant of Rauscher's burgeoning breakdown, which was barely held at bay. ‘After my subordinates secured the Feyerabend keep, they found themselves then besieged by what was assumed to be a war-band of Chaos. They were after the keep themselves.’ He didn't sound sympathetic.

‘And you think this is actually a warhost?’ Maybe he wasn't able to hide the desperation in the question, but with the subject matter, Rauscher wasn't about to fault his lack of emotional control. ‘Surely if it was a Chaos Warhost we'd have heard of their approach, as I said earlier, they have to pass through at least one province to reach us, and Chaos has never been known for its subtlety.’

Iycan'ceya coughed into his hand. Rauscher chose to ignore the way the cough sounded suspiciously akin to the word “Tzeentch”. Just a cough, must have a sore throat.

‘To hear my brother word it? Warriors as far as the eye could see and then some, with daemons in their midst. There is no way that you can call it a war-band, not with those numbers, not with multiple exalted champions leading them.’

His breath left him, and with his limbs now starting to go numb from nerves at the prospect of being at the heart of an incursion of Chaos, he staggered to one of the chairs around the large table and all but fell upon it. If the numbers were even remotely akin to what his imagination was conjuring, this was... this was so far beyond him that it felt as though he were being mocked by any and all of the gods. What he'd done to deserve such mockery was beyond him, but clearly he had upset them somehow.

Of all the times for the graf to leave Middenland...

‘Which one is this dedicated to?’ If there was any mercy, this wasn't a unified warhost, for that would imply a new Everchosen.

Both of the Legion's officers shared a look with each other. Iycan'ceya let out a small huff and faced Rauscher fully. ‘We don't know.’ Iycan'ceya didn't sound pleased at the prospect. ‘Their standards didn't have any of the typical iconography outside of the eight-pointed star. Mostly, it was a skull, half white and half black.’

It wasn't an image that Rauscher was familiar with, but he was the first to admit that he wasn't knowledgeable on the subject of Chaos and its followers. ‘But you don't think it’s a unified warhost?’

Again the pair shared looks, and Ingwel'tonl answered. ‘Four of the five champions could have represented one each of the four Ruinous forces, but... something about them didn't make my subordinates think you have to worry about an Everchosen.’

Was he really that obvious? Then again, maybe it had been a concern for them as well, so they were answering their own concerns. ‘So you know nothing?’ He tried to redirect his feelings into annoyance at the lack of information, which made his voice come out sharper than he had intended.

‘We know that the icon does have a history,’ Ingwel'tonl said, voice low in warning, subtly warning against misdirected annoyance towards him or Iycan'ceya. ‘And a name for the warhost: Malice.’

Rauscher paused, blinked once and then fully turned to look upon the disguised lizardman. ‘What?’ There was no disguising his confusion as he spoke that single word.

‘The iconography belongs to what is known as the "Warhost of Malice".’ Ingwel'tonl elaborated, laying down a stack of parchment upon the table and absently skimming the words inscribed upon them. ‘They've also gone by the names "Sons of Malice" and "Warhost of Anarchy", but Warhost of Malice is the name most often used with that iconography.’

‘And what does that mean?’ Rauscher asked after a few long moments where he digested what he'd just heard and forced himself into a state of calm.

Iycan'ceya shrugged lightly. ‘We don't know. We've never encountered this warhost in the past. That little that we know? This is second-hand information given to us over a century ago by tired soldiers who claimed to have survived a battle against them. I've sent a missive back to Tiamoxec wondering if those back home know anything that we don't, but even if they do, it'll take time before we hear back from them. We were actually hoping your library might have records on this Warhost of Malice.’

Rauscher bobbed his head absently, mentally making a note to have the palace library and vault searched for any reference of this Warhost of Malice. As much as he wanted to just dismiss any thought of it being a threat based on not being widely known off the top of his head, he wasn't a fool. Chaos, and those that worshipped it, were never to be underestimated.

The large lizardman, Ingwel'tonl, leaned over to the table, eyed the map of the Empire painted atop the surface and carefully placed a copper coin on the space that was roughly where the Feyerabend estate had been. A silver coin was then placed upon the border of the Drakwald.

‘The undead are still a problem as well,’ Ingwel'tonl then said. ‘A large army of undead was seen leaving the ruins of Efror. The scout that was following them lost them after they turned and entered into the Drakwald.’

‘You only had a scout following them?’ Rauscher silently cursed himself—he wasn't trying to sound judgmental, but apparently his voice was determined to betray him today.

‘Numbers.’ Ingwel'tonl grunted softly. ‘The undead were marching in two formations of a thousand. That's the undead that I saw, and while I can't say for certain, they didn't look as though they were puppeted.’

‘What does that mean?’ Rauscher asked incredulously, staring at the silver coin that clearly represented the undead and the last spot that they'd been seen. At least two thousand marching undead abominations, with more likely unseen or waiting to be raised.

‘I'm not an expert in the various forms of undead,’ Ingwel'tonl admitted but continued regardless. ‘But... our experience? They have no will of their own, just the command of the necromancer, thus “puppets”. Those that we saw? They looked to still have an awareness of their own.’

Iycan'ceya spoke up again. ‘We also don't know if those Ingwel saw were the ones who were taken from the catacombs beneath the Feyerabend keep. Probably not.’ At Rauscher's look of shock, the disguised lizardman shrugged. ‘Morr's protection had been stripped away, and the bodies that should have been there weren't.’

‘Graf Todbringer needs to muster the Middenland state troops, organise a strategy to cleanse the province of the undead as well as a plan of defence against the Chaos Warhost,’ Ingwel'tonl informed Rauscher in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘We can't do that.’ It did not please Rauscher to say that.

The reptile's eyes narrowed and gleamed with irritation. Something about the look of the larger lizardman had Rauscher speculate privately that Ingwel'tonl was the sort whose anger was slow to rouse but dangerous once awoken—the type whose anger was cold and calculated. ‘Excuse me? You have two threats within your borders; what possible reason can you have to not muster your forces?’

‘Graf Todbringer is not currently in Middenland to give the order,’ Rauscher answered irritably.

‘Why would the Grand Duke of Middenland leave Middenland while he has a known threat roaming within?’ Iycan'ceya snapped and then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Don't tell me he's having another pissing contest with the one-eyed beastman?’

Somehow it did not surprise Rauscher that Graf Todbringer's feud with Khazrak the One-Eye was known to these mercenaries. Not with the way that they favoured knowledge over coin—something which had remained consistent about them all through those five centuries that they had a recorded history. But having that feud summarised as a "pissing contest" felt like it was dismissing the full scope of its nature.

‘No, he was summoned to Altdorf by the Emperor, what with the sky exploding two weeks ago. You might have seen it—it was quite the spectacle.’ Rauscher snapped, patience frayed and snapped from the nerves that had built up for the past few minutes. He chose to ignore the insinuation that Graf Todbringer would put his feud with Khazrak the One-Eye before his duties to his people while a more immediate threat was present. ‘So, as it stands, nobody here has the authority to muster the state troops in the sort of numbers which can deal with two thousand undead—at a minimum—never mind a Chaos Warhost which you tell me has actual daemons among the worshippers. The most that anybody here right now has the authority to do, and which I will be making certain is done, is to have the Middenland state troops in a state of defensive readiness whilst we try to get in touch with the graf.’

Both of the Legion officers were still, eyes wide as they stared at him while his breath heaved in harsh huffs.

‘You're right,’ Iycan'ceya finally spoke. ‘We were so focused on the immediate threat that we didn't think what the reaction to the maelstrom would be.’

Rauscher inhaled a deep breath, held it, before he then slowly let it out. ‘What do you know of the sky exploding?’

Iycan'ceya shrugged. ‘About as much as you, maybe less—your wizards have access to a store of knowledge where they might have found some record that could give clues.’

‘Nothing.’ Rauscher shook his head. ‘All anybody with witch-sight or educated in the colleges of magic has been able to say is that when the maelstrom passed them, they felt a sense of loss.’

Iycan'ceya nodded slowly, his eyes glimmering with recognition. ‘That's about what we know.’

Ingwel'tonl tapped his fingers upon the surface of the table. His eyes were clouded with thought. He seemed to look at the coin representing the Chaos Warhost, then to the coin representing the Undead. After ten seconds had passed, he turned back to Rauscher.

‘Right now, with the graf not here, you are our client. Which way do you want the Legion to focus? The warhost or the undead?’

Rauscher looked between the two coins, much in the same way that the large lizardman had just moments prior. ‘I'll get back to you on that. First, I need to have the library checked for any mention of this Warhost of Malice. I will send a messenger to your camp once we have a direction to point you.’

Both of the Legion officers nodded in acknowledgment of his words and the unspoken dismissal. They left the parchment and two coins resting upon the surface of the table, perhaps in their own unspoken reminder of the threats represented.


*


For all that the modern county of Efror was almost entirely farmland, besides the now destroyed keep of the Feyerabend family, there was a town within the county borders. It rested at the very edge of the county of Efror, such that most people didn't even realise that it was actually under the domain of the now deceased Count of Efror.

Dryad's Fell, so named for a tale that a tree spirit had been felled upon that very ground, its body the foundation for the town to be built upon. It was stuff and nonsense—why would a dryad be so far from Athel Loren? Maybe dryads could be found within the Drakwald, but surely if that had ever been the case, the beastmen would have eradicated them long ago.

Sigismund honestly did not care for the tales that the townspeople told to try and make their home seem even more impressive than it really was. The truth, as far as Sigismund was concerned, was that the town of Dryad's Fell was where the survivors of the city of Efror had gathered, and that then expanded into a town in the century since.

Sergeant Gerwin met Sigismund just outside the town's palisade, dark eyes instantly roving up and down Sigismund's form as he approached. Sigismund chose to ignore the way the sergeant’s eyes momentarily lingered on the hilt of the sword gifted to him, no doubt recognising the boar-shaped pommel.

‘Captain,’ he said with a nod, though his forehead creased and he scanned around as if expecting Cruniac to also be nearby. ‘What news?’

‘The count is dead and the keep has fallen.’ Sigismund's tone was terse, but he swallowed back all of the anger he was feeling into a pit in his gut, didn't direct it at his most trusted subordinate, not when it was supposed to be self-directed.

‘Fallen?’ Gerwin's eyes widened. ‘To whom?’

‘First it was the Outland Legion, at the behest of Middenheim. But they didn't get to keep their spoils for long... they were attacked in turn by a Chaos Warhost.’

‘Chaos, here?!’

‘Yes.’ Sigismund bowed his head, swallowed back another surge of self-directed hatred, a feeling that everything he ever felt attachment to was destined to burn. ‘But they were unlike any Chaos warriors I fought before.’ He shook his head, tried to put to words the way that these warriors had been different from those he'd fought years past. Unfortunately, it wasn't something he could put words to, and simply mentioning their armour didn't feel adequate—it would be focusing on the aesthetics, not the aura, not the air about them.

Instead, Sigismund changed the subject. ‘Before his passing, the count gave a final order. Tell me, does the name Pugna Textrix mean anything to you?’

Gerwin tilted his head and hummed absently, then mouthed the name silently. ‘Not in particular.’

Sigismund grit his teeth, his anger slowly breaching his efforts to keep it contained. Swallowed again. ‘We've been charged with finding and killing the one that goes by that name.’

‘Not much to go on,’ Gerwin mused, ignoring the glower sent his way at stating the obvious. ‘What would you have us do while we research and attempt to track down this individual?’

That was a good question. There were two threats roaming the lands, and Sigismund had an unfortunate sense that the recent phenomenon regarding the sky meant that Middenland wouldn't be focusing on either of those threats, but instead on whatever the spectacle was a precursor to. If that spectacle hadn't occurred, then the Graf of Middenheim would no doubt be mustering the state troops to combat the Great Enemy. But right now? The best that Sigismund could hope for was that the Middenland state military was on a defensive alert. Unfortunately, that would only really protect the main cities of the province, not the villages, not the common folk.

A part of Sigismund wanted nothing more than to have the guard charge into battle against the Chaos warhost, but that was a battle destined for failure, even if he played it smart. There were simply too many within that warhost. If Ulric was smiling upon them, the warhost would divide itself into smaller forces and split into multiple directions in an effort to cover more ground. Should that happen, then and only then would the Efror Guard be able to start making an effort against them.

If he was lucky, those lizardmen would be tasked with pushing against the white-armoured warriors and their daemons. At least it would keep them both occupied and out of Sigismund's life for a time.

‘What do you have to report on the undead?’ he asked.

Gerwin crossed his arms and stared into nothing. ‘We found a large force of undead. And these weren't just zombies and skeletons... I think they were grave guard.’

Sigismund held up a hand, momentarily cutting off Gerwin so that he could speak. ‘I've not had experience with the undead, you'll have to explain what grave guard are.’

‘It's the term we used for a particular type of skeletal warriors,’ Gerwin explained patiently. ‘A priest of Morr once told me that they still have their souls—or at least a fragment—still trapped within their bodies. They still move and fight as they did in life; they aren't just bodies found and raised to be discarded. Worse still, these ones? They're wearing the uniforms of the Efror Guard from the time of the razing.’

There was a slight chill that went down Sigismund's spine. After joining and being granted command of the Efror Guard, he had done everything he could to have them reach a peak standard that could rival even the state troops of Middenland, or his original home of Nordland, in spite of the outdated armour and lack of modern weapons. But he had heard of the Efror Guard during the time of the Mad Count Adelbreckt. If these were raised guardsmen from that time period, with all the skill they'd had back in those days? They would potentially be rivalling Sigismund's command.

‘So far, the only good thing we observed was the lack of vargheists or varghulfs,’—Gerwin quickly waved aside Sigismund's look with a promise to elaborate further later—‘or even anything that looked like they could be vampires. If we're lucky, we're just dealing with a human necromancer with an obsession with Old Efror.’

‘And if we're unlucky?’

Gerwin's face scrunched into a grimace. ‘We're looking at a powerful vampire who is also clever enough to hide anything identifiable as vampiric.’

Even with his lack of experience regarding the undead or vampires, Sigismund was still versed enough to recognise that a vampire lord would be bad news, enough so that he shared Gerwin's hopes that such wouldn't reveal itself to be the one causing trouble.

‘Unfortunately, we're outnumbered.’ Gerwin started again, scratching at the corner of his mouth. ‘Before we even account for the zombies and skeletons that are naught but chaff to be thrown at us, we are outnumbered.’

‘Outnumbered by undead, outnumbered by Chaos.’ Sigismund crossed his arms and stared up at the night sky. ‘Damned either way.’

‘Damned either way,’ Gerwin parroted in agreement.

Sigismund stared at the town, the thick stone walls that were likely the only reason that Dryad's Fell was the last settlement of Efror still remaining after all the farms and the keep had been put to the torch. It was a sturdy enough defence that the undead wouldn't have had an easy time of just leveling the settlement without notice from other parties, and with the confusion as to whether the town was part of the county or not, maybe there had been concern about attracting the attention of Middenland too soon. However, walls or no, there was no doubt that once the Chaos Warhost finished with whatever it was doing at the ruins of Keep Feyerabend, Dryad's Fell would be leveled shortly after, for no other reason than it being in their path.

‘Gather up every able-bodied man and woman, conscript them into the guard. Mothers, children, and invalids, have them escorted to Norderingen. For the time being, the guard will stay here at Dryad's Fell. We’ll train everybody conscripted as much as we can before we start moving out. We'll use that time to work out a strategy or work out what our enemies are actually trying to accomplish.’

Gerwin hesitated for a moment, his lips tugged downward in not-quite disapproval, more from concern than anything else. ‘Are you certain? If you do this, there won't be a county of Efror any longer.’

‘This town and those within it are all that remains.’ Sigismund snapped, his anger at everything happening finally boiling over such that he could no longer hold it back. Despite the sharp tone, Gerwin didn't so much as flinch. ‘Once this town falls, and it will fall, there won't be anything left regardless. The farms are gone, the keep is rubble. We get those who can't fight to the safety and protection of Middenland, and then we work on destroying those responsible. First the undead, then Chaos if the provinces haven't yet dealt with them, and Pugna Textrix once we learn who or what he is.’

Gerwin remained stationary for a further six seconds, eyes staring intently at Sigismund. After those six seconds had passed, Gerwin gave a sharp nod and raised his hand, pressing it to his breast in a salute. ‘By your command, my lord. I will see to the conscription personally.’

And thus he turned, marching with purpose into the town proper with a resolute expression. Sigismund watched him go, before he then sighed, his anger momentarily warped into self-recrimination over the order that he knew was about to permanently split apart families. He remembered momentarily his own feelings as a youth forced into service by Nordland against the raiders from across the Sea of Claws, and the confrontations that had come from those battles against the Great Enemy.

He was doing the right thing. He was defending his home. If not his chosen home of Efror, then he was protecting the Empire as a whole. It was a duty that he must perform, a service toward a greater good, but that knowledge didn't take that sour taste from his mouth.


*


The skies roiled with red, as though mirroring the blood pooled upon the ground. He looked up, he watched as a monstrous figure towered over all beneath it, teeth gleaming, dripping with saliva. Its flesh rippled in time to its movements, heavy weapon readied.

The creature was felled quickly. The armoured figure responsible for the killing blow roared in challenge, hefted its warhammer and peered around the field of battle. Somehow its golden form was clean and unblemished in spite of the mud and the blood and the defecation that littered the ground.

A greenskin bellowed in answer to the challenge, charged and was swiftly brought low as the golden figure swung the mighty hammer in its hand, blank expressionless battle mask contrary to the screaming of a righteous god's fury. The scion of the storm turned, peered at the spawn of Chaos that battled against the gold figure's brothers. Another roar of righteous hatred, the gold figure charged, hammer swinging even as the prince that the warrior aimed to fell turned, its glowing gaze fixing upon the warrior with blood-fuelled glee and screamed in eternal hatred as it responded to the challenge and swung its weapon in response. The weapons both connected with their intended targets...

Boney sat up sharply, fighting against the gag reflex that wanted him to expel the contents of his stomach. It was a losing battle; he was quick to recognise that. He stumbled, fell from the cot he had been sleeping upon and dragged himself toward a nearby bucket, barely managing to get his snout over the edge before he lost his battle against his own body's desires. Vomit exited, hitting the bucket. But even after, still the skink found himself heaving despite having nothing left to give as tithe to the bucket.

Five minutes, maybe longer, he remained hunched over this bucket before finally he was able to breathe normally, though every time his mind drifted toward the night-tale he had just borne witness to, his body tried to reignite that gag reflex. It was irrational—it wasn't like there was a physical reason for it—but yet his body wanted so hard to rid itself of even the memory of that night-tale that it was trying to force it through any means available.

Another few minutes were spent simply laying on the floor, his head still halfway into a metal bucket that was supposed to be full of water for washing himself. Contaminated now.

Fully awake, and starting to take note of the smell that came from his previously stomach-held contents, Boney picked himself up and grabbed the bucket, mind already reminding him where the latrine ditch had been dug. Best to empty the bucket and then wash it out.

The hour was late, with the only sources of light coming from the scattered fire pits around the camp, and the twin moons, one a sickly green that Boney pointedly ignored lest his gut play up again. It was embarrassing enough to be so sickened by a dream of all things; he wouldn't make the mistake of peering at Morrslieb.

Got a few curious looks from those of the Legion charged with keeping watch at that hour, but nobody asked questions; they simply left him to his business. He found the ditch, poured the contents of the bucket within, and then made a hasty retreat. He really had no desire to linger.

Once he was done, he found himself wandering around the camp aimlessly, too awake now to return to sleep so quickly. Also didn't particularly want to chance experiencing the same dream again while it was still fresh in his mind, as much as he tried not to linger on the strangely vivid image of the warrior in golden armour. Couldn't think of what had sparked that image in his resting mind. The armour hadn't looked like any he had yet encountered.

Boney was stirred from his restless musings by voices. He stilled, head unconsciously tilting to the side as he tried to make out what was being spoken.

‘----into the Drakwald?’

‘I’d prefer we avoid going in there. The brayherd never take kindly to large numbers going off the road, and fighting them within their territory is asking for trouble.’

‘As Todbringer can attest to.’

There was a low chuckle. At that point, the two conversing rounded the nearby tent. Neither Colonel Iycan nor Marshal Ingwel seemed to notice Boney—they were so intent on their conversation.

‘So, what do we do if we're asked to hunt the undead?’ Iycan asked after a pause.

‘Well, we'll obviously have to enter the Drakwald whether we want to or not.’ Ingwel shrugged. ‘We've just got to be careful and move slowly with five eyes in every direction. Though that's assuming the undead don't leave the Drakwald first. I'll probably task Sharpe with scouting and finding our undead menace before going in force.’

Iycan grunted and crossed his arms. ‘Trying to lessen the amount of time we'd be in there? Smart.’

‘Sensible,’ Ingwel countered, then peered off to one side. ‘At this point, I'm surprised the Empire hasn't burnt down the entirety of the Drakwald, with everything hiding in there.’

Iycan hissed out a laugh. ‘They've probably considered it at least once. They've probably abstained because they have no way of knowing whether they'd make things worse for themselves in the same way that burning Laurelorn would.’

Ingwel tilted his head and gave a sound of agreement. Boney wondered what the significance of Laurelorn was, why it was that the humans burning it would cause them to be in a worse position. He filed that away as something to wonder about another time.

Ingwel said something more to Iycan and then stalked away, one hand waving in a quiet gesture over his shoulder. Iycan watched him go with crossed arms, and then turned his head such that he was looking directly at Boney.

‘Couldn't sleep?’

Boney bit back the startled hiss that wanted to escape him. Instead, he stepped forward. ‘Not really.’

Iycan gave a soft hum of thought and moved toward a nearby cart, almost absentmindedly searching under the canvas covering. ‘Hah, well. Would have thought it early days yet for you to be having night troubles, but then I suppose being witness to a Chaos warhost would cause restlessness in anybody sane, Child of the Gods or not.’

Boney opened his mouth, ready to point out that his dream wasn't related to Keep Feyerabend, but then closed it and gave a sheepish shrug. Considering a daemon prince had been involved in the night-tale, he couldn't really argue that it wasn't, even if Chaos had just been one small portion of the imagery, alongside orcs and skaven and undead. However, the main focus had been that golden warrior and the others like him, which near as Boney could tell had no real-world counterpart.

Several glass bottles were eased out from the cart, alongside a small wooden box. Iycan eyed them speculatively. ‘Hmm, we have Bretonnian brandy, Kislev vodka, rum from Sartosa, and...’—he opened the small box and took a small sniff at the contents—‘Cathayan tea. Which would you like to try?’

‘Ah...’ Boney's hands were waved in a gesture of uncertainty. ‘What's what?’

‘The brandy is fruity… I think this one is apple flavoured.’ As he spoke, Iycan twisted the cork from the top and inhaled deeply of the scent. ‘Ah, no, white grape. The vodka is more a spiced brine-water, those that like it do so less for the taste, more the feeling. The rum is sweet, with some spice to it.’

‘And the tea?’

‘Isn't alcohol and needs to be heated. Think of the chocolate back home, but less bitter, more... flowery?’ Iycan trailed off as he tried to work out how to describe the taste to somebody with no comparable experience to compare.

Remembering some of Coadmit's odd warnings on that night and day they'd been travelling toward Tallow Farm, a time that already felt far too long ago, Boney opted against the alcoholic choices for the time being, gesturing lightly toward the box that held the green tea.

‘Probably the best choice,’ Iycan mused aloud.

Despite his choice of words, it hardly stopped him from taking a quick swig from the still-open bottle of brandy before then putting the cork back into the neck and depositing it with the other two bottles. Wordlessly, he moved to the nearest fire pit and set to work heating some water.

‘So, any thoughts or questions?’ Iycan asked as he worked.

‘About?’

‘Anything.’

Boney remained silent for a moment, searching through his mind for anything he might want to voice to the elder skink.

‘How powerful are you? Magically?’ He finally settled on.

‘Why do you ask?’ Iycan asked in return.

‘You're a founding member of the Legion—that was five hundred summers ago. You're still alive despite your age.’

It had been something subtly nagging at the back of Boney's mind. Skinks weren't blessed with such longevity as saurus or kroxigors. Those gifted with magic had the potential to last beyond their normal lifetime, no matter their race, so it was hardly unheard of that there were those skinks who were blessed by the Old Ones to live far in excess of their usual lifetime, but it was a given that eventually even those such gifted skinks would pass. Longer than five hundred summers was near unheard of.

Iycan's eyes narrowed into a grin. ‘No I'm not.’ He chuckled softly at the bemused expression that Boney shot him. ‘I'm not the founding member. I took the name when I replaced his replacement. Same as my predecessor did. I am Iycan'ceya the Fourth, if you want to be specific.’

Boney blinked, taking a moment to comprehend what he was hearing. ‘Why?’

Iycan shrugged. ‘When the first Iycan passed from his old age, we hadn't had any plans on how to go forward with his replacement as the keeper of knowledge and intelligence. His successor chose to take the same name in order to prevent confusion with contacts and people of interest we were in communication with. But that second Iycan was killed not even three summers after he took the mantle, so my predecessor salvaged what he could and dedicated himself to making sure that there was continuity even in the advent that it wasn't age that killed an Iycan'ceya. He passed thirty-three winters ago, and I've been Iycan'ceya ever since. It's just become tradition that the right hand of Marshal Ingwel'tonl be renamed Iycan'ceya and acts as if they've always been the same person.’

‘So, who takes your role if you pass on?’

‘I have a number of trained successors with a clear chain of succession.’ Iycan poured the now heated water into a smaller container alongside leaves from the box of tea. Boney didn’t miss the fact that the question wasn’t actually answered. ‘It's hardly a secret among us. If I'm lucky, I'll be around for another sixty summers; I think I'm gifted enough to last that long.’

Now there was a new question in Boney's mind that spawned from what he had just learned. ‘So… What about Yade-to? He was a founding member and he must have passed recently if I'm his replacement.’

Iycan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘Firstly, don't refer to yourself as his replacement. It's demeaning to yourself to think that your purpose is to fill the space left behind by Yade-to. We aren't expecting you to be a copy of him.’ Then the Right Hand of Ingwel deflated. ‘And yes, Yade-to was that powerful. So strong that he died of old age at five hundred and seventy summers. More than five times our average life expectancy.’

Boney huffed out a bemused laugh. ‘Why was he a major and not a colonel if he was so powerful?’

Iycan hummed. ‘From what I understand, Solin was tasked with the position of colonel over Mort and Yade-to specifically because he was the one with the most intimate understanding of warmbloods and what we needed to do to adapt in order to fulfil our given role.’

There was a trace of amusement to Iycan's tone as he spoke that last part, which had Boney wondering what it was that the other skink hadn't said aloud. After a momentary pause, Iycan took a quick look at the cup in his hands and must have deemed it ready for he then passed it to Boney. Boney examined the liquid with faint curiosity—had never seen green liquid before, certainly never been expected to drink it. The closest comparable substance he could conjure up was mulched fruit, but this tea certainly didn't have the same scent to it. A careful sip had his eyes narrow in pleasure.

‘So, bad dreams?’

Boney grunted, his mind unconsciously redrawing a recreation of the scene from his night-tale. ‘Strange and disturbing.’ And real enough in the feelings conjured that my body reacted accordingly, he didn't say.

‘It'll get better, with time.’ Those five words were uttered with a certainty that implied experience. ‘Far too many of our kind seem to think us immune to the mental strain that comes from enacting the Great Plan. Fools, the lot of them. If only we could get Muja to lecture them.’

‘Muja being the kroxigor that is also a healer?’ Boney asked to both refresh his own memory and to help cement the fact into his mind through repetition.

Iycan nodded. ‘And not stupid. Muja started his career as a healer by focusing on mind healing and being an emotional support for any saurus and skinks who suffered from battle shock.’

And from there, the kroxigor had clearly expanded his skill set to aiding physical ails. It was likely only an option for Muja because he was so clearly aged. Just a look at Muja made it clear he had lived at least a thousand summers, likely more. It wasn't a slight against kroxigors to say that the younger examples of their kind did not have the attention spans, nor the physical dexterity for such a role, but the longer a kroxigor lived the more patient and better at focus they got. Most by that time were committed to their role as the muscle, be it as fighters or as the heavy-lifting assistants for artisans and builders. But Muja was clearly determined to make his own choice in life, and with the obvious gentleness that the giant reptile was capable of—Boney did still remember the mock blood bowl game a month ago, and the care that Muja had taken to not accidentally harm the skinks on the field with him—then Boney would certainly not begrudge the kroxigor taking up a role as a healer.

Boney finished the last of the tea, looked mournfully at the cup as though doing so would magically gift him more of the drink. Iycan chuckled softly, and took the cup.

‘I’ll sort it. You should try to catch up on your sleep now that you're relaxed again.’

Boney reluctantly agreed, and with a sigh picked himself up and started to make his way back to his sleeping space.


*


Ingwel was awakened by a sharp tapping on the wood of the wagon that was for all intents and purposes his office, which also doubled as his sleeping chamber. With an annoyed grunt, he lifted himself from the floor and pulled aside the canvas flap that was the closest thing he had to a door. His spawn-brother matched his unimpressed stare with one of his own.

‘What is it?’ Ingwel asked with a low hiss that suggested that he considered it far too early to be bothered by anything short of a Lord of Change on the rampage.

Solin looked like he shared the sentiments about the time. A small indication of the apparent importance of the reason for waking was swiftly made evident by the fact that the other saurus was not wearing his surcoat, which made him look smaller—leaner, Ingwel corrected himself—than normal.

‘A human just arrived in the camp. A messenger from the palace.’

Ingwel rubbed at the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger, took a moment to take a deep breath and mentally steady himself. ‘Ok, I'll see him in a moment. I assume he's been escorted to the main tent?’

At his brother's nod, Ingwel released his grip on the canvas and stalked over to his clothing, hurriedly pulling on the garments before marching to the tent that was used for meetings with the entirety of the commanding elements of the Legion, or for speaking with clients and outsiders. By the time he arrived, he didn't look at all like he'd been hurrying to dress himself—looked every part the immaculate officer that warmblood nobility expected of anybody in a position of leadership.

He was surprised to learn that the messenger in question was none other than Rauscher himself, rather than an actual messenger ferrying a missive. Accompanying Rauscher was a large human in the robes of a wizard, and vivid orange hair that gave away just which college he had learnt at. Iycan, Mort, and Solin were also in the tent. Rauscher's attention was fixed upon Iycan, probably committing the appearance of a non-disguised version of the colonel to memory. It was certainly a difference if one was used to the illusion.

‘Three days,’ Ingwel said by way of greeting, gently tugging at the hem of his shirt to remove any potential creases. ‘I hope you have something for us.’

Rauscher gave a small nod and lifted a tube, the sort that was used to transport parchment safely. ‘Our perusing the library had some results.’ The tube was carefully upended, the parchment inside allowed to slide into the waiting hand of Rauscher.

There was no disguising the naked curiosity that Iycan levelled upon the parchment—didn't even need to be well-versed in reading the expressions of the Children of the Gods to be able to tell that the skink was only barely restraining himself from moving closer to take the scroll and read its contents.

Rauscher flattened the parchment on the simple table in the middle of the tent, carefully watched over by the wizard, though whether the wizard's concern was the parchment or the man, Ingwel couldn't tell. Once unrolled and flat for reading, even a cursory glance piqued the interests of all.

The etching of a skull, half shaded, was very familiar to three of those who looked upon it; to Ingwel, it was only familiar by description.

It was the wizard who spoke. ‘This is everything we’ve found on the warhost that calls itself "the Sons of Malice".’

‘The Sons of Malice,’ Mort parroted. Ingwel picked up something in the Eternity Warden's tone that was subtle enough that the two humans likely wouldn't have heard it, probably couldn't even if it hadn't been suppressed. Ingwel wondered if it was the human’s choice of the name Sons rather than Warhost that had the other saurus looking like he’d just swallowed a live hornet.

The wizard gave a single shallow nod. ‘I won't pretend to be an expert in Chaos or the realms of such. But I am aware that there are more entities within than just the four that we all hate.’

Solin grunted in agreement. ‘Yeah, we have a Horned Rat, Hashut...’

Iycan was quick to add ‘Arkhar, Lanshor, the Great Beast...’

Rauscher looked ill at the mention of five entities that weren't the four well-known and despised Gods of Chaos. The wizard looked no better, though was better able to keep himself composed despite the clear discomfort.

‘Yes, well... My point is the Sons of Malice are followers of one such entity.’ The wizard leaned forward and tapped his finger on the parchment, in particular upon some script written in sharp strokes of the quill. ‘It has gone by many titles: the Lost God, the Rejected God... the Hierarch of Terror and Anarchy. The last century, it has gone by the name “Malice”.’

‘I never would have worked that out, it was so subtle.’ Solin huffed in bemusement, though his narrowed eyes showed that he was taking the information he was hearing seriously. His tone changed abruptly as he tacked on ‘So why haven't we heard of it before?’

Rauscher was the one to answer with a tight, strained smile that was devoid of humour or any real positive feeling. ‘Because, typically followers of Malice aren't our problem—they very rarely leave the Chaos Wastes.’

The wizard continued. ‘One thing that all the scholars agree upon is that Malice's first and most pressing adversary is the Four. Whenever it gains the strength to enact any form of influence—every time Malice can exert any of its will to the mortal realms—it wages war on the followers of the Four with fury, and then whenever it seems on the cusp of victory... it weakens inexplicably and is defeated shortly after. That part, no scholar has come to a reasonable conclusion on.’

‘A cyclic entity,’ Iycan mused aloud. ‘Grow in strength, wage war only to have victory snatched away. Wait and repeat.’

‘No wonder it's called Malice—I think I'd be feeling pretty malicious if that was my existence,’ Solin hissed.

‘You say its followers rarely leave the Wastes?’ Mort prodded the conversation back on topic.

Rauscher, eyes skimming the scroll even though he must have read it before deeming it important enough to take from the library and make the journey to the Legion's camp, gave a shallow nod. ‘Rarely, but they do on occasion come south. They still typically prioritise fighting other Chaos warbands and undermining their efforts, but they don't align themselves with the Empire or Bretonnia or any other southern realm—they still attack us just as much as any other Chaos follower.’

‘But that doesn't explain why they focused on the Feyerabend Keep,’ Ingwel pointed out.

The wizard's bobbing head suggested agreement with the inconsistency. ‘The theories that I can come up with are that this isn't actually the work of the Sons of Malice, but an effort to have us direct our attention away from the real perpetrators.’

Solin, now leaning over the parchment, albeit forced to read it upside down from his position, visibly grimaced and pointed at a particular sketch upon the parchment. ‘Doubt it, unless you can think up a reason for what this says are daemons specific to Malice being amongst their numbers.’

Ingwel examined the motioned sketch and blanched at the disgusting visage that met him. It had a vaguely insectoid appearance, but with cloven hooves and, according to the sketch, the daemon had a tail, which at its end had another head, this one almost feminine-looking, and with twin barbed pincers emerging from what would have been the neck had the head been attached to a normal body. Ingwel had faced down Nurglish daemons and thought them about as revolting as could be. These daemons of Malice were a different kind of revolting—the kind that came from his mind just crying out at the wrongness of the appearance.

The wizard sighed and shook his head. ‘Which means that this warhost has a purpose. Now whether that purpose is to deny the rest of Chaos an asset, or that they believe that they'll find a weapon of some sort, that I couldn't even begin to guess at.’

Rauscher placed the tube which had stored the parchment upon the table. ‘Keep it,’ he said, waving at the parchment. ‘This was a copy I had made of the original. Consider it payment for your efforts at the keep and for warning us of this new threat.’

Ingwel's head jerked up to look upon Rauscher. Considering that they'd technically failed at the keep, he hadn't considered asking after a fee, but then, he supposed that delivering news to Middenheim that they had a Chaos warhost on their lawn was itself worthy of being rewarded with knowledge in kind.

The wizard didn't look pleased, copy of the original or not, but any protest that he might have had was swallowed down. With a great sigh, the orange-haired wizard pointed coughed into a closed fist, which had Rauscher jerk as if jolted by a chill.

‘That's not all we have for you.’ Now his tone turned slightly more professional. ‘Yesterday, we were host to a band of warriors who have been tracking an army of the undead. They chose to depart swiftly after they delivered their news.’

‘I assume this is the same undead that plagued the county of Efror?’ Ingwel asked without any apparent irony in his tone.

‘The very same. By all accounts, the undead have stopped their raiding behaviour entirely. In fact, they ceased the same day that Fenchel was allowed asylum within Middenheim, which lends credence to the idea that they were being used to hunt for him.’

Mort rumbled wordlessly for a moment. ‘It also suggests they have somebody in the city that reported that the child is there.’

‘Unfortunately true,’ Rauscher acknowledged with a downward turn of his mouth. ‘A part of me had hoped that with the count of Efror and the chaplain sorcerer dead that the undead would cease to be a problem, but you and these warriors both reported the undead moving even after both were slain.’

It was a bit of a stretch to call Count Feyerabend "slain" if the reports of Solin and Boney were anything to go by, but Ingwel chose not to make a fuss out of that particular choice of wording.

‘And with the nature of the undead's "recruitment", they could feasibly attack Middenheim itself at some point in the future, if they deem the capture of Robert Fenchel to be such a priority. Did you get no clue as to why he was so wanted?’

Solin shook his head, arms crossed. ‘I didn't exactly get the chance to question either the count or the sorcerer before the sorcerer started flinging fire at us. My impression was that the count was being controlled, fought against it and died as a consequence. The sorcerer was convinced that his life was now forfeit as a result.’ The Oldblood tilted his head. ‘Whether that was fear of the warhost or something else? No idea.’

Rauscher grimaced. ‘Either way, we need you to crack down on the undead. While the Chaos warhost is a more visible threat, we can at least see them and plan accordingly. But we can't fight a war with the undead acting as a wildcard.’

Ingwel blanched. While he’d considered the possibility, he was not happy with the idea of what had just been suggested. ‘The undead are in the Drakwald.’

Rauscher hesitated for a moment—it was clear he understood why Ingwel was uneager to send his forces into those forested depths en masse. There was likely no Middenlander alive who didn't understand the threat that dwelled within the Drakwald the moment one stepped off of the beaten path. And oftentimes even while still upon that same beaten path.

It was somewhat telling that even Mort looked uncomfortable at the prospect of entering the domain of the beastmen. Quality versus quantity, and the beastmen certainly had quantity on their side to supplement the advantage that came from fighting within their own territory. It didn’t matter that they had no intention of fighting with the brayherds, because the brayherds had every intention of fighting them.

‘I can't command the Middenland state troops into the Drakwald without the graf, and we can't wait to see where they emerge. I need you to track them down. And if I am being honest, your legion has far better odds of surviving the Drakwald than any human force that could be mustered.’

‘We don’t know that the necromancer is actually within the Drakwald with their minions.’ Solin snorted irritably as he uttered his words.

‘Which is why we need this.’ The wizard interrupted. ‘If you can spare scouts. With every eye we can get on the undead, the more likely we can predict their next move and protect ourselves. And the more likely we stumble across the necromancer and can cut the head off this snake.’

Ingwel nodded sharply. ‘That, we can do. What can the rest of the Legion do in the meantime?’

Rauscher suddenly looked tired. ‘I hate to say it, but you are now our first defense against the Chaos warhost, and without the graf, you are the only protection that smaller towns and villages will have. Would it be too much to ask that you move and station yourselves at the northern borders of Middenland for the protection of our settlements?’

Ingwel exhaled softly through his nostrils. ‘Unless the warhost divides itself, we’ll not be enough to save anywhere attacked.’ He gave the warning in a soft tone.

Rauscher sighed heavily. ‘I am aware. There are other forces that can act independently of the graf’s court, and I will be sending any I can that way also. Hopefully, you won’t be alone for long. And… I have an advance payment for you. Something that I believe you will find more than worth its value.’

Ingwel stared at the human, peering intently at him, trying to predict what fee that he might have that would be so valuable to them after the wealth of knowledge about a Chaos entity that had gone unknown to them before that moment. Rauscher moved his hands into a bag that he’d had slung across his hip and fished out an object which he removed slowly, carefully.

The air in the tent turned still as the lizardmen each recognised the item.

‘You have no idea how lucky you are.’ Iycan uttered those words with a quiet, borderline reverence. He slowly approached and took the object from unresisting hands.

It was not a false statement, or made lightly. Had any of their Lustrian cousins heard even a rumor that Middenheim had in its possession a golden plaque… Ingwel cut that thought short. It was no longer an issue, for they had just been given the plaque freely. Ok, so it had been worded as though it was payment for a task to be performed, but that was fine. It was a task that Ingwel had already been leaning toward agreeing to regardless.

‘Where did you get this?’ Iycan asked.

‘Not from Lustria,’ the wizard answered in Rauscher’s stead, tone only just shy of open panic and hope that the words were believed. ‘It was found in Arabi fifty-seven years ago, and has been sitting in the vault since, as none of our scholars could work out its significance.’

‘That fact might have saved you,’ Mort snorted, though his eyes were locked on the plaque.

Iycan ran his fingers over the inscriptions and heaved a deep breath, seeming to relish in the moment, before his eyes locked onto Mort.

‘In the absence of a slann, I entrust this plaque to you, Eternity Warden. May you guard it with all your being until it can be restored to its rightful place.’ Iycan spoke in High Saurian, the words an almost ritualistic rite as one of the most valuable items of their kind was entrusted to the one deemed best able to protect it. That would be until the next time that Captain Horeo arrived with more new members for the Legion, whereupon he would be charged with transporting it to the temple-city of Tiamoxec.

Mort accepted the plaque and visibly swallowed. It had been five hundred summers since the last time his status as an Eternity Warden had meant anything other than his being the direct superior of those trained as guardians, and suddenly he was holding a thick rectangular slab of engraved gold which was considered only marginally less important than an actual slann. Any nerves that Mort might have felt were quickly buried, and he adjusted his grip on the item in question and tucked it between his arm and torso, his other hand hovering nearby as if ready to grip it in a vice grip at a moment’s notice.

Ingwel turned to look again at Rauscher. ‘You wanted us to protect the northern part of the province?’ he asked rhetorically before he gave a sharp nod. ‘We’ll start to move out by the day’s end.’

There were a few more words given, but both humans left shortly after. Ingwel stood, looking upon his two colonels and Mort, the three of whom were looking back at him, waiting for his next action.

‘Are we really doing this?’ Solin asked, though his tone belied the fact that he had already accepted that it was happening.

‘He’s right, though,’ Iycan mused aloud as the four of them exited the tent. ‘With Middenland’s highest authority absent, it’s us and any independent orders standing between Chaos and those smaller settlements.’

‘What “independent orders” would there be nearby?’ Mort asked thoughtfully, only partially paying attention, still gazing reverently at the gold plaque.

Solin jabbed his thumb in the direction of Middenheim. ‘The Knights Panther have a chapter house there. And if they get involved in anything then you can be certain that the Knights of the White Wolf will involve themselves in an effort to show up the panthers.’

Iycan started in surprise, the kind of surprise that Ingwel had learned came from Iycan having not thought of something that the skink considered obvious in hindsight. After he’d managed to regain his mental coherency, Iycan added ‘And the Knights Panther don’t owe allegiance to any one province—they are protectors of the Empire first and always. No need to wait for the graf’s orders.’

Solin then added as an aside ‘And the Grudgebringers were patrolling the Middenheim Road at the same time we were travelling its length. They may have come back this way. So, we can’t dismiss the idea of any free companies that are in the area.’

‘So,’ Ingwel began with a faux-cheerful clap of the hands once he mentally placed the name. ‘We’re not going to be completely screwed if the Warhost of Malice attacks, just mostly.’

‘Story of our lives,’ Solin hissed.

‘That it is.’ Ingwel’s cheer turned slightly more legitimate as he took note of a pair of chameleons moving through the camp. His eyes fixed themselves upon Major Sharpe, who, judging from his state of mostly undress and the ruffled state of his shirt—the single article of clothing he was wearing—Sharpe had only just awoken and was on his way to grab breakfast from the nearest fire pit. Sergeant Happy also trailed near the major, chattering with exaggerated gestures at the sandy-brown chameleon. ‘Major, a word.’

Sharpe blinked up at Ingwel, one eye slowly moving left to right, taking in the presence of the three highest-ranking officers of the Legion, and Mort. ‘Was there a meeting I wasn’t aware of?’ he asked in a dry tone that suggested that he was hoping that being scolded for missing a meeting was the only reason he was being spoken to.

‘Yes, but it was spur of the moment, hardly your fault you missed it.’ Ingwel waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘I need you to get dressed and gather the chameleons.’

‘Which chameleons?’ Now Sharpe’s tone turned wary, was no doubt recalling every task personally bestowed upon him by Ingwel in the past, every high-risk task that had been almost certain to kill any lesser skink. His eye turned to Mort, but before he could take note of what the Eternity Warden was holding, the saurus turned away, hiding it from sight.

‘Make it all of them.’

Happy sputtered. ‘Say what now?’

Ingwel quickly amended his previous words. ‘All who are able-bodied and capable.’

‘Why?’ Sharpe asked, his wariness turning to resignation.

‘I need you to go into the Drakwald and track down a force of undead at least two thousand strong.’

And Sharpe’s resignation turned to disbelief and no small measure of horrified concern. Happy sputtered again, and then turned to Sharpe with an exaggerated groan. ‘Oh, Sharpe, this pain in my head, I took quite a blow at the keep I did. Maybe I’m not capable of going into the Drakwald.’

Sharpe’s eyes narrowed into a look of feigned bemusement. ‘The only thing wrong with your head is that it’s yours. Go round everybody up.’

‘This is what the humans mean when they say ye can have too much of a good thing. Ye have too much skill, Sharpe. Now ye’ve cursed us with this shite.’

Sharpe lifted two fingers at the vibrant green chameleon. ‘Piss off, you overgrown lime.’

Happy sniggered and quickly scuttled off to do as told. As he did so, Sharpe returned his attention back to Ingwel, the trace of humour that came from his interaction with Happy rapidly fading as the other left.

‘What exactly am I leading my skirmishers into?’ He spoke seriously, his voice now barren of the resignation or any sign of reluctance as his sense of duty, as it always inevitably did, came to the fore. It was one of the things Ingwel liked the most about the chameleon—he always put his own misgivings aside once the moment came, and he had a penchant for coming through with the goals given to him, even when logic suggested that he wouldn’t be able to snatch victory from a given battle.

Ingwel glanced over his shoulder at the other three. ‘Get everybody ready while I explain Sharpe’s mission to him.’

He barely heard the reply. He was already leading Sharpe back towards the tent.


*


Skaros had spent hours simply staring at the rubble that used to be the keep. It was infuriating. He was close, so close that he could taste his desire, but the stone walls had come down, buried everything. It was irrelevant. A delay.

But that delay gave the men of the Empire time to muster their troops and sally out to meet the warhost. Skaros wasn’t afraid of the inevitable confrontation—the weak men of the south could never hope to compete against the might of the followers of Malice.

But twelve times past, twelve Everchosen had been felled by those same weak southerners. Skaros wasn’t afraid of the Empire, was resolute in his belief that the Empire were weaklings incapable of standing up to him. But he was no fool—if a champion of the four fell gods of Chaos could be fended off, not just once but twelve times…

Once was luck. Twelve times? That was a sign that the Empire had a guardian watching over them. Sigmar might be a weakling compared to Malice, but Sigmar was still a god. Only a fool underestimated the strength of a god. And Sigmar didn’t have a crippling flaw that constantly undermined him at the cusp of his desires. Oh, how Malice rankled at the curse that defined his existence—a bitter fury that was felt by each and every last one of his worshippers.

Soon he would have to have the warhost divide itself into five smaller hosts. Divide and conquer, as they say. He would divide, and the division would spread and conquer, and allow him his goals in the meantime.

But for now, his men would dig.

There was a shout from somewhere behind. Skaros turned, watching as a warrior approached with an appropriately deferential posture.

‘My lord Skaros, we found something that might interest you.’

‘Oh?’

Nearby, Kranax looked up, still sporting wounds from his near miss as the gunpowder had brought down the keep. The Nippon warrior approached, towering over the nameless warrior who had come near to Skaros, though he didn’t do much more than glower at the lesser warrior when Skaros silently signaled that he wasn’t in need of any disposal.

The warrior, already nervous, only hunched over at the presence of one of Skaros’s lieutenants. ‘While we were patrolling the hills, we found a cave.’

Skaros’s helmet-clad head tilted and his hum of thought echoed metallically. ‘I had wondered, did the Lustrians bury themselves simply to die on their own terms, or had they an escape route? I suppose now that question is answered.’

He remained still for a moment and then turned sharply toward the white-armoured warrior, who stumbled back at the sudden motion.

‘Show me.’

The warrior uttered some inane acknowledgment, but Skaros ignored him for a brief few moments in favour of turning toward Kranax. ‘Keep everybody digging, just in case this is a dead end.’

Kranax gave a single nod, after which Skaros followed the warrior. It took about an hour of mostly uphill climbing, but eventually he was led to an opening which even a cursory glance into revealed that the innards went deep into the hill. He let out a low chuckle, his eyes lingering on a wilted, lifeless black rose.

‘Oh, this is good,’ he uttered to himself, letting out soft breaths of amusement. He looked at the gathered warriors, those who had discovered this gem of a find. ‘Go, tell Kranax that he can have the men stop digging, and that he and the other three champions are to come to me. Now.’

The warriors disappeared quickly, moving to obey without question. While he waited, Skaros admired the entrance to the catacombs. A small part of his mind mused at the wilted flower of Morr. Had something happened? Something unrelated to his own ambitions? Nothing that he had done yet would have stripped the blessings of the death god from this place.

Maybe that had something to do with the Lustrians’ presence. Fools, ignorant fools. Oh, they were so close. Even if the Architect of Fate wasn’t on their side, it was satisfying to know that he was also not on the side of Malice’s other enemies.

His previously silent guffaws turned into loud bellowing laughs that echoed through the catacombs.

 

Chaos in Middenland​

Village of Mohrungen – Northern Middenland
-

The sounds of combat roared through the air, screams of rage and fear to a chorus of clashing blades and thunderous gunfire. The village of Mohrungen was only a small settlement, barely of any note to the various forces of the Old World, so insignificant that it wasn't even graced with a palisade surrounding the cluster of buildings. But that insignificance was not a defence, especially not against forces that thrived on nothing less than destruction and chaos.

Witch-Hunter General Matthius snarled as he leaned back to avoid an axe held by a foul warrior of Chaos. With a grimace, his hand pulled a pistol free from his bandolier, pointed it at the warrior, aimed for the space between helmet and cuirass, that small point where there was no protection from hell-forged steel. His finger pulled back, and the hammer upon the gun slammed forward, igniting gunpowder which in turn propelled the small bullet within the barrel forward through the air until it met the neck and punctured flesh. The warrior fell to the ground, either dead or dying—Matthius didn’t care to check, not while those who still stood were there to be judged and found wanting.

He dropped the spent pistol, tugged a second free of the bandolier across his chest, though he didn't immediately aim this one. Instead, he held up the longsword in his other hand, observing the chaos around him. There weren’t as many as before, and not all of the missing numbers were from those who had been felled. As much as Matthius wanted to believe that the wretches had been intimidated by the righteous fury of himself and those he had volunteered to defend the village, Chaos and the worshippers of such were not intelligent enough to feel the fear that any sane being would have gripping their heart at such opposition. That meant that those who had disappeared had done so for a purpose, no doubt nefarious and something that Matthius needed to keep an eye open for.

It was somewhat infuriating that this situation had occurred. He had heard no talk of Chaos warbands within the provinces. One would have thought that such a threat would have been noticed. To the witch-hunter, this was evidence that there was corruption to be rooted out, the heathens of Middenland and Nordland falling for the temptations of sin, for what other reason could there be for the lack of any reported sighting? It was something he resolved to correct—he would be paying special attention to the villages and towns of the northern provinces, those who favoured any other than Sigmar.

But that was a problem for another time, for at that moment, the devout witch-hunter had a warband to worry about. He would do his sacred duty and purge the harlots of Chaos, send them back into the hell that they belonged. Fortunately, Matthius had managed to use his authority to organise the village's defence militia—if they could truly be called such, wearing pot helmets and carrying shields that were clearly once the doors to homes. Fortunately though, an axe for cutting down lumber was as good a weapon as any other—and they had been fending off the attack for the past half hour. Not without casualties, but Matthius was quick to remind any who were shaken by those deaths that they at least died in service of the Empire, fighting against the Great Enemy. Better to die for the cause than to live without the blessings of Sigmar.

A Chaos warrior lunged at Matthius. The axe was intercepted by Matthius's silver sword, pushed aside, and the pistol in the witch-hunter's other hand barked, expelled its bullet, and downed the warrior.

The distant chorus of gunfire sounded again, and this time Matthius took a moment to consider what it actually meant. Warriors of Chaos were not known for the use of gunpowder and were surely not disciplined enough to comprehend the notion of volleyed fire. Maybe the corruption in Middenland wasn't so bad if the Grand Duchy had sent some professional state troops to assist. Handgunners would certainly turn the tide. Under Matthius's direction naturally, it was the duty of the capable to lead the masses to victory.

'This way,' he called out to the two dozen remaining militiamen.

He reloaded his pistols as they moved, the momentary reprieve from warriors charging at him a welcome relief. It offered a chance to take stock, to catch his breath. Four pistols were all carefully reloaded and then nestled upon his bandolier for ease of use.

The twenty-four remaining volunteers of the defence militia had looks about them that suggested to Matthius's keen eyes that they were shaken, not quite at the point of a panicked rout. Not yet, but nearing it. It would not do to have them waver in the face of the Great Enemy. Thus, the witch-hunter inhaled, ready to lecture them into a righteous fury that any sensible and true son of the Empire should surely be fuelled by in the face of Chaos. A second glance suggested that the weak point in the morale of the militia was one particular man, one who Matthius vaguely remembered as being the father of the witch that Matthius had uncovered just a day prior. It could well be that the witch had corrupted her father, or maybe her own corruption had originated from this individual. Matthius made a careful note in his mind that should the man survive the battle, he would need looking into.

They rounded one of the outermost buildings of the village. Matthius felt some measure of vindication, for his assessment had been accurate: the forces of Chaos were now facing outward and clearly fighting against reinforcements sent by Middenland's state military. It was refreshing to come across competence. And with the warriors of Chaos now facing away from Matthius and the militia, there was an opening to exploit.

'Charge!' he ordered, tone brooking no room for dissent.

The fact that they were charging into the exposed backs of Chaos wasn’t quite enough to dispel the doubts that they were feeling. Maybe they had been right to doubt—No, Matthius crushed that thought ruthlessly, it is never right to doubt our duty to crush Chaos—for partway to the exposed flanks of the armoured warriors, another group of warriors charged at the militia from the side. It wasn't quite the same level of devastating that a charge to their flanks would have been, but the militia wasn't prepared for it, and only barely managed to reorient to face the new and far more pressing threat before they were crushed in one fell blow.

Matthius swore under his breath and fired a pistol at one of the warriors, then thrust his sword into the armpit of another while fumbling to replace the spent pistol with another.

The chorus of thunder sounded again, this time far closer to Matthius and his volunteers than it had been before. The warriors were cut down by the volleyed fire of professional Empire handgunners. The threat removed, and before any of the volunteers panicked enough to break from combat even, Matthius turned to face the state troops, ready to take command.

He stopped short when he caught sight of the line of daemons, all eyeing him and the volunteers. Clearly, the warriors of Chaos had known that they were outmatched and brought foul daemons in an effort to shift the scales in their favour. But they would find it to not be enough, for Matthius was here, and he was ready to purge these abominations from the land.

They seemed to be purposefully mocking the men of the Empire by wearing clothing, but to one as educated as Matthius, it just made them all the uglier, all the more deplorable. They could mock the Empire with their parody of human behaviour and societal norms, but it did nothing to hide their dark non-existent hearts.

'Daemons!' he screamed, a loaded pistol pulled from his bandolier and pointed toward the line of the ugly abominations. 'DIE FOUL WRETCHES!'

Before his finger could squeeze down on the trigger, Witch-Hunter General Matthius felt a hand grab his shoulder and pull. He turned with the motion of the tug, allowed himself to be pulled around, if just to punish the one who would stop him from his righteous duty. Except the one who had turned him around was another of the daemons, this one larger than those others, clad in a heavy red overcoat with a sash worn from one shoulder to the opposite hip. It had a look to its eyes that suggested it was furious.

That was the last thing that registered in Matthius's mind before the daemon's fist connected with his temple, having already been in motion even before Matthius was fully turned to face the daemon.

His vision went dark as his consciousness was forced from him.


*


Ingwel stared down at the unconscious witch-hunter, swallowing back his anger at the way the human hadn't even hesitated to point a gun at the skinks that had just saved his life. The humans that the witch-hunter had been leading—they were no fighters, at best they were game hunters, which made the choice to arm them with lumber axes a gross misuse of their strengths—looked at Ingwel with some measure of panic, which the oldblood would acknowledge wasn't unreasonable.

Ingwel reached down, scooped up the still unfired pistol, and turned it toward the Chaos horde, sharp eye quickly picking out an actual daemon—it looked to be an abominable hybrid of spider and crab with an almost lupine-looking skull-shaped head in place of a head, and it had long barbed scythe-like pincers jabbing at anything in front of it—and Ingwel felt no remorse at firing the pistol at the wretched creature, shattering a portion of that skull-like visage. He then dropped the pistol and looked to the humans.

Ingwel took a second look at the humans and felt his concern grow as it registered that all of them were visibly aged beyond what any human should be fighting at. All were male as well, which somehow didn't surprise him—the witch-hunter was clearly one of those who saw the females of his own species as lesser in some capacity. It was a strange quirk of the warmbloods in general. Even the High Elves, who were arguably the ones most likely to actually be sensible, could be very dismissive of their females' abilities in matters of violence and warfare. It wasn't Ingwel's job to be judgmental of warmblood quirks, but the strange attitude that halved their own potential numbers in times of need was just baffling.

The witch-hunter's retinue had clearly been made up of whoever hadn't been conscripted to the state troops, and he had excluded any females because... because. They were no fighters, at best they might be practised in using a bow for hunting, but they had no place in the thick of the fighting.

Ingwel pointed back to the village proper. ‘Go home, barricade the doors and protect your homes from any that get past us.’

It was an order that they were all too eager to obey, they weren't being tasked to fight and die by a strange non-human they'd never met before and had no cause to trust. Instead, they were being tasked to protect their homes in the ways they could best do so and weren't being directly involved in the fighting.

Ingwel didn't wait for them to finish running back into the village proper. He adjusted his grip on his sabre and called out for his warriors, a wordless shout that still held meaning to his kin, not quite Saurian but more a variant of the language specific to coordinating in battle. In short order, those of his saurus not yet already clashing with the Chaos warriors rallied up on him, forming up in ranks with him in the middle of the first row. Originally, these two regiments of saurus warriors had been held back from the fighting, used instead to offer protection to the skink musketeers until they'd managed to circle to strike at the flank, as well as serving to cut down any of the warriors of Chaos who might break from the fight and try to either enter into the village itself, or just make their effort at flanking the saurus.

He scanned the clashes of his saurus against the warriors of Chaos. He ignored the unconscious form of the witch-hunter, having already dismissed the human from his mind. It wasn't quite going to be striking at the rear flank; the battle wasn't a solid line of melee, the daemons present in the horde had seen to that. But even a strike at the side was better than nothing.

After another volley of musket fire, he called out a quick order to the firing line, watched as the formation repositioned with a practised swiftness. From their new position, they'd have a better angle on the melee even after Ingwel and the two saurus regiments he'd led introduced themselves to the brawl, and they'd be better able to cut down any that broke free from the clash. Satisfied that the ranged support was in an ideal position, Ingwel's attention returned to the fight, then charged, eyes locked upon the form amongst the warriors of Chaos which stood out. This one wore a cloak where the majority lacked any such unnecessary vanity-piece. If this one wasn't a commanding figure or champion, then at the very least he was a notable warrior. Ingwel’s regiment moved alongside him, perfectly in tune with his movement.

The warriors must have sensed the new threat approaching at their side, turning with one axe already swinging in a wide arc. Ingwel stopped his forward motion, allowed the axe's swing to pass him by before he then lunged forward, the point of his sabre aimed for the armoured form's armpit. His lunge was aborted quickly when the Chaos warrior's second axe moved such that had Ingwel been committed to his course of action, he would have found himself an arm lighter. Fortunately, he managed to avoid the downward chop to his arm, used his offhand to grab the wrist of the hand holding onto the offending weapon, and he twisted.

Against a normal human, that twist would have sprained, if not outright broken, the wrist. Against a warrior of Chaos, it was an inconvenience that likely barely registered. But the inconvenience of having his wrist twisted was still enough to put the warrior in a position where Ingwel could then throw his body shoulder-first into the warrior. Backed up by the powers of Chaos or not, the man within the armour was still a human, and the force of an angry saurus body-checking him was enough to have him stumbling back with a startled oath. It was impressive—if only grudgingly so, because admitting such about anything Chaos-related always left a sour taste in one's mouth—that the warrior managed to keep his footing and was even able to ward Ingwel off from a finishing strike, swinging his axe to intercept Ingwel's follow-up.

Ingwel allowed a small hiss to escape his throat, eyes locked to the warrior who had already straightened himself and now had both axes held at the ready. The warrior's attention was then forced from Ingwel as the warrior to his side was run through by the saurus to Ingwel's left, a distraction which cost the warrior, allowing Ingwel the opening needed to bring his sabre down, the keen edge managing to cleave down through the warrior's shoulder and almost rend the arm from the torso entirely, had Ingwel not pulled the blade back halfway through its journey. The warrior staggered and fell to one knee, dropping his axe in favour of grasping at the wound, blood pouring through the torn flesh and steel. A following swing from Ingwel removed the head from the warrior's shoulders.

A repetitive thudding had Ingwel quickly twisting around. His sabre was shifted and twirled around to catch the axe of another warrior, forcing it away from its previous course without taking any of its momentum. The owner of the axe didn't stop his charge in light of the deflected attack, which quickly proved to be a mistake, for Ingwel sidestepped, allowed the warrior's charge to pass him, whereupon he quickly found himself surrounded by the saurus who'd formed the ranks behind their marshal. That warrior had his life stripped from him in short order, incapable of protecting himself from a dozen angry lizardmen and nowhere to retreat.

Another warrior quickly filled the space left behind by the deaths of his comrades, screaming oaths to Chaos and to Malice. Ingwel blocked the swing of one axe, then the following swing from the other. Again and again the warrior swung—left-right, left-right, swing-block, swing-block. Each block of the axe, Ingwel's eyes tracked the weapons, watched them move with a cared consideration. Left axe swung in a downward cleave, parried, the right axe would then arc around in a side-to-side blow, blocked, and then the left would come again in an upward strike, was redirected to sail harmlessly to Ingwel's side, then the right would come in a downward strike that mirrored the first effort of the left axe. And then it would repeat every swing after in a cycle that had already happened before.

So Ingwel cut that cycle short, blocked the left and while his blade intercepted the axe, he used the brief opening to have his left hand shoot out in a fist, slammed it into the warrior's helmet. Had he been human, he would have been nursing a broken hand for his efforts. He wasn't human, he was a saurus, his body was designed by the Old Ones to be just as much a weapon as any that he might pick and wield. The helmet's hell-forged steel buckled under the blow, not so much as to be a fatal injury to the one wearing it, but certainly enough that the warrior stumbled back in a momentary panic. That panicked reaction was Ingwel's opening to thrust, the sharp point of his sabre—the blade a gift from the same source as his brother’s oversized weapon—defied expectation and punctured through the breastplate and into the flesh beneath, to where he knew the heart to typically lie in a human. The warrior, now dead, even if his brain hadn't caught up to that fact yet, stilled, arms suddenly lax, head bowed as though staring in disbelief at the fatal stab. Ingwel didn't care to let the knowledge of the warrior's demise register, slammed his foot into the dead warrior and forced the body from his blade.

No time to dwell, another warrior appeared to fill the space left, stepping atop the body of his comrade without care. Ingwel ducked the overly wide swing of the two-handed axe this one carried, stepped forward and then used his left hand to shove at the warrior, pushing him into another caped warrior. The two warriors connected with the rattling sound of heavy metal meeting heavy metal. No time to capitalize on the moment, another Chaos warrior charged at Ingwel with a scream. This one telegraphed an overhead chop that never got the chance to happen—Ingwel lunged forward and thrust the tip of his sabre into the underside of the warrior's jaw. He quickly pulled the blade back and turned, slamming his tail into yet another Chaos warrior with enough force to buckle the cuirass, then decapitated the warrior as they doubled over wheezing.

Ingwel's attention refocused upon the new caped warrior, darting forward and bending to one knee. The warrior managed to avoid the sharp blade that would have hamstrung him and brought his axe down in an attempt to disarm Ingwel, but the saurus was quick to right himself while parrying another Chaos warrior's attack. He quickly grabbed that latest interloper, ensnared the arm holding the axe, and then twisted, using momentum and the warrior's own weight to toss the warrior to the ground, where another saurus was quick to stab down, killing him while he was still stunned from the throw.

The caped warrior charged again, both axes swinging with reckless abandon. Ingwel intercepted the first swing, pushed it aside and then quickly adjusted his stance, blocking the second, then the third, before swinging his sabre and pushing back against the fourth swing. He didn't so much parry the blow as hold it at bay, held it back just long enough for the warrior to believe that Ingwel was looking to lock into a bind. Then, Ingwel twisted his blade so that it slid down the haft of the axe and the blunt edge of the weapon met the warrior’s wrist with enough force to startle him into a relaxed grip. The warrior shouted out a shocked oath, which was cut short when Ingwel, at the same time as blocking the fifth attempted axe swing, also stepped forward and swung his knee upward.

Metal covering for protection or no, the warrior would feel that blow, and humans had such strong instincts when it came to reacting to any threatening motions towards them. The warrior hunched forward, less from pain and more from an instinctual need to protect his anatomy. It was the opening needed for Ingwel to bring his blade up and then down, leaving the caped warrior a full head shorter. No time to bask in the moment, he quickly stepped backward to put some distance between himself and another Chaos warrior's axe, parried the follow-up swipe, back-stepped again—last he could make with the ranks behind him taking up space—eyes carefully noting each swing of the heavy two-handed weapon being used, before he then stepped into the next attempt at cleaving him down and stabbed his sabre through one elbow, twisted, wrenched the blade free, and stabbed into the armpit of the same warrior. While his blade was still buried in the flesh of his enemy, Ingwel grabbed onto the opposite shoulder and pulled, repositioning the gargling warrior into the path of yet another great-axe, which managed to force its way through the hell-forged steel. The axe was less willing to be extracted with the same apparent ease that it had pierced, which allowed Ingwel the time to pull his sabre from the now thoroughly dead warrior and into the throat of the inconvenienced owner of the great-axe.

Attention shifted, Ingwel locked eyes with another Chaos warrior, moments before that warrior was put down by the latest barrage of skink musket-fire. The next warrior was cut down by the cleaving swing of another saurus, who, on noticing Ingwel's attention, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

A look about the battlefield showed that the warriors were starting to break, their morale battered and bruised. There was an attempt to rally around their remaining standard-bearer, though there was some obvious sense of uncertainty about them, likely the absence of a champion in their midst to guide them.

'Reform,' Ingwel roared, his rasping voice projected loudly in Saurian so that all over the field could hear him. Any gaps that had formed in the formations were quickly filled, and those who had drifted away from their ranks in the bedlam of battle quickly back-pedalled to rejoin their cohort.

It did not take any real measure of time before the regiments of saurus he'd taken with him to this village were reforming around him. It was one of those unspoken rules of combat: while one side was trying to reorganise themselves, the other did the same. It gave both sides a chance to work out just who was still on the field of battle and who yet remained. It also typically marked that moment before one side broke and started to flee the field of battle, though against Chaos worshippers, it was uncommon that they actually did break in such a way. Not unheard of, but uncommon regardless.

As both sides reformed into their ranks, Ingwel got a true sense of just how battered these warriors of Chaos were now. The moment that the fighting had devolved into smaller skirmishes, entire formations cut in half by the cold-blooded might of the saurus, was the moment that the warriors of Chaos had lost the battle. The Chaos worshippers might have been vicious warriors, but the Children of the Gods were spawned for this purpose—in some ways, they did better in skirmishes than in the rank and file of war, skirmishing being far closer in nature to the hunting of prey in the jungles. Not that it stopped even their Lustrian cousins from perfecting the art of ranking up and meeting their foes head-first in battle.

The horde of Chaos warriors had been cut to not even a third of their starting number, and Ingwel could no longer see any daemons in their midst, cut down if not by the muskets, then by the superior prowess of saurus against the very prey they had been made to destroy. Meanwhile, Ingwel's forces hadn't lost even a fraction of the numbers that Chaos had. Though he was not fool enough to suggest that the disparity in that ratio of kills and deaths was purely a difference of skill, the Chaos horde had been taken by surprise after all, struck from behind whilst they'd been focused on their presumed easy prey and the supposed token resistance that had been formed by the witch-hunter. Even if acknowledging the witch-hunter's efforts somehow left an even more sour taste in the mouth than giving token respect to the skills of Chaos warriors did.

The battle was short, following that moment. The warriors of Chaos clearly understood that they'd lost, but chose to leave this world kicking and screaming, just as they had first entered it. Most didn't even get the chance to meet the saurus regiments in a melee, the two skink regiments and their muskets saw to that.


*


Five hours after the battle's end, Ingwel stood at the side of a table within a hastily erected tent, carefully examining the map he had laid out upon the table's surface. Carefully written notes peppered the map, with occasional marks to indicate the specific points where those notes were pertinent. What he saw wasn't good, and that was despite that knowledge lingering in the back of his mind, the idea that the notations weren't even a third of the way finished. A large number of scouts had yet to return, and then there were going to be the reports shared by the others contributing to this campaign.

The notes that were written down told a story to those versed in the prose. The warhost had been content to linger within the ruins of Feyerabend Keep, but then with little warning they had scattered, split into many smaller fragments, and spread themselves to the winds. No rhyme, no reason for each smaller band to go in whichever direction they had decided upon. And yet...

His eyes briefly drifted to one of the already marked down villages, taking in the name that marked the settlement: Bealivun. Next to the village of Bealivun, there were inscriptions marked in blue, identifying the presence of a number of the Legion's members, alongside the major who had been placed in command. But that wasn't the part that Ingwel's gaze lingered on; it was the red ink a small distance from the village. Red ink that detailed the report from one of his mounted scouts. A Chaos horde was moving in the direction of the village of Bealivun. It was just one of many. With any luck, Major Zakarius would hold his ground.

The tent's entrance fluttered, allowing entrance to a heavily armoured human with a thick chestnut brown moustache, a helmet tucked beneath one arm. From his shoulders hung a cloak with a fur trim of yellow with black spots. The human raised an eyebrow at Ingwel but didn't otherwise react.

Behind him trailed another human, this one not wearing the full plate mail of the first, but instead worn and battered clothing that was clearly designed to be sturdy rather than decorative: rugged breeches, riding boots, and a studded leather jerkin. The sleeves of his undershirt were dyed in the colours of Middenheim, a mark of his loyalties despite not being a part of the state army. The brimmed hat on his head was the only ornate piece to his garb, the feather pinned to its side so large as to be almost gaudy. He held no facial hair, and of the hair atop his head that could be seen, it was clearly shorn in the style of the working class.

'Captain Dankrad Lulling,' the unarmoured human introduced himself, after a moment of startled staring at Ingwel, whose reaction was to simply stare back, unimpressed. 'Captain of the Middenheim Border Patrol Free Militia Company.'

'Dankrad Lulling?' the armoured human repeated after a moment. 'As in the Dankrad Lulling who rode a cart full of black powder into a greenskin camp in the dead of night.'

Lulling grinned a toothy grin. 'That's me. Orc bastards don't play by proper rules, so why give 'em the courtesy of a proper fight. 'Sides which, I hear that they want a proper fight, so I ain't giving it to 'em.'

The armoured human huffed in barely contained amusement, the sort that implied that he was only containing it because it wasn't the proper thing to be amused by. 'Quite.' He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. 'Lord Meinhard Hoffman of the Knights Panther. And I assume that you are Marshal Ingwel'tonl.'

Ingwel nodded a single nod, not too quick as to seem arrogant, not too shallow as to seem like he was trying to be disrespectful. 'Guilty.' He peered toward the tent's entrance. 'Are we expecting any others?'

Hoffman shook his head. 'Not here. My understanding is that the Knights of the White Wolf are further out to the east, in case any of these Chaos hordes try to rush toward Ostland, and then they'll be moving back towards us while picking up any free company militias they can find along the way.'

Lulling scoffed lightly. 'Ah, the easy job. There are other free companies around, but I was given the role of playing nice and chatting with you fine fellows and any other. Right now we're focusing on basing ourselves one company to a village, all as close as it gets to the Efror county without actually crossing that border.'

With that bit of news, Ingwel grabbed a quill and carefully dipped it into the nearby inkwell. 'Which companies and which villages specifically?'

Lulling leaned forward, taking in the map. After a second, his face adopted the blank look of one that couldn't actually understand what he was seeing, but Ingwel was far more versed in reading facial language than any human could dream of being, so he spotted the moment of comprehension before that blank look came into existence. This was a man pretending to be less than he was. If he wanted to play at being illiterate, that was his decision and Ingwel wasn't going to question it.

'Ahh,' Lulling sounded, even as his eyes scanned the map, then tapped the map. 'Can't remember the name, but there was a village there, there, and there.'

The captain gave the names of the free company militias as Ingwel inscribed the details onto the map, for a change written in the human font. Hoffman also leaned forward, taking in the notes.

'We have quite a few forces scattered around,' he noted.

Ingwel sighed softly, eyes locked onto the marks that indicated not just the part of the Legion he was leading, but also the other three portions at the last positions he had been told they'd reached. No doubt the Legion would each divide itself further as needs arose, but each time they did so made it easier for them to be cut down through the superior numbers of their enemies.

'Up until a week ago the Chaos warhost wasn't actually moving, but then they broke into multiple smaller warbands and scattered, became more... chaotic.'

'Not really familiar with Chaos—mostly greenskins and beastmen—but Chaos don't usually hang around a place, do they?' Lulling asked. His confusion was genuine.

'No,' Hoffman answered with a grimace. 'Do we know what they were doing?'

'Digging up the ruins of Feyerabend Keep,' Ingwel said with a sigh. 'One of my subordinates made a judgement call to destroy it when he realised that the warhost wanted it intact for whatever reason. They stayed at the ruins and were digging up until a week ago—which was when they splintered and started with the raiding behaviour. But my scouts say that a large number of them are still at the ruins.'

'They want something.' Hoffman's lips tugged downward in a grimace. 'But I know my history, the Feyerabend family has... had nothing of worth, never did. Even the title of count only came through marriage.'

Ingwel gave a sound of agreement, everything the knight had said matched up with what Iycan had learnt. 'Unfortunately, we're not in a position where we can stop them from searching. Even splintered as the warhost is at this moment, those that are remaining at the keep's ruins still outnumber us by a not inconsiderable amount.'

'An' even if we all group up an' try to take 'em regardless, that'd leave all these others to loot, rape an' pillage without contest.' Lulling nodded his understanding of the plight that Ingwel had been nursing for the past few days.

Hoffman hummed thoughtfully. 'We should split our attention between defending and hunting. Half of our numbers go to the villages most likely in the path of any of these hordes, whilst the other half tries to catch them before they can reach those same villages.'

'Agreed. The problem is that it's difficult to keep track of them all. I only have so many scouts who can track them down, remain unseen, and then make it back to report what they saw, during which time the hordes might very well have changed their destination on some whim we cannot fathom.'

Lulling opened his mouth to add to the conversation, but a shouting from outside the tent cut him off. The shouting got louder, as presumably the source got closer, and then the tent's flap was swept aside with a grandiose flair that suggested the one doing the sweeping was deliberately trying for such.

The witch-hunter, the very same that Ingwel had punched out during the battle hours prior, swept into the tent with eyes that were visibly wide and bulging despite the rim of his hat being angled to cast them in perpetual shadow. The shadow failed to hide away the purple bruising and the swelling about one eye.

'Daemon!' the witch-hunter bellowed, thrusting his finger out to point ominously at Ingwel. The pointed finger quivered from the amount of pressure that he was clenching his other fingers and thumb together with. 'You dared to knock down a witch-hunter general of the Empire of Man! I will see you burn, daemon.'

'How did you miss all my subordinates in your trek to reach my tent?' Ingwel asked, bemused and feeling not the slightest bit threatened. He was apparently alone in that, for Hoffman had turned to stare at the witch-hunter, his hand encircling the hilt of his sword, while Lulling had already pulled free a pistol, though he had yet to pull back the hammer.

The witch-hunter puffed out his chest like some posturing, preening bird. 'What heresy is this? Men of the Empire consorting with daemons? I'll see you all burn!'

Lulling's expression darkened, and the hammer on his pistol was pulled back with an ominous click. 'A witch-hunter?' he spat the title. 'Why does it not surprise me to see one of your filth here.'

The witch-hunter redirected his finger toward Lulling as though the pointing gesture were a weapon to be utilised to lethal effect. 'I am Witch-Hunter General Matthius, sanctioned templar of Sigmar. You will address me by my title.'

Ingwel suppressed a groan. 'We are not your enemy. We are your allies against Chaos.'

'You struck me.' The witch-hunter, Matthius, projected his voice at volume, spittle escaping his lips as he all but bellowed the words. Behind the human, a saurus looked into the tent, hand already wrapped around the hilt of his blade, clearly alerted by the loud angry shouting which seemed to be the witch-hunter's default volume. A quick gesture from Ingwel had the warrior turn away, though not without a questioning look and a head tilted in the problem human's direction in silent question.

'I would remind you that you aimed a firearm at one of my subordinates while we were in the midst of battle against Chaos.' Ingwel kept his voice level as he spoke. 'There are terms and titles for those who deliberately make to kill allies. I spared you those titles by preventing you from committing such a crime.'

'No self-respecting man of the Empire would ever ally themselves with daemons, and to suggest that we would do so is blasphemous!'

'Mind who you call a daemon, witch-hunter,' Hoffman finally found his voice, and roared out the words in that way that only those practised as leaders of men of war were capable of, that projection of voice that held power enough that all must listen. 'You accuse Marshal Ingwel'tonl of the Outland Legion.'

Ingwel blinked in some slight surprise at the way in which Hoffman was defending him. 'I'm sorry, have we met before?'

'Not personally, but the Knights Panther do remember you and your kin. Our chapter's history records it as a battle where your kin formed the anvil to which we were the hammer that crushed a beastmen herd between us.'

'You'll have to forgive my lack of memory regarding the specific battle,' Ingwel said in an apologetic tone. 'Though I'm certain if I ask Colonel Iycan, he could tell me everything down to the weather.'

The witch-hunter sputtered, seemed uncertain as to whether he should aim his pointing back to Ingwel, or to Hoffman, who raised an eyebrow in silent challenge.

'You consort with daemons!?' he eventually bellowed, not pointing at anybody.

'They are not daemons, Matthius. They're lizardmen. Do you not keep up to date on the goings on in Lustria?' Hoffman asked sarcastically.

'I know of Lustria, and the Colonial Expedition. The colonial marshal there has many things to report on the lizardmen. They are mindless, non-Chaos beastmen, hunting the good men of the Old World like savages.'

'Colonial Marshal Geirherz is an imbecile of the highest order, who was given his position through a combination of nepotism and the desire of those with intelligence to keep him away from the Provinces.' Hoffman spoke with disdain, spitting the name and title as though the existence of such a combination of words left a bitter poison upon his tongue. 'It does not surprise me that he has managed to make an enemy out of the natives of that land, and further would not surprise me if we were to learn that he made no effort at diplomacy and has instead lied in his reports to suggest that it was a failure on the part of the Lustrians in an effort to hide his own incompetence.'

'Wilderei Geirherz is a man of good standing. Who are you to make such insinuations as to his character?' Matthius's finger finally dared to jab in the Knight Panther's direction.

Hoffman's posture inexplicably straightened further, such that he somehow towered over everybody in the tent through sheer willpower and irritability. In his place was a man projecting the power of a noble scion. 'I am Lord-General Meinhard Hoffman, of House Von Schifels, and I have the personal misfortune of knowing Gierherz personally for the blundering oaf that he is.'

Faced with the anger of a noble of standing, the witch-hunter backed down. Lulling's expression lightened in that way that only came from seeing somebody disliked brought low.

But Hoffman wasn't finished. 'Furthermore, isn't it funny how Geirherz has never experienced the other side of Lustrian hospitality? It is hardly some secret that there have been instances of lizardmen gifting humans with gold and hospitality before sending them on their way. But the colonial marshal? No, in the years that he has been charged with forming a self-sustaining Empire colony, he has complained of nothing but violence and hostility from every corner while constantly begging for more men and arms to be handed to him.

'I have read his reports because I enjoy reading about that dalcop struggling. At this point, he would have us believe that the lizardmen of Lustria are getting angry at him for getting into fights with undead pirates and overly large vermin. Both of those being entities of which Santa Magritta's inhabitants claim the lizardmen to have a particular loathing for. So, no, I have little faith in Colonial Marshal Gierherz's reports on Lustria as being anything other than a most spectacular work of fiction.'

'You seem to be more informed about the goings on regarding my Lustrian cousins than I am,' Ingwel said in a light tone after a half-minute passed in silence.

Hoffman turned to Ingwel, shoulders raised up in a slight shrug. 'My cousin served onboard a merchant vessel that made trade at Swamptown at one time. He then got me interested in the goings on. Everything I said is a matter of public record.'

Lulling gave a light scoff. 'Public meaning nobility.'

Hoffman shrugged again, this one less self-deprecating and more of a "what can you do" gesture, apparently having little to say to counter the less-than-subtle insinuation.

Matthius, apparently getting over the wound to his pride after having his notions of the goings on in Lustria ripped apart by somebody with enough political standing to actually stand up to him, barged his way past Lulling, whose expression twisted into one that suggested he was only barely containing himself from throttling the terrible excuse for a human being. There was a moment where Ingwel wondered whether the pistol would be aimed and fired into the witch-hunter’s back. After a moment where Lulling clearly considered it, he carefully pushed the hammer of the weapon back into safety.

'What is the report then?' Matthius asked with an imperious tone, eyes scanning every note written down. His eyes widened as he read the neatly scribed words, marking each roving band of Chaos warriors, each also with a note of how many daemons were spotted alongside those same warriors. 'This cannot be accurate.'

'It's very accurate,' Ingwel said with only the slightest hiss to give away his annoyance.

'It's also not finished,' Hoffman snapped. He tapped his finger down on the map. 'We noticed another band here. Looked to be four regiments-worth and two cavalry. Appeared to be three daemons with them. Not any daemon that I've heard tell of.'

That was quickly noted down. Unfortunately, Hoffman's lack of familiarity with the daemons meant that the types couldn't be marked down, but that was hardly the fault of the knight.

'Haven't seen any sorcerers yet,' Ingwel mused, eyes skimming each note written upon the map.

'Is that surprising to you?' Lulling asked, head tilted.

'You said you haven't much personal experience with Chaos warbands?' Ingwel asked without any judgement.

The free militia general shook his head. 'I've taken to huntin' down worshippers from time to time, I've fought northmen marauders, but this is the first time I've been tasked to go against actual warriors of Chaos.'

'Word of advice for future then,' Hoffman said, tone carefully void of anything that could be perceived as being condescending, 'always assume that there is at least one sorcerer, unless you know for a fact that the warband you are fighting is devoted to Khorne. Speaking of, do we know what this warband is devoted to?'

'Rouscher didn't say?' Ingwel asked but didn't wait for an answer. 'A lesser-known Chaos god that goes by Malice.'

'Malice?' Hoffman's face scrunched in confusion. 'Is that good or bad for us?'

'Based on what Lord Rauscher pulled from the Middenheim library, bad. And perversely, we want it to be bad.'

Matthius scowled at Ingwel. 'And why would we want that?'

'Because Malice is only at its strongest when the Four Ruinous Powers are not united. If a warhost dedicated to Malice is bad for us, it at least means we don't have an Everchosen to worry about.'

That silenced the witch-hunter and left an unpleasant scent to the air as the other two humans also recoiled at those words. There were many fears amongst the humans of the Old World, not all of them sane or sensible. But the fear of a new Everchosen was not only sensible, it was a fear shared with the other races, even if some were prideful enough to pretend otherwise. It said something that even with Lulling's admission of not knowing much regarding Chaos, he looked ill at ease at the idea of an Everchosen.

Ingwel tapped his fingers on the table, resuming staring at the map as though by doing so he would change the details that had been inscribed into something more favourable. That the sighted Chaos bands were smaller and made up of less armoured warriors and more the simple northman marauders. While making futile wishes, he added in one of the warhost simply disappearing, turning on itself and in the violence that would come about from such a moment, killing themselves down to the last wretch.

It was the definition of a futile wish, but one could dream.

With a sigh, Ingwel looked to the map once more and rested his finger on a stretch of the depicted land. 'I would suggest half of our forces protect the villages along this stretch here, they're the ones that are most at risk of being caught in the wave of these hordes. For the land north of that, have our own cavalry units, perhaps led by the Knights Panther, who can intercept and slow down any Chaos forces that try to move along or on the other side of the Nordland border.'

That last part was something he could only recommend because they weren't Middenland state troops, and the Knights Panther were well known for not being loyal to any singular province, so there was little risk of accidentally causing a rift between the Middenland and Nordland.

Ingwel continued. 'Then to the south we have the rest of our forces try to circle behind the majority of the hordes so that we can strike them from behind. Any that manage to slip past us should hopefully be caught by the Knights of the White Wolf and the free companies that they pick up as they move west from the Ostland border.'

Lulling nodded, clicking his tongue. 'I can get behind that idea. I don't like the idea of leavin' any of the villages unprotected, whether we think they're at risk or not.'

Ingwel narrowed his eyes. 'It will cut into our strength and spread our numbers thinner than I would prefer to try and defend every last settlement.'

Lulling shot Ingwel a look. It wasn't a dark look or anger-filled or any such, more a look of consideration and slight disappointment. 'You don't care to protect the people of the Empire?'

The oldblood exhaled softly from his nostrils. 'I do want to protect your people, but spreading ourselves too thin opens weakness to be exploited. We're already outnumbered.'

Had they more troops, then Ingwel would have been far more willing. But there was only so much they could do. He hoped that Lulling at least understood that logistically there was no grand strategy that would be guaranteed to save everybody. All Ingwel could do was look at the risks, look at what could potentially be lost, and make a judgement call. Technically, Hoffman, being an actual noble of the Empire, and a general within a knightly order, could overrule Ingwel, as he would be the one with seniority. The fact Hoffman didn't say anything to contradict Ingwel's words suggested that the knight agreed with him, even if his expression was pinched enough to let all know he wasn't happy about the cold logic of leaving any villages to the whims of luck and fate.

Matthius opened his mouth, shut it after a moment as he considered his words, a skill that Ingwel hadn't been certain he had any talent with based on the past few minutes, then opened it again. 'I can go to these villages myself, form their citizens into militias.' He paused a moment, eyes still locked upon the map and all the words and notations etched upon it. 'It won't save the villages if a Chaos warband decides to attack, but it would give time for you to send relief.' He looked at Hoffman specifically, as if by pretending that Ingwel wasn't there while he spoke, then there wasn't a non-human in the tent with them.

Ingwel found himself momentarily at a loss for words. The witch-hunter was actually capable of being sensible. It wasn't an ideal plan, though by going to the villages ahead of any potential attack then he would have time to better organise them, unlike the hurried job he'd had to make of the village of Mohrungen.

Lulling groaned, eyes shut in a pained grimace. 'You're right. Ulric damn you for being logical. I just hate the idea of leaving any of these villages unprotected.' He waved a hand at Matthius. 'A hasty militia barely counts.'

Ingwel held back his immediate thoughts, instead using the quill in his hand to scratch a vague outline of a plan. Questions were voiced, ones of importance. How fast could the mounts of the Knights Panther move from point to point? Numbers? How well did Lulling and his militia know the lands?

It wasn't perfect, but the formings of a strategy began to form.


*


Outside of the camp, hours after what had itself been hours of discussion, Lord Hoffman absently ran a thumb along his moustache, using that motion to hide the way he pulled back his shoulders in an ache-relieving stretch. It wasn't quite as satisfying as a full-body stretch; his spine still had an ache from hunching over that table, staring at the map.

'Whaddya think?' Lulling asked, voice hushed.

Hoffman raised an eyebrow at the free company captain, ignored the slang so favoured by those born of the working classes. The captain scratched at his jaw, eyes clouded.

'I know you was defendin' the lizardman to the witch-hunter, but whaddya really think?' Lulling elaborated after a period of silence.

'I think we're in a bad position until the Middenland army gets the word from the graf to actually act.' Hoffman gave his answer in a careful tone, mind going back to Ingwel's map, to the words scribed upon its surface. 'The Legion have spread themselves thin, arguably too thin even as it is. Even with the Knights Panther and the local free companies bolstering their numbers, we're outnumbered. And I don't know if you noticed on the map, but they're also involved in something else that has cut their numbers further.'

'Somethin' else?'

'They have a small force in the Drakwald.' Hoffman crossed his arms. 'But nothing to say that there were any Chaos bands in there, so unless they're making sure the beastmen within aren't about to involve themselves...' he trailed off.

'I've been hearin' rumours about the Drakwald. Somethin' happened recently.'

Hoffman turned to face the captain fully. 'What do you mean?'

'Before we got told about the Chaos bands, I almost accepted a job to help the Drakwald Patrols. Somethin' has them spooked. Bad enough that they wasn't being choosey about who they want to help them. Normally, they has standards. People have said somethin' happened, that they found somethin' that caused them to get spooked. I decided that the Chaos bands we actually know about were more important than spooked patrols.'

Hoffman lightly tugged at his moustache while he considered what he was told. 'I've not heard anything about that, but I'll be the first to admit that the Knights Panther don't usually get involved with the Drakwald Forest.'

The Drakwald was terrain almost tailored to counter mounted knights, where the knightly orders of the Empire thrived. Any involvement would be because they were tasked specifically, not because they went out of their way to get involved. Hoffman wasn't so proud as to deny that the Drakwald Forest was simply an area where the state military was better suited than he and his brothers-in-arms were.

Lulling hummed, turning his head toward the general direction of the Drakwald. 'I'll be truthful, I also didn't want to go into the Drakwald because it's the Drakwald.'

Not an uncommon attitude. Hoffman didn't hold it against the captain. He sighed softly and tilted his head back, gazing at the darkening sky. Still two hours of light left. 'But now you think there might be some validity to the rumours?'

'Why else would the Legion send people into that hell when they are already "spread thin"?'

There was logic to the question, and Hoffman couldn't think up an answer at that moment that wasn't an agreement. He abruptly shook his head and turned to watch as Witch-Hunter General Matthius stalked around the encampment with a scowl and one eye constantly twitching whenever he noticed a lizardman. It would have been amusing if there wasn't a slight concern that the fool wasn't going to cause an incident. If the small-minded man wanted to commit suicide by provoking the Legion, that was entirely on him, but Hoffman would very much prefer that he do so when there wasn't a chance, however slight, that he himself was going to get caught in the crossfire.

With a sigh, Hoffman started to march toward where his horse had been tethered, eager to leave the Legion's camp just to escape the radius of Matthius's foolishness. Lulling followed close behind. It took a moment for Hoffman to register that Lulling was muttering under his breath, and yet another moment for the mutterings to be translated in his mind as a rant against witch-hunters.

Likely a story there, as Hoffman hadn't seen Matthius do anything to wrong Lulling to such an extent. But it was a story that Hoffman wasn't eager to learn. There were very few reasons why the witch-hunter profession was hated, but those few reasons were also common occurrences. Hazard of the job.

Hoffman absently brushed a hand across the muzzle of his steed, a chestnut coloured destrier, purchased from the von Eisling estate some years ago. The stallion snorted and pushed against his palm, before he then stilled so as to allow Hoffman to mount him.

'Safe travels,' Lulling started once the knight had comfortably positioned himself upon the saddle.

'To you also,' Hoffman returned. 'Kill plenty of Chaos swine.'

Lulling grinned toothily. 'That's the plan.'

Hoffman shared a chuckle before urging his mount to move. It wasn't as if he had far to travel, the rest of his chapter of knights were simply encamped on the opposite side of Mohrungen from the Legion. Hadn't been planned that way, it had just happened. Needed to get back, to relay the summarisation of the meeting, the plans made.

Then, in the morn, they were to move out.


*


Captain Preda slowed his mount, eyes narrowed in consideration as he neared the settlement. It hadn't been marked down on any map he'd seen, which wasn't too surprising. It felt like most of the Empire's smaller settlements just passed by the notice of any cartographers tasked with capturing the land within the Basin.

The scar-veteran wondered if there was an element of it being deliberate. If a map fell into the hands of an enemy, not having the most vulnerable of villages marked down could be a way of trying to protect them. Easier to miss if no record of their existence was marked down. Unfortunately, it also made it infuriatingly annoying for those tasked with protecting the same settlements when the lack of record meant that they had no way of knowing where to go to give such protection.

This particular settlement was surrounded with a palisade, but the gate that allowed passage through that barrier had been left wide open. That was... possibly a cause for concern. What reason would the occupants of this town have for leaving themselves vulnerable? Behind Preda, the fourteen of his subordinates who had been travelling with him stilled their mounts and looked to the settlement.

'It's quiet,' one of them hissed softly.

It was true, there was no noise radiating from the other side of the palisade. Usually, even with a barrier such as that, the noise of humans simply going about their lives could be heard. Nothing.

It actually brought to Preda's mind the village raided by the undead near the World's Edge Mountains those months ago. This close to the Efror County—this close to the Chaos warhost—it wouldn't have surprised Preda to learn that the village had been sacked and pillaged. Except unlike the undead, warriors of Chaos, no matter who they swore their allegiance to, were not prone to leaving the settlement standing after they were done.

Preda slid off his aggradon, lightly patted her snout, and then gestured to three of his subordinates. 'You three, with me. We're going to investigate. The rest of you, keep watch, call out if you see anything approaching.'

While the three he'd gestured slid down from their mounts to join him, the captain clicked his tongue at his aggradon and whispered an instruction in Saurian. The large raptor chuffed in reply and then moved to the side of another aggradon, one still mounted by a saurus, though her eyes remained affixed to Preda, as if silently reproaching him for thinking to do anything without her.

No doubt she'd be nipping his fingers later, cantankerous beast that she could be. Such sacrifices that Preda had to make in his life as a warrior.

His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sabre, though he didn't yet pull the blade from its sheath. He led the trio of his subordinates through the open gate to the town. His eyes were swift to take in any hint as to where the townspeople had gone.

There was something unsettling about the town being so still, empty of all signs of life. Doors to homes had been left wide open, and there was a silence that was eerie, even the wind didn't seem to want to be heard.

Preda picked a building at random and moved through the open door, pausing only long enough to rap his knuckles against the door, just in case there was somebody home. He would prefer not being brained by a housewife with a cooking pot because he unintentionally snuck up on her. The inside was... well, Preda could say that he was not getting quite the same vibe as that undead-raided village from those months ago. In that instance, the village had been a mess, items dropped and left as the villagers had been killed and dragged away to be raised as undead thralls. Here? There was no such mess. If it wasn't for the way that the entire town was empty of all signs of life, it would have looked like the owner of this home had just stepped out.

Everything was neatly sorted, not a thing out of place. Actually, there are no clothes or fabrics of any kind, Preda amended quickly. A search through a second building showed the same thing. And a third.

More investigating had another detail become clear to him. None of the buildings held any blades, or anything that could be feasibly considered a weapon. That especially was the case for what the saurus identified as the town's smithy. Not a single blade or shield or any form of armour.

Normally, Preda would have assumed bandits or the Chaos warhost, but there was just no sign of any violence. In fact, it was more like the entire town had just up and left. Which... ok, if the town had learnt of the nearby problems, that wasn't a stupid move.

If that was indeed what had happened, this wasn't a panicked exodus. Everything usable had been taken. No perishables had been left, all essentials and any weapons taken. No mess, no sign of frantic panicking. This was an ordered exodus. Unless somebody had taken the time to clean up after the fact.

'Nothing here,' Preda finally concluded. 'No need to commit any defence, we leave it. Yackl, you’ll ride back to the marshal and tell him we can write this one off.'

It would be a shame that any band of Chaos warriors that stumbled across this town would raze it out of pettiness, but it wouldn't cost any lives. Better that some buildings be destroyed than any lives lost.

Preda couldn't help but wonder about the town's previous inhabitants. Where had they disappeared off to? It wasn't important in the grand scheme of things, and they had actually done the Legion a favour with their disappearance. The arithmetic of war was already one of the most brutal weights to press down upon those in positions of leadership. A constant question of "how many lives would it cost to accomplish this objective?" and then weighing the answer with the question of whether it was worth it. Even Preda had to worry about that arithmetic, though to a far lesser degree than any of the majors or the colonels or especially the marshal. Even as cold as the Children of the Gods could be, as strict as they could be in adhering to the Great Plan, it took a special kind of heartless to not feel that weight pressing down.

Anything that would lessen that weight for Marshal Ingwel would be embraced.

A shuffling sound had Preda's spine straighten, his hand wrapping itself around the hilt of his sword. His three subordinates followed his example, eyes scanning for whatever the source of the sound was. The town was large enough that between the four of them, Preda wasn't going to claim they'd completely scoured every inch of the settlement even after the hour of searching. It was a definite possibility that they had missed somebody.

From between two buildings walked a human man. He was aged, his ashen hair receding, though where it hung behind him it was still long enough to reach beneath his shoulders. His flesh, cracked and weatherworn, was tanned in that shade that suggested southern heritage. If Preda had to make a guess, he had a feeling that the man was of Estalian descent. But, despite the age, the hunched posture that spoke of a lifetime of burdens weighing him down more so than the heavy sack he carried, his eyes—grey in that shade that almost looked a vibrant blue—were keenly sharp, taking in the four lizardmen, scanning each one, one after the next, before focusing squarely upon Preda.

'Hello my friends,' the human greeted, tone just the right side of polite. 'Not often one sees lizardmen this side of the great ocean.'

His accent further cemented the notion in Preda's mind that the man was Estalian. The accent was muted, but it still existed, could still be heard. Despite the words, the fact that nothing about the man suggested a threat, Preda didn't relax his guard. He tried to determine whether this old man matched up with the description he'd been given of one of the Chaos champions. There had been an older human among them had there not? Though Solin had emphasised that the Chaos champion had been dressed in finery and been covered with boils. In contrast, while this man was old, his flesh worn with time's touch and the kiss of the sun, but no ailments, and his garb was not that of finery, but ragged garb that if had been finery once, was certainly fine no longer.

'Hail, human,' Preda said. His grip didn't loosen from his blade, not yet. 'You know of our kin?'

The man's lips twisted upward in a human smile, but he was definitely not smiling at them—none of it reached his eyes. 'I've experience with your kind. I once got on the wrong side of one of you and I count my blessings that I survived the experience. Not many can say the same.'

Preda tilted his head, considering those words. That would explain the lack of a real smile while interacting with them, but it didn't feel like the man was telling all that there was to tell on that subject. Not that Preda would necessarily hold that against him. Not many liked recounting their near-death experiences.

'Do you know what has happened to the people of this town?' Yackl asked after the silence dragged on for a few seconds longer than was comfortable.

The man shook his head then turned to glare in a particular direction, even though it made him look as if he were glaring at the wall of an abandoned home.

'I arrived here yesterday seeking refuge, but alas this town was already abandoned. I found evidence that the occupants left and went in separate directions. A large number moved south and east. The rest moved south and west. I would hazard a guess that the townsfolk left in light of the marauding Chaos warbands. But those that are going westward I couldn't say what they are intending.'

'You know of the warbands then?'

'Difficult to miss, especially for a traveller such as I.' The Estalian man shook his head. 'Such ill times.'

'You don't seem overly worried,' Yackl said, his voice only conveying curiosity without accusation. Preda couldn't tell if that was because the younger saurus simply hadn't considered that there was anything to accuse the man of or not.

The man chuffed in faint amusement, the first genuine emotion that Preda had sensed from him. 'I've lived a long time, this isn't the first time I've been this close to a Chaos warband. Hopefully the last, but until the day I pass, I won't be wagering on that. It was just ill fortune that I happened to be travelling through this area at the same time that a warband makes an appearance.'

'Where are you travelling to?' Preda asked.

The man shrugged. 'Nowhere. Everywhere. Though with Chaos in the Empire's borders, and other recent ill omens, it might be time for me to start thinking of returning south once again.'

Preda hummed. Nothing about the man seemed to indicate anything wrong. It wasn't like the Legion had a monopoly on travelling the lands, often without a particular destination in mind, so he couldn't say that it was the fact that the man didn't say where he had been going that rubbed at his scales with the gentleness of an iron-bristled brush. But there was just an air about the man that made him feel that itch of unease.

'What was your name?' he asked.

The man seemed to jolt in surprise. 'Oh, did I not say? Excuse my manners. I am Tejedor de Lucha.'

His accent had thickened with the name, in the same way that if Preda ever used his full name, the carefully cultivated accent that had become the norm for the Legion fell away to allow his native Madrigallian timbre a moment to come to the surface. If there had been doubts about the ethnicity of this human before, they fell away with the unconscious use of his accent in saying his name.

But that still didn't ease the doubts that lingered in Preda's mind. However, with nothing to base his feelings of suspicion on, he mentally stepped back.

'If you've been travelling the lands around here, anything you can tell us?' he instead shifted the topic.

Tejedor tilted his head in thought. 'Nothing that I'm sure you do not already know. The bands look to be spreading themselves eastward. By all appearances they have no intention of moving into the Laurelorn or Drakwald forests.'

Preda nodded unconsciously. Intelligent of them to not go traipsing into the Laurelorn Forest, the residents within would not take that trespass well. The apparent reluctance to go into the Drakwald was not so apparent in reasoning, though Preda mused that it could be that the marauders were focusing on the Empire. It was quicker to find more targets by going east and not worrying about upsetting any breyherds within the forest.

Thoughts of the Drakwald reminded Preda of Sharpe's task, one that none of the Legion had envied. If ever there had been a time that Preda had been thankful not to have spawned as a chameleon skink, learning of that task had been the moment.

'So far we've not seen them going south overmuch, so if you're planning to get away from the danger then going south until you reach Middenheim is your safest bet.' Preda explained calmly, finally unclenching his hand from his blade's hilt.

Tejedor nodded. 'That sounds reasonable. From Middenheim I should be able to take whichever road leads to the next place that calls to me. I thank you for your time.'

The man gave another non-smile and started to hobble his way toward the town gate. The four lizardmen watched him go.

'Should we really let him just go unescorted?' Yackl asked after the human had disappeared from sight and time enough had passed that he wouldn't hear them.

'We can't take the time to escort him to safety,' Seh'li, one of the other two lizardmen who had been silent the entire time, replied, tone flat. 'And something about that one felt off.'

'You felt it too?' Preda asked.

Seh'li gave a shallow nod. 'He felt wrong. But not... Chaos wrong.'

That about matched with the vibe that Preda had felt. No matter how much Preda had focused on the man and his words, while he'd felt a sense of discomfort, a sense of unease, nothing had spoken that the man had been Chaos-aligned. Chaos worshippers typically had a certain air to them, the only exceptions being those who favoured Tzeentch, and if he had been a Tzeentchian follower, then they wouldn't have felt that unease at all. The human definitely hadn't any sign of Nurgle's gifts, and hadn't shown himself to have any of the emotional instability that came with Slaanesh. A Khornate worshipper wouldn't have lied; they were actually dependable in that regard, their distaste for trickery and need for violence made them easily identifiable.

However, Preda quickly reminded himself, we're dealing with a different god from the usual roster. Do Malice's followers have the subtlety to try and fool us but not enough to be completely suspicion-free? With a name like Malice, one wouldn't think so.

It was speculation at that point. Preda was not an Empire witch-hunter, he wouldn't kill a human on baseless suspicion. Certainly not when doing so could, and probably would, backfire on the Legion. But that didn't mean that Preda hadn't made a mental note of every detail about this Tejedor de Lucha to pass on. Maybe the people of the Empire knew of him, knew what to make of him.

'What did you make of his claim that the townspeople went in two directions?' Preda asked at large.

'South and east would go toward Middenheim. Or Norderingen,' Yackl mused, reminding Preda that just because the saurus wasn't jaded and suspicious—or just lacked experience enough with warm-bloods to sense something off—didn't mean that he didn't have a keen intellect. 'If they were evacuating, those two make sense. South and west is more confusing, nothing in that direction before hitting the Drakwald.'

Preda tilted his head in silent acknowledgment. No map he'd seen indicated that there were any more settlements to the south-west before hitting that dreaded forest, but as this particular town had proven, that didn't mean anything. Maybe the inhabitants of this town were aware of something that the Legion was not. It was something that they couldn't dwell overlong about.

At that point, there was a tone that filled the air, a horn being blown. Preda recognised it quickly, one of his subordinates outside the town was warning them that there was a threat incoming. It looked like the Chaos marauders had taken note of this town and come to do what Chaos did best.

They would find themselves disappointed—there would be nobody to kill, anything of real value was already gone, had been taken at least a day ago, apparently. It wasn't in Preda's interest to get into a fight with the incoming horde at that time. He hissed out a quick order and they made their way out of the town, back to the rest of their unit and their mounts.

When the Chaos marauders arrived two hours later, it was to an empty town. That didn't stop them from burning it to the ground, but it was a victimless affair.


*


Hoffman scowled, his eyes drinking in the sight of the band of Chaos horsemen. They called themselves knights, these Chaos wretches. They weren't knights, not really. But they seemed to be determined to act like they had a claim to such a title based on their riding on horseback.

Thus far, for the past three days and nights, they'd shown themselves to be of a calibre above that of the northmen cavalry that Hoffman had far more experience in taking down. But armour and a claim to a title of knighthood did not a knight make. And Hoffman had taken to proving that point, leading his brother knights in smashing any roaming Chaos knights and reminding them of their true place in the dirt.

Regrettably, this particular formation of Chaos warriors that he and his brothers-in-arms had found was not a fast-moving cavalry unit. There was cavalry among them, flanking the formation on either side. But this was a proper band of Chaos warriors, the cavalry supporting foot warriors and lugging a large cannon that Hoffman had little doubt was daemonically possessed.

Hoffman's lieutenant hummed thoughtfully. 'Is it just me or are they moving toward Bealivun?'

It took Hoffman a few moments to place the name. It was a village that was under siege by Chaos, had been for almost two days. Hoffman had actually been moving that way himself to see whether there was anything he could do to ease the pressure for the members of the Legion besieged within the village. It said something that a village was under siege. Not a stronghold, not a keep, not even a city, but a village was being besieged. Either there was something that Hoffman was missing about the situation, or the Legion garrison was just that good at holding the line while unable to sally out and destroy the force that was so incapable of actually getting into the village.

'I believe you're right.' Hoffman's scowl deepened. His focus fixed itself upon the hellcannon, the singular weapon among the formation that stood out. 'We need to take out that artillery. By the accounts of the runner we saw earlier, that's the one thing the besieging force was lacking. Ranged firepower was actually the thing that the Chaos armies seemed to lack in general unless there were any mages deployed within those same armies.'

Though at that moment in time, Hoffman could hardly cast any stones regarding ranged firepower and the lack therein. He wasn't supporting a state army, so he wasn't escorting archers, crossbows, or handgunners, and there were no pistoliers or outriders riding with them, offering ranged support. Thus far it hadn't been an issue, though Hoffman and several of others within the Knights Panther had been calling on favours and resources to have regiments of outriders and pistoliers not tied to any particular state military to come join their efforts.

The Chaos formation still hadn't noticed the knights watching them, though that wouldn't last. Hoffman would need to act soon.

'We charge in, take out that cannon, and pull back.' Hoffman stated, just loud enough to be heard by his subordinates. Those who couldn't hear would be filled in by those who could. 'If there is any mercy in the world, those Chaos swine that believe themselves to be knights will try to pursue us. Once we've pulled them from their grounded support, we'll remind them of what real knights are.'

There was a dark chuckle from the ranks of the knight. It was probably unbecoming to find amusement in crushing their foe, but for Chaos, exceptions would be made.

'If they don't try to chase us, don't turn back. We won't play their game, I won't have any of us dying because they had us get swamped down by their footmen.' Hoffman cast a stern glare at his subordinates. 'We continue to pull back, and we follow them until we get another opening.'

There was a soft cheer. It might not be the straightforward crushing of the enemy that they'd managed to enjoy thus far, but it was still enough for them, especially the younger of the knights, to feel pumped up and ready. Hoffman gave them a moment, reached into his saddlebag, and carefully pulled free a small burlap bag that he knew to be filled full of black powder. It wasn't his first choice of weapon, but with the hellcannon that was their target, he wasn't willing to pull his punches out of pride. That monstrosity would be destroyed, even if he had to resort to throwing an explosive sack down its barrel.

'Charge.'

As one, the Knights Panther spurred their horses into action. There was a glorious roar, adrenaline-fuelled and a declaration to those who heard it that violence was coming, glorious, righteous violence.

The Chaos formation was not filled with utter fools. They heard the battle cry and they reacted, but they were too slow. Hoffman charged his destrier, bowled down a trio of warriors, and slammed his armoured boot into another. At his side, his brothers-in-arms swung their longswords, following Hoffman's lead. The target was big and slow, and fortunately had been faced the wrong way to have defended itself before the knights were able to reach it.

A Chaos warrior gargled as a blade was forced through his throat, another fell with helmet dented as it prevented the blade of a knight from cutting, but not the force of the impact.

There were wretches at the cannon, shorter, differently armoured, but that would not save them as Hoffman's mount trampled over them in the charge to the weapon. The bag in his hand was a heavy weight that he refused to drop. He reached the hellcannon and pressed the bag into place against the cannon's barrel, then hurriedly fished out a chunk of flint, slammed it against the edge of his shield, watching the shower of sparks that resulted. Once he saw the sparks settle, growing into something more, he urged his faithful horse to flee.

'Withdraw!' he called out, even while he discarded his flint in favour of pulling his sword free from its scabbard and stabbing it point-first into the neck of a Chaos knight's black-furred horse. The horse stumbled and fell prone, which in turn tossed its rider to the ground with a particularly painful-looking impact. But Hoffman didn't linger to admire the scene. His destrier kicked a hoof into the helmet of a non-mounted Chaos warrior. Hoffman didn't get a chance to see the damage, his horse galloped, knocking down another two warriors with an unstoppable charge.

The bag, still nestled where Hoffman had carefully positioned it, exploded as the flame ate through the canvas and finally licked at the powder within. Warriors were tossed aside by the force, fire kissing at them, coloured and tainted as the hellcannon, damaged from that explosion, then appeared to explode a second time, purple and red flames that blended together with the yellow and orange of the powder's detonation.

The knights rallied up, taking in the sight, watched to see whether the mounted warriors would be foolish enough to pursue.

They were.

An angry bellow that was echoed until many became one, a mass of horse-mounted warriors broke from chaotic confusion that the marching formation had become. Hoffman grinned beneath his helmet and had his knights slowly pull back, not so fast as to risk losing their apparent pursuers. But fast enough that there was no chance of their reaching them until the moment that Hoffman himself decided that they were allowed to catch up.

One thing that the men of the cold hard north never fully understood was the risk that came from travelling through the Reik Basin. So much of the Empire's land was covered in one forest or another—there was never that far a distance to travel to reach the tree line of one of those forests. The Drakwald was infamous for what was hidden within, Laurelorn was home to those who dared Nordland and Middenland both to try and stake their claims to the land within. But for the rest, they were actually a boon to the men of the Empire.

There was never far to travel to reach the edge of one forest or another. And forests didn't always hide dangers to the men of the Empire. The fools never realised that they were being led further and further from their support. Not until the moment that from the nearby tree line, another unit of Knights Panther came charging, bursting out from where they had been hidden from sight, blades already held at the ready and swinging as they neared their targets.

In Lustria, the lizardmen might have perfected the art of ambushing from the trees. But here in the Empire, man was no slouch at using their home as a weapon.

The moment the knights hit the flank of the Chaos warriors, Hoffman turned his own unit and charged. The warriors of Chaos, the false knights, quickly learnt that not only were they outmatched. They were surrounded, and Hoffman did not care to hear their cries of mercy as it dawned on them how it was destined to end. Chaos gave no mercy and would get none in return.

An hour later, the last of the foot warriors, unsupported by their mounted comrades, were run down and killed to the last. Hoffman would have then followed in the direction that the Chaos swine had been moving, gone to offer his support to the besieged village of Bealivun, but a runner from elsewhere found him at that point, with a more urgent matter to chase after. Bealivun had been holding off the attack thus far. They could last a little longer.

It wasn't a choice that Hoffman was happy with. But it was the pragmatic choice.

 

The Siege of Bealivun – Day One​

Outskirts of the village of Bealivun
-


Hooves stamped upon the ground as dozens upon dozens of mounted warriors charged toward the settlement that lay before them, the rushing vanguard that would smash through the first line of defence that these pathetic southerners would muster—a bloody spear to puncture and open a way for the foot warriors behind them. These warriors were a twisted parody of the Empire's knightly orders, clad in the thickest armour, with weapons as vicious in looks as their owners were in temperament. There was no code of conduct, simply the rule of might making right. And their might meant that they had the right to crush the southerners beneath the cloven hooves of their steeds.

At the front of the charge was a man who had managed to become the leader of this particular band of warriors. He was known by the name Korild Ogreshadow, a brute who had long perfected the art of maiming and killing those who dared stand in his path. He bowed to none. Even Skaros, the exalted lord of Malice himself, knew better than to ask Korild to bend his knee.

Korild roared a wordless yet vocal demand to those under him to speed their charge, to reach this filthy village of weaklings all the faster. They would crush the weak men of the Empire, force the lives from their cold carcasses, and make the children watch as the life left their parents' eyes, before taking those children that might actually have some small semblance of untapped strength, few though there would be. Take them and mould them to become real men, who follow the real gods, not those that dared to think themselves on the same level as Malice or the four Ruinous Powers. And then they would leave nothing but the display of the dead to bring fear to all those who would stumble across the path carved by Korild and his kin.

Movement caught Korild's attention. A tide of red forming a line in the path of the charging knights. What foolery was this? Did they truly believe themselves capable of halting the tide of inevitability?

Korild laughed even as his heels slammed into the sides of his steed, urging it ever faster. Behind and to his sides, his fellow knights followed his example, laughing in a mocking cackle.

Korild only stopped laughing when his horse's head exploded in a shower of blood, skull, and viscera that painted his armour. Even as he went airborne from the carcass's drop to the ground—its forward momentum cut abruptly enough that the knight riding it wasn't able to avert his own momentum—Korild was vaguely aware of the repetitive impacts of bullets against his armour. The Chaos knight hit the ground, rolled to his back, and hefted his shield to blanket himself in time to prevent feeling the hoof of the horse that charged over him. Once the last of the knights had passed over where he lay, he clambered to his feet, grabbing his halberd from where it had landed during his flight.

'Guns... guns!' he roared, once he had taken in the surprising number of fallen knights. 'Guns, handguns, arquebuses... The fools... the cowards, they hide behind guns!' His voice lowered into a whisper. 'We shall take from them their guns, show them their weakness.'

It was a declaration of intent, one he would see through. Only weaklings needed to rely upon ranged warfare. The gunpowder weapons of the Empire? That was just the pinnacle of their craven nature. Korild would show them true strength, the likes of which would have them in terrified awe before he crushed their skulls between his hands.

That declaration was underscored when another bullet connected with his helmet, leaving his ears ringing from the impact and an uncomfortable sensation, which told him that he would need a new helmet, for it had buckled. Not so much that it was painful; there was enough space beneath his helmet that the buckling hadn't actually dug into flesh and skull, but enough that it was touching his forehead. There was a slight rush of adrenaline as he realised that if the bullet had landed ever so slightly lower, it would have bypassed his helmet entirely, slipped through the visor, and into his eye. Truly Malice was watching over him, protecting him from such an ignoble death.

His fingers tightened their grip over his halberd. But he didn't charge, full of fury and disgust as he might be toward his foe. He had enough sense to know that charging on foot by his lonesome would either see him shot down by these cowards and their guns or run through by far too organised a defence for a single man, even one as powerful and mighty as he. Instead, he paced himself, angrily swearing and cursing, allowing time for the rest of the horde to catch up. That would include the other half of the horde's knights, who were held back so that they might circle and charge the rears of these weaklings while they were distracted by the first wave.

There were plenty of knights who would be all too happy to donate their horse to him, even if they needed reminding via a blade through the neck of that fact.

As he neared the village, he finally got close enough to identify the red tide. His footsteps momentarily faltered as he noted that the ones wearing the red coats that he had been able to see... they were no humans of the Empire. They were creatures that Korild had never seen nor heard of before, and the shock of their appearance had him stumble in startled surprise, but that astonishment quickly gave way to a fury that fuelled his body.

What hypocrisy of these southern men, to allow mutants to fight and die in their place. So it is perfectly acceptable for them to allow mutants to live if it means that they die in place of their precious human population.

To the sides of the thick line of spear-wielding creatures, there were two formations of smaller yet still similar beasts perched on rooftops, these ones carrying the guns that had enraged him so. One of these creatures took note of him and alerted the rest of its formation. As one, they turned their handguns to bear upon him.

Korild Ogreshadow noted that he was the last of the knights who had made up the vanguard of this particular war-band. Half of his knights had been cut down by the gunfire, and the other half quickly learned that the creatures had been packed into a tight formation, spears braced in anticipation of the oncoming rush of horsemen, while the gun-lines cut down those who managed to prevent themselves from being impaled.

Korild was not stupid. Prideful and arrogant as he may be, none could claim stupidity to be one of his flaws. The instant he took note of the handguns turning in his direction, he crouched low and braced his heavy shield as a barrier between him and that formation of gunners.

His shield vibrated as it was pelted by a storm of bullets, and Korild's arm almost numbed from the sensation. But, by the grace of Malice, he survived. None of the weapons of cowards were capable of piercing his shield. He bellowed a loud, barking laugh, though didn't yet climb back to his feet, for he was aware enough of how guns worked that not every single one of those creatures was capable of firing at that one moment, unlike bows—which were also weapons of cowards, though at least bowmanship required some semblance of skill to use properly, unlike those abominable guns. What was the skill involved in such a pathetic weapon?

The ground vibrated, and a twist of his head took note that the warriors of his horde, those who weren't riding into battle, had finally started to catch up. The warrior in command of the foot soldiers was also not a stupid individual... actually, he was rather stupid, but he was not lacking in survival instincts, which was why Korild put up with him. Regardless, stupid or not, he had heard the bark of gunfire, and instead of charging had the warriors approach at a half-pace, shields up and ready to ward off any ranged firepower. As the mass of cautiously approaching warriors finally reached Korild, he stood and fell in with the warrior's formation.

It might not have been charging on horseback as he was born to do, but at least he would still be fighting, which at the end of the day was his duty, his calling as a knight of Malice. His foes would lie broken and defeated beneath him. He roared in challenge and let loose a mocking cackle at these cowards who so chose to do what they could to prevent a proper fight.

The challenge was answered with a returned bellow. Korild's eyes naturally tracked the source of the answering call, drank in the image that greeted his eyes. It was one of the smaller creatures, but this one wasn't wearing the red coat that its kin all wore. This one wore armour, armour that was distinct in style.

When Korild had been a child in the distant steppes to the east, long before he had sworn himself to Malice, his tribe had told stories of bygone days centuries, or even millennia, past. Tales of conflicts, conflicts with realms of the lands south of the Sea of Claws. Tales of the ancient empire of Nehekhara and its modern incarnation as a realm of undeath, of the tribes of the land that would one day become the Empire, and of the Remas Empire. Unlike the so-called Empire of Man, the Remas Empire had been a true empire, worthy of the title. It had always been a shame to Korild that the Remas Empire had fallen so long ago because surely to fight against such would have been the stuff of legend in the making.

The armour and cloak worn by this creature reminded Korild in particular of the tales of that ancient Tilean empire. Korild met the creature's amber eyes, met the open challenge that dared him to try and best this creature. It was a challenge that Korild would accept with glee.

Now that he wasn't at risk of being targeted by an entire formation of gunners, Korild took another look at the formations he was competing against. This was no mere village of peasants and weaklings. Whatever these creatures were, they were competent. Cowards that hid behind guns, but competent regardless. Now he truly regretted charging ahead with a cavalry vanguard. It had cost him half of his subordinate knights.

While the village wasn't walled with a palisade, which was unusual for a village within the Empire, the lands being far from tame enough to go without even a token defence, the outermost buildings themselves were positioned and built in such a way that they formed a wall surrounding the buildings within their embrace.

If Korild were prone to such, he would actually be rather impressed. It was a surprisingly practical way of creating a barrier. There weren't even any windows facing outward upon those buildings. While not quite as all-encompassing as a proper palisade would have been, it did mean that any attacking force had to be funnelled through a very scant few bottlenecks. And both of the bottlenecks that faced the direction from which Korild's war-band had been approaching were blocked by spear-carrying mutants, ready and braced for any charged attack.

'Fall back,' Korild shouted. It might have been contrarian to what most would expect of a knight of Chaos, but Korild wasn't going to be killed for being stupid. And mindlessly charging into a bottleneck whilst handgunners would have line of sight was the height of stupidity. 'Back behind the hill.'

This wasn't a retreat. This was a consolidation of power. He would return shortly, but for now, he would give these mutants a moment to breathe, a moment to give their goodbyes because he would see them all dead before the day was over.


*


Major Zakarius looked away from the corpses of the Chaos knights, eyes momentarily rolling to the sky as he wondered how it was that the ego of the warriors of Chaos made them so blind. It had been a poor choice on the part of whoever was commanding this horde of Chaos to send the cavalry ahead of the main force, not to scout, but to be the first wave. He didn't dwell on the thoughts, for his attention was quickly shifted to the more pressing threat, that of the Chaos warriors who weren't charging on horseback into a defensive line.

The sole surviving knight had joined with these warriors, and they were now backing away, shields still held at the ready, even as the skink musketeers on the rooftops fired barrages at them. Regrettably, not as many were killed as could have been because of that refusal to drop their shields.

Even had they charged, being that they were on foot, there was considerably less chance of them impaling themselves on the spear formations. No doubt they would slow before actually reaching. Fortunately, behind the spear-saurus, there were sword-saurus ready to take their place should the need arise.

Like Major Mort, Zak considered himself very much a defensive tactician. It was a carryover from when Zak had still been learning under Mort before taking command of his own battalion. It was also why Zak wore the armour usually only worn by Mort's own regiments, a reminder of his time learning under the Eternity Warden, of being one of those trained to a standard comparable to the Temple Guardians of Tiamoxec, despite being a skink. Unlike Mort, Zak could be more flexible, and that wasn't just because Zak had command over the Winds of Hysh. It made him ideal for moments like now, defending a static objective. Not that Mort wasn't capable of being flexible, but Mort was a stubborn bull when it came to using anything outside of his preferred methodology.

Once the Chaos warriors had disappeared behind the nearby hill, vanished from sight, Zak stared at his formations, coolly assessing and speculating.

Even the saurus warriors typically armed with swords had been handed spears for this moment. Wasn’t difficult for those saurus to adjust; it was a point of pride that even while they typically specialised with only one, it was a long-established tradition that all saurus be trained in the use of both, specifically for moments where one was more desirable than the other, such as blocking a narrow chokepoint in a tight formation.

This was a battle where the practicality of the spear triumphed over the sword. It was simply one of those regrettable moments in history that the Legion had slowly adopted the warmblood romanticism of swords. Not that Zak was in any position to be haughty about that; he carried a sword on his person at nearly all times himself—he wouldn’t lie and claim it just because of the status symbol aspect that had all officers required to carry them—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t mourn the way that it felt like his kin were forgetting the practicality of spears over blades.

Of course, that was not to say that the saurus in the formation below weren’t carrying their sabres on their person regardless of their currently equipped weapon. If Zak had to guess, the saurus at the front of the formation would switch over to their sabres once the Chaos warriors were in close quarters, where a spear was admittedly less useful without the room to move. So long as the saurus behind them continued to assist via stabbing their spears over the front rank’s shoulders, it would be fine.

And with the musketeers on the roofs, any defensive clash in a straight fight was almost a certain win. The shields of those Chaos warriors would have to be facing either the sharp and pointy weapons that would not hesitate to run them through, or facing the gunners above them that would not hesitate to blow their innards out. The warriors would be slow in their approach, and even once in a melee still not be safe from gunfire.

The issue now was whether the Chaos leader would be stupid enough to think that he could overwhelm the defensive formation, or try to out-think Zak.

From his position on the roof with the musketeers, Zak rolled his eyes to a nearby grove and examined it intently. It was one of three that surrounded the village, out in the open so it was impossible for any of the warriors of Chaos to reach in an effort to be hidden without being spotted mid-transit. There was a part of Zak's mind that wished that he had cavalry available, but the runner with the plan from Ingwel had been clear: all aggradon cavalry was being tasked with working in hunt and destroy packs, alongside human knights.

Those groves would have been an ideal place to hide some aggradons, an unpleasant surprise for the Chaos marauders once they were committed to a melee to suddenly be charged from behind. Not to mention that the best form of anti-cavalry was to use one's own cavalry to intercept them. If the leader of this band of Chaos warriors was intelligent, and despite his blunder with sending cavalry as a vanguard, he clearly had some semblance of intellect to have called for a—no doubt temporary—retreat, he would try to use those groves himself as cover from the ranged firepower that Zak had at his disposal.

Oh well, we all make do with what we have. Zak's eyes returned to the hill behind which the warriors had disappeared. Unfortunately, there was enough of the surrounding terrain that was uneven that it was possible for the war-band to move unseen from a certain distance. Not in numbers that would be a threat by themselves without taking far too long for a relocation to be an advantage, but a smaller band of unseen warriors in the right place could be just as devastating as a full war-band.

'Stay here,' Zak commanded Captain Yuata. 'If they attack while I'm not here, you have command.'

The saurus scar-veteran, stationed next to the sergeant of the saurus in the front rank of the formation, rumbled an affirmation, his sabre rested upon his shoulder while he waited for any hint of the attackers returning.

Confident that the captain would have matters well in claw should the need arise, Zak hopped down from the roof and moved through the streets of the village, eyes narrowed in a combination of annoyance and respect for the cramped and labyrinthine layout. Whoever had decided on the layout of the buildings of this settlement had clearly had a mind for the potential threats that might attack. The very layout itself doubled as a defence; there was no clear path to any destination within the village. Any and all outsiders would get turned around easily.

It almost felt like this settlement had already grown beyond a village and into a town. Almost. It wasn't quite there yet, not quite big enough, not quite a large enough population. But the layout was clearly in anticipation of reaching that point at some time in the future. Zak wished them the best.

Had Zak and his troops not arrived three days prior and had time to get accustomed to the layout, he would have instead chosen to simply circle from the outside. He'd almost chosen to do so regardless, but it was still quicker to reach the other openings into the village from the inside. Barely.

From windows of the homes, scared human faces looked out, flesh pale with nerves and fear. Every other street had a number of militiamen, pikes held with white-knuckled grips as they watched Zak walk the streets. Not untrained, at least half of these men were at one time conscripts of the Middenland military, but had long since become too old to be a part of any mustering of the troops. It was easy to tell the former conscripts from those who weren't. The veterans carried messers at their hips, the swords they'd once been armed with during their service and allowed to keep in their honourable retirement. But age had clearly long since caught up to these humans, no longer the spry swordsmen of their youths, thus the choice to carry the pikes as a default load-out, a hope that if it came to a fight they could prevent their foe from getting close enough to need to unsheathe those swords.

They would doubtless prefer halberds over pikes, but equally doubtless was the idea that the Empire’s provinces would prefer to not give away their polearms that could otherwise be given to those currently serving in the state armies, whereas the cheaper pikes were freely given and would serve well enough for a militia.

One militiaman called out as he spotted Zak, a nervous question. Regrettably, Zak couldn't give an all-clear, this was not over. He was simply checking up on the other formations, rearranging as need be now that their cavalry had been cut down in numbers.

He didn't mention the scouts that had spotted this war-band on approach had seen daemons, and that those daemons were yet to be seen and killed. These were men, normal humans. He would never dismiss a human's ability to fight, even against threats as great as a daemon, but humans were social creatures that functioned better when they had leaders who could lend them bravery and strength of mind. Zak wasn't versed enough in communicating with humans to take that role. He knew his limitations. Either of the colonels had a way about them that they could take that role, could communicate with humans on their level, lend them that strength if the need arose. Sharpe had experience enough that he was also such an individual, likely had developed that skill during his time in Ind. But not Zak. Zak could lead by example, but bolstering human morale outside of combat was beyond him.

He didn't regret that, he accepted that it was an area that he either had no talent with or simply needed to develop. Likely the latter, it was one of Mort's weaknesses as well, so hardly something that Mort could have taught him during his tutelage. This wasn't the time to try and develop such a skill. Not with the threat of daemons attacking. Panicking them, losing their morale before the fight started was not going to do anybody any favours.

As he surveyed the various chokepoints into the village, carefully reorganised the formations, he wondered how the other Legion forces were doing. He'd gotten fortunate that the village of Bealivun had been defensible, some of the other settlements, he was aware, hadn't any form of defensive structuring. The forces there would be better served sallying out to confront the hordes on open plains, but that left the settlements open to other parties that might take advantage. The disorganised nature of Chaos certainly served them well when it came to being a menace to the civilised peoples of Môrdl.

As he passed by an open plaza, Zak's eyes turned to his battalion's allotment of thundersaurs, and his eyes narrowed in a grin.


*


Korild stared down the hill at the village. Attacking it was a puzzle to be solved. These mutants had worked its defensive properties to their advantage. They had spear infantry securely plugging the openings, while the buildings that formed the wall were sturdy enough that there was no breaking them down in a timely manner. The buildings had been built with stone, as if for the sole purpose of preventing him from simply ordering them set on fire.

For the first time in his life, Korild wished that he had some hellcannons at hand. They were contrary to his preferred method of striking fast and hard; they took time to haul anywhere, took time to place in a position that would be most useful.

But as if Tzeentch had heard of his distaste and chosen to interfere with his life using that knowledge, Korild found himself in a position where he was missing the absence of such a tool. It reminded him of just why he would never follow the Architect of Fate: the infuriating crow was well known for finding joy at the misery of even its own followers. At least by not being a follower of Tzeentch, he was largely outside of the changer's attention. For the moment, at least. Once the Warhost of Malice picked up momentum, the Lord of Change, alongside the other three Ruinous Powers, would all have their attention turned toward Skaros and those he led.

Korild turned to the man who was technically his second-in-command, the one who led all non-mounted warriors. Rutgar was a large man, imposing in stature, even by the standards of those warriors who were sworn to a patron god. His face was squashed into a perpetual grimace, an underbite fuelling an appearance of savage stupidity, even if the man himself was no more stupid or clever than the rest of the warriors of the warhost. There were rumours that he was a half-breed, that somewhere in his family line his blood had been mixed with that of a troll. Whether or not there was truth to such a claim, Korild cared not. Rutgar was a warrior with some talent at herding the warriors in his charge, at directing them where they needed to be aimed.

Rutgar seemed to ignore him for a time, content to stare down at this pathetic little settlement that dared to resist. After a time, the warrior deigned to turn his attention to Korild.

'For all their weakness,' Rutgar spoke slowly, but with a deliberation that suggested he was choosing his words carefully, 'the southerners know how to protect themselves. I wonder if they had dwarf help.'

That was a valid thought. The short-stacks would know how to build a settlement to be a miniature fortress, and this would-be empire of the south wasn't short on dwarfs who had left the mountains for one reason or another. Korild hadn't seen any in the defensive positions, but that didn't mean this settlement wasn't home to a number of dwarfs, hiding behind the expendable mutants.

Korild quickly dismissed the thoughts. They were irrelevant. Who cared if there were dwarfs mixed in with the men of the south? Just more, and hairier, bodies to burn. The knight aimed a finger toward one of the three groves surrounding the settlement.

'Take a third of your warriors, the finest of your number.' Korild barely managed to restrain a sneer at the request. "The finest warriors" was a contradiction. There were no finest warriors. The moment they warranted such a description, they would be elevated to a far more fitting station, one of the various bands of Chaos knights. But for whatever reason, those foot-sloggers got offended if such thoughts were voiced, and this was not the time to get into an argument about the quality of the chaff. 'Circle this pathetic village. Use those groves to remain unseen for as long as you can, and while I lead an attack from this side, you'll be striking them from behind.'

Rutgar didn't speak a word, stared at Korild with a blank expression, which seemed to make his appearance of sub-human stupidity even more pronounced than usual. His pale eyes gave away nothing of his thoughts. Two minutes passed in silence, and it took all of Korild's restraint not to snap at the thuggish-looking warrior. A small part of the knight's mind insisted that making any action would be a form of defeat, that he was making himself look the weaker for it.

'Fine. Will I be taking any daemons with me?'

Korild suppressed the victorious smirk that wanted to paint itself upon his features and looked back down the hill, taking in the war-band in its entirety. Specifically, his gaze wandered upon the daemons that had been allocated to his war-band. There was a single greater daemon of Malice, a large but gaunt-looking entity that almost resembled a Bloodletter, but with a skeletal face that resembled some form of canine. Near that larger daemon were a number of the lesser daemons of Malice. They looked almost like fleshless birds, all muscle and sinew barely contained beneath an imitation of insect carapace, all attached to a vulture-like skull. Where there should have been wings, there were instead serrated blade-like pincers that could cut through even hell-forged armour with terrifying ease, certainly enough so that even Korild had no intention of ever getting into a fight with one up close without a clear advantage.

Korild chose to return the favour that Rutgar had inflicted upon him and took his time in giving an answer, examining the daemons with an almost disdainful eye for three and a half minutes—he counted specifically just to be petty, and he would even admit that.

'Take a dozen Doombringers with you. The greater daemon will remain here.'

Rutgar clicked his tongue and cast a look upon the number of Doombringers with a speculative gleam in his eyes. 'I can work with that.'

Korild snorted disdainfully. 'Of course you will.' He didn't add the "because I told you to," but the other man certainly caught the unspoken addition, his eyes narrowing in thinly veiled irritation.

'I'll go round up my force. I assume you want me to move as soon as I'm ready?' The question was asked with only barely-checked sarcasm.

Korild turned to face Rutgar fully, ready to give a backhanded comment, but the large, might-be troll-blooded man had already turned and was stalking down the hill toward the bulk of the warriors. Korild flushed with anger at the other man dismissing himself so abruptly before Korild had given him permission to walk away. He opened his mouth, tempted to order him back just to prove a point, but the other had already moved far enough that he would have to raise his voice to be heard, and while he could acknowledge his own pettiness, he wasn't willing to make a display out of it before his entire war-band.

But, a small part of his mind was quick to say, he'll soon regret dismissing you.

Oh yes, he would.


*


Zak was alerted that the second wave of the Chaos attack had started when he heard the blow of a horn from the same entrance to the village that the initial attack had tried to strike at.

The skink shook his head in bemusement and picked up the pace, not quite running, but brisk in his return to the scene.

With a practised ease that came from a youth spent climbing trees and pretending to be a hunter rather than a priest in what spare time he had before leaving Madrigal, Zak clambered up the building to the side of the infantry column blocking access to the village. Once atop the roof, he stood behind and to the side of the lines of musketeers and eyed the advancing threat.

His attention remained affixed to the swarm of Chaos warriors charging down the hill, and he made an assessment of their numbers. No daemons with this wave. None that he could see at any rate. That was good. Even if Zak was arguably the best suited among his fellow commanding staff for facing down daemons—his command of the Winds of Hysh giving him some particularly potent anti-daemon talents—it was always preferable to not be facing daemons. Daemons had an unpredictable element to them. That description even applied to those daemons of Khorne, which one would assume to be the singular most predictable entities in the world.

Looked like roughly three hundred warriors. That was about a regiment's-worth of them. All armoured and shielded. All roaring in a fury that was anything but righteous.

And Zak was quick to note that there was no cavalry among them. It was exactly as Zak had predicted would happen. If there were any more cavalry units among this war-band, they weren't leading the charge this time, cautious of the spears and gun combination.

And the charge was no doubt under the assumption that Zak had not changed his formations after fending off the first wave. Zak narrowed his eyes in an ever-so-slight grin.

'Fire on my mark,' Zak shouted. He waited for a few long seconds, giving the gun-line time to aim their muskets. 'Fire!'

The gun-lines fired as a single entity, creating a storm of metal and death. Warriors fell, in some cases causing those immediately behind to trip over their fallen.

'Back up five steps, then hold position.'

At his command, his formations took measured steps backward, without turning away from the approaching Chaos warriors. It was a calculated risk. By visibly backing up, the warriors of Chaos should hopefully grow arrogant, assume it to be fear. In actuality, it would just mean that there was a small amount that the warriors had to enter into the chokepoint, enough so that if their morale broke, there was no moving sideways to escape. They had to move backward, where they would be blocked by those behind them. No escape for the warriors of Chaos without the entire unit retreating as a single entity.

'Second ranks, fire!'

The guns of the second line of muskets barked, spewing their payloads to a chorus of fire.

'Third ranks, fire!'

The warriors were near now, close enough that Zak could hear the individual screams if he took the time to listen. He wasn't paying particular attention though. By now, the first rank of muskets would have reloaded—more than enough time had passed.

'First ranks, fire!'

Thunder sounded, a sound that shook the very ground beneath them. But for the Legion, it was a comfort. It was also a comfort to those they were protecting, as it had been for centuries now, for it was a sound that the Empire had long since grown accustomed to. It was the sound of one of their three major strengths: the gunpowder to their faith and steel. There was something to be said for how they had turned their three core strengths into something of a motto. Faith, steel, and gunpowder—three very simple things that combined had turned a nation of men—men who were not powered by external entities, men whom the gods didn’t channel their power into, just simple men of not-so-exceptional strength and stamina—into one of the dominant powers of Môrdl.

The downside, regrettably, was that two of those three would always be in limited supply. The Empire simply hadn't enough steel and gunpowder to fuel each and every person living within the Basin. And without those, sometimes even the faith could be found in short supply.

Hopefully, Zak and his regiments would help this village maintain their faith long enough for the steel and the gunpowder to bolster their strength in the form of the Middenland military mobilising. It must be hard for them at times, to not have that innate sense from the gods that they were part of a plan—that there was reason in the world. As the Children of the Gods could themselves attest, sometimes that plan needed protecting, but there was never a doubt that there was indeed a plan, something which could fuel them forward, a destination that would one day come.

The warriors finally reached the defensive line. True to Zak's prediction, they slowed their pace before they actually reached the saurus warriors, wary of the braced spears that had decimated half of their cavalry vanguard. Even without charging into pointy death, the spears were still a potent weapon that made approaching an endeavour, as proven when one warrior chose to advance, only to be the recipient of two spears thrust into his chest, puncturing the breastplate at two separate points. That warrior fell, wheezing for a breath that could no longer fill his punctured lungs.

A quick glance at the musket-equipped skinks showed that the second rank had finished reloading.

'Second rank, fire!'

The fifth volley of fire and iron dropped plenty of the Chaos warriors at the front, but it also provoked them into finally charging that small distance between them and the saurus. In a move that had been practised over centuries, the phalanx formations of saurus stepped forth and braced, meeting those that charged at them with snarls. The front two ranks of spear-saurus thrust their weapons into the charging mass.

Zak watched this happen, waited for that moment where there wasn’t a single saurus in the front ranks that wasn’t engaged in melee. He spied a number of the Chaos warriors break from the swarm, looking to find a way to circle the buildings. He chuckled, amused that they would think him fool enough not to have considered such a notion. Every entrance into the settlement had some defence. He was not fool enough to assume the enemy stupid enough not to check.

His fist clenched, then lit up as he focused the energies of Hysh through his scales, lifting that same hand and launching the vibrant blue light skyward. It was a flashy but insubstantial use of the Winds—a simple projectile of light that could do no harm—but it certainly made for a convenient way of messaging somebody who was aware of the meaning behind it in advance.

From the tops of the buildings, previously crouched low and hidden behind the musketeers, those Chaos warriors who had thought themselves so clever quickly found themselves intercepted by a trio of kroxigors to each side of the chokepoint. The larger reptiles had jumped down from the rooftops and now moved to smash any warrior that dared to break from the bulk of the horde. The Chaos warriors were crushed and shattered by the heavy maces of the kroxigors. Then, the bulk of the Chaos horde found themselves surrounded—faced with death no matter which way they cast their attention. The kroxigors might have been few in number, but they had the size and the raw might to make their numbers feel far more substantial than the half a dozen they were.

Zak grinned, teeth bared in the closest approximation that his kind could get to a human-styled grin. 'Overwatch, fire at will.'

Those musket-equipped skinks broke from the careful lines, positioned themselves so that they could aim down the sides of the buildings they were perched upon and were quick to aim into the centre of the mass of armoured humans who had chosen poorly in their life choices. Triggers were pulled.

A small part of Zak's mind debated casting magic, contributing to the slaughter of the warriors. He chose against doing so, instead training his eyes to the nearby hills, alert for the possibility of more warriors—another wave that might have been held in reserve.

A horn sounded out from the other side of the village. Zak hissed softly under his breath and turned. He didn’t bother with dropping to street level—called out a command for his captain to take command in his absence—and then leapt to the nearest rooftop, sprinting as he used the tops of the buildings as a road exclusive to his use. He reached the source of the horn call and resisted the urge to laugh, for he found that the Chaos warriors charging at this angle of the village had fallen for his bait. The chokepoint here was guarded not by saurus, but by skinks stood at the ready.

Zak had pride in his breed, had pride in being a skink, believed that he and his fellow skinks were every bit as able as saurus. But he was also a realist. Skinks were not designed by the Old Ones to be the frontline fighters—to be the bulwark of the Great Plan. Skinks, when put in melee combat, were skirmishers first and foremost, their smaller size and speed allowing them to manoeuvre to strike at unprotected flanks while the enemies of the Great Plan tried in futility to push past the stalwart wall of saurus. Never let it be said that skinks were not capable fighters when trained for the role—which these skinks were—but they had needed to present the idea that they were a weakness in the defence.

A fresh swarm of Chaos warriors were charging, though there was an almost leisurely gait to them that suggested they didn’t believe they were coming to face a threat—that they'd be victors by default.

Still no cavalry though.

Zak shot a coloured orb of orange light into the sky as a signal, the use of magic so trivial that he felt no change to the Winds about the air. The signal was answered swiftly, and the reason that Zak had wanted that defensive line to lure an overconfident foe was revealed in the form of two bastiladons lumbering out from behind the buildings either side of the skink formation. Neither carried the large gemstones of a solar engine—for such artefacts were rare. The Legion had a handful of them across their entirety, their use limited only to the commands of the marshal or the two colonels as a consequence. But not about to be deterred, the Legion had still made use of the bastiladons. What was a solar engine when weaponised? It was an artillery weapon. A particularly powerful one fuelled by the energies of Chotek, but an artillery weapon all the same.

What did the Legion do when they had more bastiladons than they had weapons to have the large thundersaurs carry? They did as they’d already done in every other aspect—they made use of warmblood weapons. In this case, the Legion had made use of artillery that had been purchased in Tilea, usually in the form of carronades. As such, the oncoming Chaos mob was in for an unpleasant shock when, behind the line of jeering skinks, two large bastiladons lumbered into view and the short-barrelled cannons mounted upon their shells were fired by the skinks riding alongside the heavy weapons.

It wasn’t quite the same devastating effect that a beam of Chotek might have accomplished, but considering it was the Tilean carronades or nothing, Zak was not about to complain. He had heavy artillery, and the warriors of Chaos had so kindly exposed themselves to the bastiladons carrying that artillery. Even better than their arrogance in approaching at a leisurely gait, without the muskets firing at them, they hadn’t even spread themselves out. They were nicely gathered in a crowd.

Zak didn’t pay the resultant spray of gore any mind, his gaze shifted, tracking the other warriors who had been approaching this particular bottleneck, humming in amusement as the other group stumbled in shock and then wisely loosened their formation in an effort to cut down on the casualties that would result from their being targeted.

‘Ready,’ one of the bastiladon crews called out, hissing the singular word in Saurian. The word was echoed by the crew riding atop the second bastiladon seconds later.

The heavy weapons fired again, causing absolute devastation among the warriors of Chaos despite the hurried staggering of their formation. At least a handful broke—turned and fled in a panic before they could suffer the same fate as some of their brothers-in-arms. Let them run, Zak thought with grim amusement. Spreading the word to their leader that the defenders had access to, and a willingness to use, artillery against them should deter any more rushes against the “seemingly” less defended chokepoints.

Zak didn’t have enough bastiladons to have carronades pointed at each entry point into the village, but the Chaos rabble didn’t need to know that. It had been something of a gamble using two of them on a single chokepoint, but that particular area had been the least protected as it was. Only having a single carronade backing them up might have been just the wrong side of having enough firepower to reinforce the skink defenders.

Those warriors who hadn’t yet fled were visibly reluctant to approach despite their lack of routing. A third bombardment, if it could really be called such with only two of the heavy weapons being used, had them back-pedalling, as though trying to determine if there was a safe distance where they wouldn’t be at risk of a heavy iron ball causing them to scatter themselves over a wide area.

‘Not so pleasant when your enemies fight back, is it?’ Zak asked sarcastically, fully aware that the warriors couldn't hear him.

A quick glance at the bastiladons showed that the skinks manning the weapons on the thrundersaurs’ backs were replacing the iron ball and powder in practised motions. Zak called out a quick order for the two crews to stagger their future shots. No sense in letting the Chaos zealots work out that they had a brief window in which they could charge at the defending line without concern. A second look toward the Chaos warriors had him also call out a hold fire.

The Chaos warriors were still hesitating, the desires of their god and the commands of their leader feuding with their sense of self-preservation. They still hadn't taken another step forward. None wanted to test the likelihood of being struck down for getting too close. What they had no way of knowing was that they were already in range of a follow-up strike, but even if the carronades were loaded that very second, he wouldn't have them fire until they took that step forward.

Not yet.

After some arguing from the warriors, unheard but visible, they seemed to regain their nerve, they stepped forward. And the skinks working the carronades pressed down with the burning wick in hand, and history was set to repeat as another iron ball introduced itself with thunderous applause. Five seconds later, another was propelled at high speeds, decimating any unfortunate enough to be in the path of its flight.

This was the final straw for the warriors. They turned and fled, had come to believe the narrative that Zak wanted them to. The imaginary line in the ground was a kill point. They wouldn't come back, not at this opening, not unless a more learned leader pushed them to do so. And so they ran to the mocking jeers of the skinks who had tricked them into thinking they had an easy fight.


*


Korild growled in frustration. It was not an uncommon emotion for him to feel, but this time there was more than just the vague frustrations at the perceived lackluster performances of the lesser warriors he was forced to tolerate.

'Where is Rutgar!?' he screamed in frustration. 'He was supposed to have attacked by now.'

As he asked the question, he watched the cowardly retreat of a two-hundred man strong force of warriors, cowed by oversized guns.

'These mutants are making me look like a fool. Where is Rutgar? Why has he not charged yet?'

His mount, a daemonic horse with carapace in place of flesh and a barbed tail which ended with a heavy spiked sphere, snorted at his raised voice. Korild did not like this daemonic mount, it wasn't a horse he had groomed from birth, he had no real trust for this thing. His previous mount had been a true mount, a companion of sorts. Even if it had still been but a beast of burden, at least he had the knowledge of knowing that it had been trained and was tailored to his purposes. This new mount had a mind of its own, and that made it less than ideal for his purpose. But alas, he would have to tolerate it for the time being. Better the one that was at least horse-shaped than the oversized ticks that were oft used by the followers of Malice.

Growling lowly, Korild went through his mind for the other Chaos bands in the area, contemplating what they had under their individual commands. After a moment, he turned to face another mounted warrior, one who was wisely keeping their distance.

‘You, go ride to Bremes’s band, and tell him to join us here. If these craven want to play with guns, we will show them real power.’

Bremes Hellsunder was an arrogant fool who relied far too much on the hellcannon he had within his command, but if these mutants wanted to hunker down and believe that they had a defensive advantage, then it was on Korild to swallow his distaste and change the rules of the game being played.

‘It will take Bremes a day to get here,’ the knight informed Korild.

‘I don’t care. It’s not like the village is about to leave.’ Korild’s tone was full of biting sarcasm, one hand gesturing at the settlement. ‘We have them surrounded. They try to run, they will die.’

We just can’t get close to them without the same problem.

The knight galloped away, in the direction of Bremes’s war-band. Korild watched him go for a handful of seconds before turning his attention back to the settlement. He wouldn’t just sit idly by and wait for the other war-band to arrive; he would still try to puzzle a way to bypass this defence.

If need be, he was perfectly willing to throw the lives of his underlings against the defence. The fools would be overrun. It would just take more lives than korild was willing to spend without searching for alternatives first. Not that he cared for those beneath him, but a war-band still needed numbers to function. Couldn’t say he was leading a war-band if there were no warriors left to lead.


*


Night was falling. As a consequence of the sun’s descent beneath the horizon, the village’s populace had lit the night fires, braziers lighting the streets. Zak carefully shooed away those people from lighting any braziers along the outer edges of the village. As counter-intuitive as it seemed to the villagers—the human ones at least—the light would actually be a detriment to those that Zak had on the rooftops watching out for any sign of an enemy approaching. The dwarfs living in this village at least seemed to understand that looking out from within the light was a bad idea.

Bad enough that Morrslieb seemed to have chosen that night to appear in full and seemingly as close to the ground as it ever deigned to be. Its pale, sickly green light cast an eerie, ominous hue to everything. Nobody, not even Zak and those under his command, dared to look too closely at Morrslieb that night.

There was a second benefit to keeping the outmost edges of the village in the dark. With the lack of true light, the imperial dwarfs living within this village had gotten to work, thick planks of wood and stone emerging from the quarter that the dwarfs had congregated and were swiftly transported to the defensive chokepoints. Zak watched as the sturdy mountain-born got to work, not even hiding how impressed he was at their work.

One had to give the Dawi—even those who were no longer a part of the Karaz Ankor—credit for their craftsmanship. It didn’t matter that this was a hurried moment of necessity rather than a deliberately planned venture, the dwarfs of Bealivun had decided that the settlement needed an extra layer to the defence. Heavy gates were reinforced, and more were erected at strategic points throughout the village, blocking access through half of those passageways. These were structures that would require actual effort to break through thanks to the dwarfish need for absolute quality even in those that they regarded as rush-jobs.

Elsewhere in the village, the dwarf crafters were finishing up projects that were now being repurposed, at least one cannon which had been commissioned for the Middenland army was now being worked on with gusto, while a good few dozen of the bearded artisans were converting a number of taller structures within the village into vantage points from which handgunners and cannons could watch over Bealivun and the surrounding lands.

Turned out there was a reason that the village had been designed as it had.

‘Aye, this village is Imperial Dwarf first and foremost, made to be a haven where we wouldn’t have to tolerate small minded fools getting themselves put into The Book.’ one dwarf was explaining to Zak when he’d expressed some curiosity regarding the number of Dawi that had emerged. The Dawi in question was taking small controlled puffs from a smoking pipe, made from a well varnished horn. After every inhalation, the dwarf would hold the tobacco within his lungs before slowly releasing the smoke. His russet beard was lightly stained from his habit, but Zak wasn’t about to draw attention to that fact.

The dwarf continued speaking after one such repetition of his routine—inhale, hold, exhale in such a way as to mimic a chimney in use. ‘The Umgi came later, but it was with the understanding that this village is ours. They live here at our say so, not the other way round.’

Zak nodded idly. ‘Well that explains the layout.’

He had been wondering. The village had been built into a trio of progressively smaller rings, each bordered by buildings that matched those in the outmost layer of the village proper, walls facing outward having no windows and made from stone to prevent ease of smashing through. Each ring had only a small number of streets leading deeper into the village, to the next ring.

Zak watched as a pair of Dawi secured an extra layer of thick oak planks to the newly constructed gate. It would actually take a battering ram to start cracking that barrier. While the gate was being built, a dozen more dwarfs scaled ladders to the roofs of the buildings on either side of the new barrier and started to set up their handguns.

‘Might not quite be up to the stuff of the Thunderers,’ the dwarf commented with a fond look at the dozen dwarfish handgunners while he absently ran the hand not holding his pipe down the length of his braided beard. ‘But they’ll still make the umgi handgunner regiments look like bumbling fools. Too bad we don’t have many to spare, most of our fighters already left, formed a free company to help chase down the Chaos mongrels elsewhere.’

‘That seems to be a recurring problem,’ Zak said, easily recalling the conversations he’d had before splitting off from Ingwel and the rest of the Legion. ‘The call to muster up went out and the smaller towns and villages lost their fighting men and women, either to sit and guard the larger settlements with the rest of the levy, or to join with a free company and act even without the say of the graf.’

The dwarf barked out a single “hah”. It was a derisive laugh, though not an offended one, which for a dwarf would inevitably mean that somebody was having their name carefully printed into the infamous literature of the Dawi. ‘Some of the crafters are working on making crossbows so that everybody who doesn’t know how to handle a typical weapon will be contributing to the defence of this village. That is my decree as mayor of this village: I’ll not force you to defend wastrels who won’t contribute.’

That wasn’t unwelcome news. Zak had been fully expecting a village of warmbloods who wouldn’t be able to help in any meaningful manner. The presense of retired state military warriors had eased the burden somewhat, as it meant that none of Zak’s troops had to be tasked with babysitting the villagers. Learning that two-thirds of the villagers were Dawi had ramped up his optimism further, even a dwarf who hadn’t dedicated themselves to the art of warfare was still a solid wall that any invader had to struggle to get past. That every villager would have a crossbow to contribute was just about the best news that Zak could have been given short of being told that Ingwel would be arriving with the rest of the Legion, which wouldn’t happen. Too many fronts, too many problems. At best the marshal would arrive with another portion of the Legion, not the entirety.

‘By the way,’ the Dawi started with an inflection that suggested that this was a topic change. ‘If this becomes a prolonged siege, we don’t exactly have the rations to feed you and yours on top of the village’s people for a prolonged period. We only have weeks of rations as is.’

Zak’s eyes narrowed into a reassuring grin. ‘Don’t worry about feeding us.’

‘‘Ey, I’ll not thank the people risking their lives to protect my village by not feeding them.’ There was a slight hint of offence to his tone, a warning with an opening to explain or to backtrack from insulting Dawi graciousness and hospitality.

‘Don’t misunderstand, master Dawi. While myself and my subordinates would enjoy being fed, we don’t need you to use up your rations on us.’

‘Right...’ The Dawi’s scepticism was thickly applied to his tone, along with the raised eyebrows. He was letting his disbelief be well known.

‘My kin don’t need to eat as regularly as other races,’ Zak explained patiently. ‘So long as we aren’t physically active, we can go a long time without food. Drinking? Yes, we need water regularly. But food we can go without.’

‘And how long is a “long time”, Repgi?’

Zak shrugged. ‘Without marching from place to place, as would be the case in a siege?’ He pretended to think on his answer, even though it was a well established detail among the Children of the Gods, and had been subject of a fairly regular lecture from Muja, who made no secret that his biggest pet peeve was self-damaging behaviour from members of the Legion. ‘Six months is the limit, ideally we’d prefer to limit it to five as that sixth month is when we start to weaken from hunger. After the six month mark, that’s when our health starts to actually suffer.’

The Dawi blinked, stared at Zak, blinked again and flapped his mouth. ‘Well alright then. We’ll save the rations by cutting you out. Even then you’ll still last longer in a siege than the rest of the village.’ He sounded a little indignant at that last sentence.

Zak’s grin turned a little more morose. ‘When the Old Ones created my kind, they did a very good job of making sure that we were very difficult to kill. Would be counter-productive if we could just be starved out.’

The Dawi barked out another laugh, longer and less sarcastically bitter than the previous. However, anything he would say was interrupted with the sound of gunpowder igniting, and then a light from the opposite side of the village.


*


Rutgar slowly approached. Hours of observation, he believed that he had found the weakest point of the village’s defence. This point of entry into the village included a number of the larger of the reptilian creatures, as well as roughly twenty of the smaller ones, though these were lacking in the handguns of the more defended approaches. Given the failure of the charge against that one entry-point which hadn’t had any apparent ranged support, Rutgar was fairly certain that this point would likewise have artillery hidden away to come out once the bait had been taken.

Which was why Rutgar had elected not to charge mindlessly, like some Khornate berserker. He and those who had been placed under his leadership would instead take advantage of the night. Get close, close enough that even if these creatures did have a cannon hidden away, it would be too late to use by the time they became aware of the threat. And so Rutgar led his command, had everybody move slow, and keep low as to avoid notice.

Let the dark work for them. The light of Morrslieb was largely insignificant aside from creating an unsettling atmosphere to the village, but certainly it wasn’t enough to give away their approach.

Closer and closer. Rutgar swallowed down some small amount of irritation when he registered that the outer edge of the village hadn’t deigned fit to light braziers for vision, acknowledged in the privacy of his mind that the war-band had come across an enemy who actually knew what they were doing. In a way, that was a good thing. Meant that victory over them would be earned. Malice might not be as strict as Khorne about the worthiness of those slaughtered in their name, but there was still some satisfaction to be had with facing down a worthy foe as opposed to some bungler.

With that knowledge, Rutgar stilled, had his followers still with him. They were close, though not what he would consider being close enough that any hidden cannons would hesitate to fire just yet. How very fortunate for Rutgar that he had been gifted command of a dozen Doombringers.

Though they might be lesser daemons, the Doombringers were deceptively fast for all that they appeared to be carapaced mixes of beast and bird.

Rutgar waited a moment, and then uttered his orders. The nearest Doombringer tilted its head, which seemed to emphasize the birdlike shape of its skull, then let out a chittering clicking sound that seemed to originate from with Rutgar’s own skull than rather than sounding as though the daemon itself had made the sound. Two seconds of chittering, the daemons moved.

And move they did, with a speed that even the stallions of the knights would find enviable.

By the time the sentries registered the threat, the daemons were already upon them, leaping with chittered screeches, their bone hooks swinging in downward arcs which cleaved through flesh and bone with an ease that only those denizens of the realms of Chaos were capable.

With the guards sufficiently distracted by the dozen daemons now carving a path through their ranks, Rutgar rose and charged forward himself, axe held at the ready to cut down any that might get in his way. Every other warrior under his leadership likewise charged, though they took to his example and still didn’t make any vocal sound, a silent charge. They would be the unheard death. One of the larger reptiles, lucky in avoiding the initial charge of the daemons, took notice of the warriors charging.

The creature planted its feet and held up its spear. It wasn’t enough to save the creature, Rutgar’s axe swung with force, powered through the attempted defence and carved a bloody path through the reptile’s chest, splintered bone and tore through the lungs and heart beneath, before then tearing its way out the reptile’s shoulder. The creature was already dead when the body fell to the ground.

A new sound filled the air, like a sizzling of meat. Rutgar tilted his head, confused. That sound changed, something let out a whoosh of air and flew upward. The Chaos warrior had enough time to huff in bemused befuddlement before whatever it was that had just gone airborne exploded into a bright orange explosion that lit the air with a sound that could probably be heard in Kislev.

‘Oh, those bastards.’ Despite the curse, Rutgar felt a measure of respect. With one simple action, they had just undermined his entire attempt at stealth. ‘Ah well, subtlety is for the young and the arrogant anyway.’

And with that declaration, he finally released a war cry worthy of any warrior of Malice. He charged, followed close behind the path of the daemons.


*


Korild started in shock from his slumber, one hand automatically reaching for his halberd. For a moment he thought that the night was already over, the surrounding land was covered in light, but that light faded rapidly.

‘What happened?’ he asked, no sign of any grogginess to his voice, and his hand—the one not holding his prized halberd—latched onto the shoulder of a warrior who had been moving past him.

‘We don’t know,’ the warrior spoke the most unsatisfactory answer to have ever been given to such a question. ‘Something exploded in the air.’

‘Fool,’ Korild snapped, backhanding the warrior, already recognising what had happened. ‘The Empire have gunpowder rockets, they used it as a signal. An alert.’

It was something he had seen before, though not from the weaklings of the Empire, but instead to the east. Cathay made extensive use of gunpowder and rockets, had even mastered ways of making the powder burn in different colours. Cathay had made particular use of their coloured explosions as a means of signalling their troops to threats or emergencies. While these Empire mongrels only had basic gunpowder rockets, the noise and light was still sufficient to alert their troops to a problem.

‘Rutgar must have finally found his nerve,’ Korild said, more to himself than to the warrior who was now nursing a bruised jaw. ‘Not exactly a bold showing, attacking at night, but I will let that slide. If he is successful.’

‘Should we not charge now while the defenders are distracted?’ The warrior let his eagerness for the idea colour his tone. Korild didn’t begrudge him that, they all wanted to get down there and bloody their blades against the weak men of the Empire.

Korild tilted his head, considered the idea but then snorted in disdain. ‘No. Let’s see if Rutgar manages to purge this village of its weaklings. If he fails, clearly he had no place among us.’

The warrior opened his mouth as if to say something, then wisely thought better and quietly shut that same mouth before any noise could escape. Good, so this one isn’t completely hopeless. There might be hope for this war-band yet.


*


Zak arrived to the chaos of a fight. The saurus were pushing against the armoured warriors who were in turn trying to push through them. The initial charge of the Chaos wretches must have taken the saurus off-guard, for the larger reptilians weren’t in as tight a formation as they should have been. The cause for that quickly became obvious when Zak spotted what had occupied the attention of the skinks that had been stationed with the saurus.

This would mark Zak’s first look upon Malice’s daemons. From the size alone, he had cause to believe that he was merely dealing with Malice’s lesser daemons—greater daemons seemed to take the use of the word “greater” in their title as permission to be larger than any of their kin, or maybe it was their size that had been cause for their name to begin with. But even if these were lesser daemons, that wasn’t cause to relax. A daemon, no matter what form it took, whatever its position upon the hierarchy that the Ruinous Powers followed, was still a threat, dangerous and not to be underestimated.

Their carapaces were a dark black, shimmering with a reflective quality that made Zak think of the oil that coated everything Nuln built, the light’s reflection twisted and distorted into a mockery of colour while still making it clear that there was no true colour to be found upon those dark ink-black carapacian surfaces. One of the daemons leapt from where it had perched itself, had somehow adhered itself to the rough surface until it chose to pounce.

Instinct kicked in, Zak ducked beneath the airborne daemon, felt the air parting from the passage of the long hooked appendage that was swung horizontally, such that it would no doubt have left the skink major a head shorter had he not moved. The daemon landed and let out a chittering sound, the beak of its skulled visage quivering, and then it pounced again. This time the hooked limb was intercepted—Zak’s broadsword met it halfway, then twisted, pushed and managed to redirect the natural weapon.

The daemon screeched, the dark pools where eyes should be focused intently upon Zak, and in spite of the absence of any physical eyes, Zak felt the hateful glare. With a soft hiss, Zak took a small step backward, carefully scanned the surrounding area, while making certain to not allow the daemon to exit his peripheral view for even a moment. There were other such daemons, though how many Zak could not tell without fully taking his attention from the one that had chosen to focus on him. The skinks were trying to control them, keep them from moving deeper into the village, but that was a match-up that wasn’t going in the favour of the skinks, not in a straight up confrontation as it was, but there was no manoeuvring away, no way to engage in strike and fade tactics when the targets were proving themselves to be capable of moving in such a way as to prevent the fade part of a skink skirmisher’s favoured strategy.

The worst part was that any attempt at fading from the skinks, the daemons chose to exploit and would launch themselves at the flanks of the saurus, strike them from behind while they were forced to pay attention to the human warriors at their front.

The daemon that had chosen to fixate its attention to Zak chittered again and propelled itself forward, both of its bladed limbs swinging in a downward arc. Zak back-pedalled, parried one limb’s follow-up strike, weaved under the second and thrust his blade in an attempt to run the daemon through. Wasn’t overly shocked when the daemon leapt, launched itself upward and landed atop a nearby building’s roof, leered down at him with another chittering, this one with a mocking quality to it, then threw itself at Zak yet again.

Zak cursed in sibilant hisses, dove aside, making sure to twist himself around so that no matter where the daemon landed he would be facing it. He clenched his offhand into a fist. A chitter to his side was a split-second of warning that the skink was quick to answer with a hurried pirouette on the ball of his foot, sword lifted. The new daemon to focus on him screeched as it not only missed him, but had Zak’s blade carve a gauge into carapace, drew thick purple-specked white blood from the foul creature. The first daemon was quick to lunge forward at Zak’s apparent distraction.

Zak, swallowing down a momentary panic, reacted by not trying to dodge or block the strike but instead threw himself toward the daemon, slipped between the two hooked limbs and slammed his shoulder into the daemon’s skulled face. The daemon flinched back at the assault, not so much hurt as startled at the blow. That was time enough for Zak to move, to position himself so that the original daemon was between him and the injured newcomer. It wouldn’t take much for the second daemon to manoeuvre around the first, Zak could admit that easily, but a lifetime dedicated to fighting had taught him to find every advantage he could in a fight, to position himself in an effort to only have to focus on one threat at a time where possible. It didn’t hurt to try, but it would definitely hurt not to.

There was another cackling screech, the source of which went unseen. There were also shouts and declarations from the warriors who pushed against the saurus. This needed to be resolved. Now.

Zak inhaled, his mind reached out and grasped at the Winds of Magic. The Winds weren’t saturating the air heavily that evening, there wasn’t enough to fuel the more potent of spells he had within his arsenal, but there was enough for him to change the tide of this battle in his favour. The Winds filled his lungs, where the energy then spread, filled his mind and body and soul with a light that defied true description.

The lesser daemons screamed. Maybe they sensed what he was about to do, were protesting his chosen course of action. But Zak cared not for their indignation. He held out his hand, palm upward as though looking to accept a gift, and he expelled the Winds of Hysh. From his palm, a sphere of radiant light came into existence, pure and glorious, in the way that the Ruinous Powers could never be, in the way that repulsed and expelled the malignant forces of Chaos. Where the light touched the skinks and saurus in combat, they would feel their resolve strengthening, their stamina replenished.

Where the light touched the daemons, it burnt.

The daemon that had tried so hard to kill Zak screeched and hissed and let all who could hear it know that it was not happy, that it was furious and in pain. Its carapace sizzled as if the white light was a flamed brand being pressed against it. Thin white smoke wafted upward from its flesh, more a steam than actual smoke. It lunged at Zak, screamed its unholy fury. Its fury turned to agony when Zak twisted his wrist, aimed the palm of his hand and the light it held wholly at the daemon, caused it to flail and whimper as the light burnt away at its sight, left it dazzled, blinded by the radiance, even as its physical form was scorched away.

If Zak relied only upon his brilliant energy, it would still take far too long to kill these daemon wretches. The lack of Winds in the air that night had made certain of that. But fortunately, he wasn’t dependant only upon his channelling this limited sum of Hysh’s Wind. He still held a sword in his hand, and he still had his command.

The daemon swiftly found a sword pushed through the seemingly empty eye socket of the skulled visage. That same purple-speckled white ichor came forth, spilt onto the ground, accompanied by the pained roaring of an infuriated daemon. Zak ignored the pain in his ears that the sound caused, pulled his blade back and stabbed again, aimed for the neck. Even in the physical form when upon the mortal realms, it seemed that daemons, or at least this type of daemon, didn’t need to breathe. Maybe the fact its head was a skull was some clue that such would have been the case.

But its ability to breathe, or lack thereof, was irrelevant when the blade came out and was then swung, hacked into the same damaged neck, then again, and a third time before finally the skull fell free from the rest of the body, clattered to the ground and burnt away to ash and then nothingness, the light of Hysh removing all trace now that the daemon’s own essence was unable to fight against the radiant light’s effects.

‘Push them back!’ he bellowed his command in Saurian, a far better language at projecting his words to be heard than the crude tongue of the warmbloods. ‘Crush them beneath the strength of the chosen children of the Old Ones!’

Morale was boosted. Because of the magical nature of Hysh’s light, there was no dazzling afflicted upon those under his command, no time needed to let eyes adjust as would have been the case with mundane light. The same could not be said of the Chaos aligned warriors, even if they were not burnt by the light as their daemons were.

With the renewed morale, there was a burst of energy from every defender engaged in the fight. A collective roar—bellows timed such that it sounded like a singular over the plural that it truly was. Lunges and slams of weapons against armoured foes from the saurus, while the skink skirmishers now had the circumstances of the fight shifted, the favour now turned to them.

Before, the daemons were mobile, were leaping from ground to the walls of buildings and then back to the street in a renewed position, would seemingly blend into shadows, where they would become those same shadows they favoured, in the process completely foiling the skinks. Now, with the light of Hysh burning at them and sapping their strength even as it stripped away those very shadows that had so completely enshrouded them, they were vulnerable. And suddenly, skink skirmishers had the advantage.

One skink would slice at one of these hooked monstrosities, sabre slicing into carapace and possibly flesh beneath. The daemon would screech, tittering and warbling even as it turned to retaliate, only the skink responsible had already retreated, and upon the new flank of the daemon, another skink would dart forward, stab a spear through the armoured hide of the daemon and then fade back, disappearing into the masses of teeth and blade and spear that deterred any attempt to follow. And thus it would repeat. Death for these foul daemons would come in the form of a hundred cuts to exposed flanks, no matter which way the daemons tried to face, the skinks were there to take advantage of the opening afforded them.

One daemon tried to leap, to latch onto the side of a building in an effort to escape the dozens of skinks that had now started to prove that no matter what the Ruinous forces might believe, their daemons were not the apex predators of Môrdl, that they leave their realm at their own peril. That daemon latched onto the wall, but was quickly coming to realisation that now it had nowhere left to go. It could remain out of reach, for the skirmishers below, while capable of climbing that wall, of reaching the daemon in its perch of supposed safety, didn’t do so, for that would be playing into the apparent strength of this daemon. But in remaining on that wall, while safe from the cutting blades of the skirmishers below, it was left exposed as more defenders arrived, this time in the form of the local populace.

A Dawi aimed an aquebus, the long firearm propped against a fork rest. The dwarf sneered and pulled the trigger, firing a heavy lead ball which met the skull-like visage and shattered it, leaving a large stain of ichor and fragments of bone-like chitin. The body fell, and was set upon by a small number of the skinks who had been focused on it beforehand. Better to be safe than sorry where daemons were concerned, for they didn’t follow the same rules as mortals. It was brutal mutilation of the corpse, but it made certain that it wasn’t about to stand up again.

The other daemons, rapidly dwindling in number, learnt from that one mistake and none tried to elevate themselves above the fighters after that point. Regrettably, stupidity was not one of the many issues of the Ruinous Powers.

Another daemon had managed to position itself that there were no skinks behind it at all. But with the arrival of reinforcements from the village’s residents, that daemon found itself run through by a couple of dozen pikes, the humans able and willing to use the reach of the weapons to kill the foul creatures without getting too close. The daemon struggled, tried to turn to kill these interloping humans, which would have normally been such easy prey for it, but the pikes had impaled it so thoroughly that it was incapable of movement, even as it flailed its limbs and struggled, still alive until the skinks took advantage of its immobility and finished off the trapped abomination.

Zak, hyper-aware of everything around him, took note of all that, but still focused his attention on the remaining daemon of the pair that had engaged him in melee. The daemon continued to warble, its orbless sockets fixated upon him, even as it constantly shrank back from the vibrant light in his left palm. After a moment, it tried to lunge, to run him through with its barbed hooks. Its motion was swiftly aborted when Zak held out the orb of light as though it were a physical shield. The light clearly had more of an effect the closer the daemon got to the source, made for a particularly potent shield. The process repeated twice more, and Zak was content to let it, because so long as it fixated its attention upon him, it failed to notice another skink coming up behind it, until that moment that the skink in question pounced, clambered up its back and started to stab at the daemon repeatedly, aimed the point of his blade for a gap in the chitinous carapace. The daemon squealed, bucked and twisted in a futile effort to dislodge the skink, as though the daemon were little more than an untamed aggrodon unable to get a potential rider from its back. The skink only tightened his grip and clamped teeth down upon what passed for a shoulder, snarling and hissing.

Zak dashed forward, contributed to the daemon's rapidly approaching demise. His sword was stabbed into the back of the daemon’s knee and then twisted. The daemon fell forward, unable to support its own weight, and its squirming became weaker and weaker as the skink atop it continued to repeatedly stab it. Even after it finally ceased all movement, the skink continued to mutilate the body to make absolute certain that the creature was not about to rise up once they stopped paying attention.

From the saurus formation, there was a shout, a yell of belligerence. A handful of saurus stumbled back as a number of the Chaos warriors managed to finally push their way through the defensive formation and into the settlement proper. At least one of those warriors quickly realised the problem that they had just entered into, as the skinks, with less threats on their end to worry about, turned crimson gazes to the warriors, sabres and spears raised up and teeth barred in a parody of a human grin. That one sensible warrior turned and tried to make a retreat. Didn’t end well for him, the saurus, no doubt infuriated at their failure to prevent the warriors their passage through, didn’t hesitate to run that warrior through.

The other warriors simply charged, screaming out the name of their god.

Zak intercepted one quickly, blocked his axe’s swing and slammed a foot into the warrior’s instep. While the warrior stumbled, Zak turned, blocked a blow from another warrior, clenched his fist then opened it again, allowed the sudden dimming and then brightness of the light he carried to burn at the warrior’s eyes. Spotted an opening in the warrior’s armour while the warrior was staggering back crying out in pain, thrust his blade into the armpit of the warrior.

Heard the first warrior—now recovered from the stomp on his foot—moving toward him. Zak hadn’t yet pulled his blade from the fleshed sheath, hissed irritably and pushed the still standing corpse away, releasing his grip on his sword, and he turned to face the oncoming threat that seemed to be determined to power through the dazzling light being focused upon him. Axe was swung, downward cleave, as if these warriors didn’t know any other way of swinging their damned weapons.

Zak sidestepped, deliberately flared out his cape and pivoted one arm while the other flicked at the clasp at his breast. The axe was ensnared in the scarlet fabric, which was then rapidly twisted around and pulled taught. Zak gripped at the other end of his cape now that it was no longer affixed to his cuirass, rotated his wrist so that his hold was secured, then yanked. Had the warrior been sensible, he would have released his grasp on his axe, which would have allowed him to free his hand from the fabric prison. As it was, he stubbornly refused to relinquish his weapon, which meant that Zak’s pull tugged at him hand and had him stumble forward. A second tug at the cape and the skink major watched as the Chaos wretch fell to one knee. A third yank, the warrior finally realised that it was his refusal to be disarmed that was costing him and managed to pull his hand free, watched as his weapon and the cape that had so thoroughly cocooned it were sent flying.

Zak didn’t give the warrior a chance to clamber to his feet. Lunged forward and latched his teeth to the throat of the warrior. And when a Child of the Gods bit down, the only way to release their jaw’s grip was willingly, or by losing whatever the lizardmen had bitten down upon. Such as was the case at that moment. The warrior gargled, his ability to breathe lost to the sharp teeth now clamped down on his gullet. The injury from the initial bite alone was fatal, but lizards, be it the Children of the Gods, or the feral creatures that they so resembled, rarely contented themselves with just the bite. Kroxigors and saurus would roll their bodies, while skinks were content to plant their feet and pull at their prey turned food.

The warrior’s body fell, blood leaking from the massive hole in his neck. Zak righted his posture and spat out the mass of flesh that was once a human trachea, which landed with a wet splat on the ground. Eyes narrowed, he moved to the other warrior’s body, forced his blade free and twirled it once before turning to find the next threat. His eyes met another warrior, this one larger, radiating an aura of malicious fury.


*


Rutgar had just managed to bury the blade of his axe into the skull of one of these lizards, stepped forward and found himself having finally pushed past the formation of defenders and was now within the village proper, when the light hit him. Without even registering his own actions, the warrior lifted his arm, pressed it against the visor of his helmet to blot out that vivid white light. He wasn’t fast enough to spare himself the dancing white spots that perforated his vision, or the tears that came unbidden from the pain that matched only that time he had tried to stare unblinkingly upon the sun.

Heaved a breath, once, twice, thrice then slowly lowered his arm, flinched as the light proved itself to have not rescinded and was still just as painful. A clang accompanied by a sudden burst of force pushing against him told Rutgar that despite his difficulties in seeing what was happening his enemies were not having that same problem. Either that or they were flailing their weapons blindly. That was something that was probably a good idea under the circumstances, if just to ward off any of these defenders that might try to exploit his momentary blindness.

His axe was swung in a wide, one-handed, arc. Felt it connect with something, something that gave way to the sharpened edge with enough ease that he felt confident he hadn’t just struck one of his warriors.

Lowered his arm, only slightly, enough to have just the slightest crack for the light to enter through his visor, while he also turned his head away from where he believed that light to be originating. It helped, a little, gave his eyes time to adjust. He managed to spot the silhouette of a large inhuman form that was in the midst of swinging a strange thin blade, the shape of which reminded him vaguely of Lord Soulshriver’s secondary weapon in the way that they were both long, slender blades with a curve to them. But there was a reason that Lord Soulshriver favoured his glaive over the sword, especially in these lands where plate armour was a fact of life.

Then again, these strange reptilian creatures had clearly worked out how best to use the weapons that otherwise seemed a poor match when faced against plate armour, expertly finding and exploiting those weaknesses in armour and puncturing the flesh through those small openings. As such, despite his confidence that his armour could withstand a blow from such a sword, Rutgar was not about to chance his survival.

His axe was swung with a wild fury. Even using only the one hand, he was accurate enough with his hurried strike that the silhouette was struck, the arm holding the weapon cleaved through and left behind a stump. Another creature moved to take the first’s place, but Rutgar felt a swelling of fury at the resistance being presented at him, at how his vision still burnt, even after seconds of having turned away and only allowed a trickle of light to breach his visor.

He roared out an oath to Malice, discarded his axe and charged, slammed himself bodily against the creature. The force sent them both to the paved ground. Rutgar continue to roar, shifted his body so that he was straddling the creature and brought his fist down on its ugly face. Then again. And again. Each time his fist came down, there was a resounding crack, blood stained his gauntlets, but he refused to stop. His furious barrage only ended when another creature tackled him, sent him sprawling. Still only able to see silhouettes because that damned light still hadn’t abated, but a sillouette was still enough. Slammed his elbow, felt something give beneath the force of the impact.

Heard the pained screeching of one of the Doombringers. Turned his attention and watched as one of the lesser daemons flailed, its hooked limbs swinging wildly at everything and nothing. Its carapace was slowly burning away from whatever the light was made from. One of the smaller reptiles leapt upon the daemon’s back and repeatedly stabbed at its spine until the daemon slumped to the ground with a death rattle escaping its beak. That fury that fuelled Rutgar continued to swell—he clambered to his feet and charged at this little scaled bastard. It looked up at him just in time to watch as his boot connected with its face with force enough to shatter bone. Its face misshapen from the impact, it slumped, fell prone and didn’t move.

Another of the smaller bastards charged him. Rutgar shouted out vulgarities, intercepted its attack, latched his fingers around its wrist and twisted, felt a sick glee as the bone snapped under his ministrations. Pulled it closer, wrapped his fingers around its neck and squeezed, reckoned that he could see its eyes, slowly bulging out as it struggled to breathe, its good hand beating against his cuirass in desperation. Blinked his eyes, realised that he actually good see detail beyond mere shapes now, he could actually see the panic in the creature’s orbs. Leaned closer to better enjoy the sight, but found himself dropping the gasping creature as something hit the back of his helmet. Turned, spotted a dwarf with an angry scowl and a blacksmith’s hammer in hand. The dwarf shouted out some vague challenge, hefted the hammer.

Rutgar sneered, latched a grip onto the creature that had momentarily been free of his grip and turned, threw the little bastard at the dwarf. The impact had the dwarf stagger back, eyes automatically drawn to the reptile that didn’t fare nearly so well. That was all the opening that Rutgar needed. Dashed forward, hand reached out. Gripped at the braided beard of the dwarf, twisted his wrist so as to better grip the abundance of facial hair and tugged. His other hand latched onto the side of the dwarf’s head as the runt stumbled from the force of the sharp tug, lest he want to risk his beard being torn free of his face. Positioned his thumb and pressed, relished in the scream that resulted as the dwarf’s eye was pressed forcefully into the socket, the orb punctured as the sharp tip of the gauntlet pierced into it. His other hand, still tangled in grey-streaked beard, rose to press against the other side of the dwarf’s head, and both hands then pushed toward each other, resulting in a satisfying sound as the skull failed to withstand the pressure being pressed against it on either side, until eventually both hands were able to meet in the middle.

Withdrew his hands, then absently slammed a heel down on the still stunned reptile, felt the neck snap, but it wasn’t as satisfying as its death should have been had he not been interrupted. Turned, tried to find another target, but flinched as another creature, this one clad in more elaborate armour, blood dripping from its maw, approached with one palm held out, the source of that damnable light now visible, and still vividly bright, such that Rutgar blinked in reaction, while another bout of white starbursts danced across his vision. Tried to look at the creature, but it held that light as a shield and Rutgar was incapable of looking directly at it without that same pain that had first erupted when it had first appeared.

The creature approached, teeth bared and stained with crimson, its eyes narrowed with a fury that nearly matched Rutgar’s own. And with its light, Rutgar pulled back on his rage and the malicious glee he felt at the very idea of inflicting pain on these creatures, replaced it instead with a level-headed calm. Not the time to get into a fight with this creature, but couldn’t turn to fight any others now that it had chosen to focus down on him.

Fight or flight—he’d fought, he’d done damage, but now it was time for flight. It was time to fall back and rally up and plot a fresh new way of attacking.

Half-turned his head, looked to the chokepoint that led out from the village, assessed the number of creatures still stood, baring his path. He wasn’t leaving that way. As such, he turned and bolted in the opposite direction, paused only long enough to scoop up one of the slender blades of his enemies. There was a startled shout, but they hadn’t expected the direction of his sprint, he had a head start, and they weren’t catching up to him.

Paused in his sprint, took in the new obstacle. Huh, so there were human defenders here as well... A full two dozen humans blocked the road, pikes lowered and at the ready. Not getting through that, not with only a sword that was designed with grace rather than brute force in mind. Turned, spotted an alley between two buildings, made to go that way, hesitated as a pair of dwarfs appeared, handguns already shouldered, and the typical dwarf indignation already clouding their eyes with hatred. Probably only hadn’t fired because they didn’t want to leave themselves exposed if they didn’t hit, whereas if he charged now he’d make himself an easier target for them.

Turned, looked another way, ignored the impending time limit that was the pikemen slowly advancing toward him from one direction while a number of the reptilian creatures advanced from the other. In a fit of pettiness, hurled the sword he’d acquired, felt some small satisfaction as the blade managed to pierce the stomach of one of the pikemen. Stumbled, one of the dwarfs saw that as an invitation to fire the handgun. The bullet managed to puncture through his armour and lodged itself in the flesh of his shoulder. Arm now hung, useless, could feel the bullet beneath his flesh, each attempt to move his arm caused the bullet to make its existence known as muscle seemed to rub against the ball of iron or lead or whatever the men of the Empire used as their metal of choice for bullets.

Turned, spotted another alley, and rushed toward it, ignored the bark of another gunshot, ignored the splinters that burst from the wall he’d just passed as it shattered at the impact of the bullet. He had gotten lucky, no advancing defenders within this alley. Reached a junction, turned, faced the direction that led back toward the outer edge of the village. Movement above. Weaved to the side, managed to save himself another bullet as the gunman on the roof fired. Spotted a small set of stairs that led to a rooftop. Clambered up, ascended two steps at a time, reached the roof swiftly. A quick survey around, not too far from the village’s outermost edge. Flinched as another gunshot was heard, glanced to one side, spotted a small group of the gun carrying creatures, two of them going through the motions of reloading. The others were taking aim.

Rutgar chose not to stand and make it easy for them, burst into motion once again and leapt as he reached the edge of the building. Only barely made the distance, barely reached the building on the opposite side of the street. Wasted precious seconds recovering his wavering balance, then dove forward and all but threw himself off of the opposite edge of the building.


*


Korild snarled. Whatever that light was that had started shining brightly within the village, the daemons under his command did not care for it. Then again, there was very little bordering on nothing that the daemons of Malice cared for, so perhaps it would be more accurate to describe it as the light was repulsing the daemons. They screeched and they chittered and it was very clear that whatever the light was, it was something anathema to them.

The sound of gunshots gradually faded, there were no more screams echoing up from the village. It was clear that it was over. After a near half-hour of a choir of violence, it had ended.

‘It would seem that Rutgar has failed us.’

He didn’t speak to anyone in particular, but if asked, he was certainly not speaking to himself. Despite his distaste for Rutgar, he found himself feeling disappointed in the other warrior’s failure, in that it inevitably meant that he was dead. Maybe it was because Korild wasn’t getting the satifaction of being the one to snuff out his life. But then again, among Rutgar’s many traits, he was a survivor first and foremost. Something whispered in Korild’s mind’s ear that the large man was not yet gone from the world.

He exhaled heavily. Well, nothing more to it than to wait for his reinforcements and the Hellcannons that they were bringing with them. His subordinates, useless sacks of refuse that they were, remained silent, did not think to question what they should do next. He wouldn’t tolerate them being idle, no no no, best get them busy so that no wayward thoughts trespassed within them, no notions of improving their stations in life and service to Malice.

His gaze shifted to one of his fellow mounted knights. 'Gather the others, get ready to ride out. You're going to hunt down the fool.'

'My lord?'

The one to speak had moved so that he was within reach of the knight. That was a mistake he would regret in short order. Korild's armoured knuckles met the mouth of the warrior who dared to speak to him. The warrior fell to the ground with a strangled gasp of pain, blood leaking from the injury inflicted upon him. Korild sneered down at the warrior with a sneer of disdain.

‘Rutgar is many things. Easily killed is far from being one of those. He’s alive, I feel it. Find him and make certain that he returns to us. I’ll not have him scurry off with notions. Maybe being humbled will do him a service.’

Bleeding from the lips, and likely missing a tooth or two, the warrior did as he was ordered and hurriedly disappeared.


*


Fortune favoured him, there wasn't another wave. But for all that that was good news, it also had a shadow of bad news to accompany it, for that meant that the horde was still encircling the settlement. They were still under siege.

‘How many dead?’ the mayor asked, smoking his pipe again.

‘Twenty-seven saurus, thirty-two skinks. Over double that in injured.’ Zak was able to recite the count without even thinking about it. The numbers had been memorised the moment he was told. He then turned to the dwarf. ‘Five dead Dawi, eight dead humans. I don’t know about injuries on your end.’

The dwarf paused in his latest inhalation from the pipe and raised his eyebrows. ‘You counted the dead locals?’

‘They’re dead because we weren’t as secured on that entry. I bluffed, somebody called it. I take responsibility.’

‘No,’ the mayor snapped. ‘I blame myself. I should have told the militia to focus on reinforcing the weaker defended points. Instead, I prioritised on reinforcing the already strong defence points, the same two entryways into the village that you had already prioritised yourself.’

Zak hummed absently, scooping up his cape from where it had landed after his discarding it, eyes narrowing in a grimace at the stains and tears it now sported. The two entry points in question had been made a priority because they were also the widest—if they fell, it would be easier for the attacks to spread themselves through the settlement.

The Dawi continued with a bemused tone that bordered on irritated rant. ‘They picked a wonderful time to siege us. We were in the middle of expanding the village.’

That had Zak look to the mayor with an eyebrow ridge lifted. ‘So that’s why the outermost chokepoints don’t have gates.’

‘Aye.’ The Dawi waved a hand at the street leading to that exit point of the village. ‘It’s all very well building our home with a proper defendable layout, means nothing it they catch us half-done. And it’s going to take longer to finish even if they weren’t keeping us locked in here, what with most of us mustered out right now.’ The dwarf spat a thick lob of saliva to the ground. ‘Of all the times for a Chaos attack.’

There was a minute of silence between the pair. After those sixty seconds had passed, the dwarf lifted his pipe back to his lips, inhaled, exhaled, and then turned to Zak.

‘What’ll you do with your dead?’ he asked.

‘If you have an empty plaza anywhere, we’d like to cremate them for their final rites.’ Zak huffed, released the grip on his soiled cape and let it flutter away with the soft breeze. ‘Best we do that while we have the chance.’

‘Aye. I’ll arrange a space for your rites. In the meantime, I’ll start reorganising the militia’s positions. I‘m not repeating the same mistake, we will not be caught like this again.’

And with his solemn oath declared, the mayor stalked down the street, leaving Zak to organise the gathering of the dead.

Hopefully, there were reinforcements due to arrive. Last he had heard from Ingwel, shortly before the attackers had arrived, the marshal was aware of the situation. Problem was, everywhere was suffering from the same problem. Was this one settlement important enough to pull forces from elsewhere?

His eyes lifted. In the night’s darkness, he wasn’t able to see the surrounding hills, and even if he were, the Chaos horde had taken to hiding behind those hills to prevent any gunfire or carronades from cutting them down. The problem would forever be in this situation, that Zak had no way of knowing how strong the horde was. If he were to sally out, would he be outnumbered and outflanked instantly? Or would they actually be evenly matched.

Not for the first time, Zak wished the Legion had more terradons. The flying creatures made scouting convenient, but outside of their native climate, they were slow to reproduce, to the point that every loss was keenly felt. As a consequence, Ingwel used them sparingly and usually in supporting roles rather than actual attackers. Their placement in battalions not personally led by the marshal was on a case by case basis entirely dependant on whether there was already a plan that would require their presence. That battle those months ago at the Edge of the World Mountains—already felt like a lifetime—where they had been used to carry a small force for a surgical strike was typical of Ingwel’s preferred use of the creatures.

With the current situation, they were no doubt being used first and foremost as messengers between the various battalions of the Legion. Sensible, but still made him miss the idea of using them to know what he was facing against.

Ah well, he huffed out a breath through his nostrils, best not to mourn what I don’t have, and instead focus on what I do.

And with that thought, he turned and started to hiss out commands. Had to move the bodies, if not to their cremation site, than at the very least move them out of the way. He also had to reorganise the defence, on the off-chance that any survivors note some weakness that hadn’t yet been noticed by Zak himself. Can’t let the enemy know what was in a given position and not change it up.

As he moved, he took note that a number of his troops had started to sing. It wasn’t the usual marching song that the Legion had taken to using as something of an anthem, but a somewhat mocking song, lyrics openly insulting the Ruinous Powers. Zak took a sip from a water skin, swilling the liquid to help clean the remainder of the Chaos warrior’s blood from his mouth, used that action to hide his amusement at the way that his troops taunted the sieging force their failure. That amusement doubled when a number of the locals, once they’d listened to the song long enough to memorise the lyrics started to join in.

Nothing like insulting the forces of Chaos to keep morale up. Zak shook his head and finally swallowed the water. A part of him said he should probably tell them to stop, but after that attack, he was feeling particularly petty. If everybody wanted to sing insults at Chaos, then he wasn’t about to stop them, even if he wasn’t about to join in either.

He would remember the lyrics though. They seemed worth remembering for future use. Meanwhile, tomorrow would be another day with a new set of challenges. He would be ready.

 

The Other Side - Forest Hell​

Marktag Vorgeheim 21st, Drakwald Forest

Yesterday, our landsknecht reached the outer edge of the Drakwald Forest and set camp for the night. After months of marching, of chasing after the necromancer, this marks the closest we have gotten to finally catching up to this menace. With luck, we will find the necromancer, kill him and leave the forest before the beastmen notice our presence.

For the past two weeks, there have been rumours going around the landsknecht that there are skirmishes starting just north of where we now rest. Supposedly, there is a Chaos warband that has managed to get this far south of the coast. I don’t believe it, but the mere whisper of Chaos is enough to cause all manner of ill feelings. The Great Enemy is not something any who is sane of mind would dare to joke about.

What we know for a fact however is that shortly before we arrived at Middenheim there was a battle involving a free company against some little known of count. Captain von Eisling told us that this free company had also had engagements with the same undead that we are hunting, that they’d tracked the source of a number of the risen to that county. Unfortunately, it appears that the necromancer was not at the count’s keep at the time it was attacked. According to the courtier that the captain spoke to in Middenheim, the keep was levelled.

Survivors of the county of Efror have been flocking to Middenland over the past month. All tell the same story: their homes have burnt at the hands of the undead.

We have been told to keep an eye out, that we have other problems besides the undead. But Brother Kakovlev has told us that our priority remains the walking dead, such is the way of working under a Black Knight of Morr. Let the Middenland state army worry about the other threats that seem to plague them.

I plan to catch an early night. I feel I shall need it, for on the morrow, we shall be entering into one of the most hostile forests in the Empire.

-Journal of an unknown soldier​

-

Three nights. Sergeant Gerwin of the Efror Guard—it mattered little that the county was now gone, that the combination of undead and Chaos had left none remaining of the small county, for those who remained would carry the name and colours in remembrance of their origin—had spent three days and three nights traipsing around the Drakwald Forest. Their captain had decreed that, since Efror’s problems had started with the undead, the undead would be the focus of the Efror’s Guard’s attentions.

When the home of the count of Efror had fallen, the keep taken, and then levelled, Captain Sigismund had been given a name by Count Feyerabend. Unfortunately, the name meant little on its own. It wasn’t a usual name, one would think it so distinctive that it would be easy to track down, but then again, information was hardly an easily accessible resource, especially since there was a very high chance that the Efror Guard would be considered enemies of the Empire with how their count had been beguiled by a sorcerer. If news got out, the best that the guard could hope for amongst the provinces would be open suspicion. Even if news hadn’t gotten out, the guard would be treated with disdain, being the personal militia to the successor of a count who had once upon a time tried to secede from the Empire, only unlike Marienburg, it wasn’t through money but instead force and madness.

Surely the fact that the count had been enthralled by a sorcerer would make one think that the name given for their unknown enemy would be Chaos aligned. But Sigismund had had a valid point that the undead had been coming from Efror. While Gerwin would not put it past a Chaos warlord to make use of necromancy, the general rule was that Chaos disliked the walking dead.

Last they’d heard of the undead, the horde had travelled into the forested hell that was the Drakwald. And as such, it was the guard’s duty to follow them into that misery and try to track them down and destroy them. And possibly beat information regarding the name Pugna Textrix from the necromancer responsible for the walking corpses blighting the land.

The problem was that the Drakwald was a large place to search. It was vast enough that... well, it had once upon a time been a province of its own, even if the territory had since been split between Nordland and Middenland. So, it was large, and it was full of more threats than just the undead they sought. At some point, Gerwin and a small number of guardsmen and archers had separated from the bulk of the guard. As a smaller group, they’d hopefully be able to avoid notice, whilst moving quicker in their search. Meanwhile, the majority of the guard had fortified a space within the forest, turned a glade into a well defended camp with the numbers to deter any testing of that defence.

Considering there hadn’t been any sign that the camp was destroyed while Gerwin’s men and women stalked the forest, maybe it was working. But thus far they hadn’t yet found any trace of the undead they sought.

A shrill whistling had the group pause, shields lifted and blades at the ready, while bows were pointed at the trees around them with arrows nocked.

That was the other problem with this damnable forest. The sounds were unnerving at the best of times, and with their minds already filled with a tense anxiety, any stress caused by the alien noises was ratcheted up to such levels that it felt as though Gerwin’s heart were about to burst from his chest.

Allison, one of the archers, kept her eyes locked on the branches of a particularly twisted and gnarled looking tree. She narrowed her left eye.

Allison—no family name given, and it wasn’t asked for—was previously a widowed farmer from the outskirts of Dryad’s Fell. Her skin was worn and creased with the toils of age and a lifetime of working in the sun, while her raven hair had streaks of grey. Despite looking to be in the midst of her fourth decade, she didn’t move like she was getting on in years, had a strength to her that wasn’t just physical, her eyes dared any to question her abilities. She was one of the conscripts from Dryad’s Fell, hadn’t even entertained the idea of fleeing, and was now probably the best archer they had.

‘There was something up there.’ She gave the report in a bland tone. ‘But it vanished after a moment.’

‘You sure you saw something? Not just your mind playing tricks?’ Burke, another archer, asked the question, and despite the wording sounded earnest rather than sarcastic.

Burke was the ranking archer. A fellow sergeant, and an experienced huntsman. Fair of skin, light of hair, almost had a boyish look to him that made him look barely like a man but a boy instead, up until he opened his mouth and spoke with a deep and gruff voice, a result of an old injury, the scar of which was hidden beneath his collar.

If Allison was the best archer in the guard now, Burke was a close second, but made up for that by being a better tracker. But also knew not to let the knowledge of his skill as a tracker interfere with his ability to work with others. He hadn’t seen whatever Allison thought she had, but he wasn’t dismissing the idea that she had seen it. Clearly knew to keep any ego in check. At least while working—Gerwin counted Burke as a friend, but he wasn’t in the business of lying about his friend’s shortcomings.

Allison shook her head. ‘No, definitely saw something.’

Gerwin lifted his gaze to the tops of the trees, had previously focused exclusively on the ground level as a sword and shield were hardly helpful from elevated threats, that was what the archers were for.

‘What did it look like?’ he quickly asked.

‘Nothing like I’ve ever seen. Don’t think it was a beastman though,’ Allison answered swiftly.

‘Never heard of the beastmen climbing trees,’ Burke said.

‘Anybody here actually have any experience with the breyherds?’ Gerwin retorted, but genuinely curious despite his tone.

Burke tilted his head in silent acknowledgement. None of them were experienced with the vaguely man-shaped monsters. If any of the Efror Guard had been, they’d have been tasked with joining this group.

‘You’d think we’d have noticed or been attacked by something by now,’ Uther—one of the swordsmen—commented. ‘Beast or undead. This quiet is more worrying than any attack.’

Gerwin opened his mouth to say something in response, but movement had him crane his head sharply to one side. At his doing so, all ten archers shifted their bows to point in the direction he had turned to face. If there had been any doubt about Allison’s seeing something, it was gone now, because Gerwin had now experienced the same thing, spotting something alien against the foliage which then vanished even as he watched. He was certain he hadn’t blinked his eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat as though he had.

‘I hate this place,’ he grumbled softly.

Allison snorted softly, twirling the arrow in her hand about her fingers like an entertainer with their baton, her attention now lowered to the ground.

‘I think I see tracks.’

When Burke grunted an affirmation, Gerwin didn’t question despite his not seeing any sign of tracks himself. He wasn’t a hunter, wasn’t a tracker; that was what those two were for. If they both said they saw something, he wasn’t about to question.

A clicking sound echoed through the trees. It was a recurring sound, one that constantly set Gerwin on edge, even as it was explained to him that it was the sound woodpeckers made. It was a perfectly natural a sound to be heard. That didn’t make it any less unsettling. Especially with how random it seemed to come about. With a grunt, Gerwin tightened his grip on his sword and followed close behind the archers.


*


Despite a full day of tracking, they didn’t catch up to anything, living or dead. The latter Gerwin was of mixed opinions regarding, where on the one hand it meant that the undead were still free and unseen, on the other it was a moment of reprieve, of not having to worry about fighting for his life while in a smaller group meant for hunting rather than a straight fight. The former on the other hand was a definite concern.

‘Every story about this cursed hell has the beasts stalking travellers and hunting them like it’s a sport,’ Uther was saying. ‘Yet not a show of hide nor hair.’

Burke nodded lowly. ‘It worries me. I think they might be hunting us while we hunt the walkers.’

Gerwin groaned softly, wiping at his forehead, his helmet and coif removed for the moment while they rested up. His hand came away from his skin slick with an uncomfortable amount of sweat, the padded cap worn beneath the coif long since overburdened and unable to absorb any more moisture. The summer heat seemed to triple within this forest while the humidity only made it worse than it should have been.

‘Is there anything we can do if they are hunting us?’ he finally asked.

Allison and Burke shared looks with each other, and Burke answered after a silent conversation told through eyes alone.

‘We’ve already been doing what we can, but no offence to you or the other swordsmen, you aren’t trained as trackers and there’s only so much we can do to help the fact that the very way you walk is leading any beasts right to us.’

Allison continued with a rueful tone. ‘Best we can hope is that the beasts aren’t as naturally adept at hunting as actual animals.’

Uther raised an eyebrow. ‘If we warriors are a burden, why did you not tell the captain that you wanted us not to be involved?’

Allison was quick to shake her head. ‘Because we aren’t arrogant enough to assume that nothing could go wrong, and better to have capable fighters to help fight back against such an attack.’ She shrugged then motioned to herself. ‘I can’t speak for Burke or the others, but I haven’t the training or talent with a sword to hope of surviving if a threat gets close.’

Burke gave a wry grin and looked pointedly at Uther’s shield. ‘I’m trained with a blade, but I still don’t rate my chances of survival. I can try to fend off a single attacker, but my training and experience has always emphasised the bow, with the expectation that we’ll have front liners with proper armour and a good shield to hide behind.’

Another archer, this one Gerwin didn’t know by name murmured in agreement. ‘We have our role, you have yours.’

Gerwin shrugged, understood their point easily enough. It was the same with most trained militias and armies of the world: everyone had their role and was trained accordingly. Archers in an ideal world would never be close enough to the enemy to need to know to defend themselves, though they were still taught the basics of swordsmanship because realistically, what enemy wouldn’t try to take out the ranged support if they saw the opportunity?

A shrill whistle echoed through the air. Gerwin managed to avoid starting in surprise, though he had yet to become numb to the recurring sound. It wasn’t as frequent as the unsettling clicking of “woodpeckers”, but still common enough that he’d had to force himself not to react each time else his heart would soon give out from the stress.

What was a less frequent sound was the loud boom of black powder igniting. That one had everybody on their feet, weapons readied, the swordsmen circling the archers in a protective barrier with their shields up and swords braced. Ten seconds later, there was another gunshot.

‘If that’s a Drakwald Patrol, I’m going to kill them myself.’ Gerwin snarled the words, his heart beating a war rhythm against his ribs.

‘If it’s a patrol, you’ll have to get in line, they’ll draw any nearby beastmen right to us with that noise.’ Burke was clearly not happy either, and the expression on his face made it clear that he was not joking.

Another minute passed, there were no more gunshots. Gradually, Gerwin’s chest stopped hurting from the force of his heart's pounding. He absently scanned the ground for his dropped headwear, but while he could see his coif, half buried as it was, the cap and his helmet had vanished, no doubt unintentionally kicked aside. With a slight eye roll, he resigned himself to going without head protection, unwilling to put up with his hair getting caught and tangled in the links of his coif.

‘We going to check it out?’ Uther asked with a hushed tone. ‘Might be somebody needs our help.’

Gerwin nodded. ‘Yeah. Shields in front, archers behind us. Move slow and keep your eyes open. We don’t know who was shooting or at what.’

Order given, the group organised itself and started to carefully march in the direction that it sounded as though the gunshots had come from. There was a possibility they were slightly off, that the echo of the gunshot made it difficult to be certain of the exact direction. There was a startling difference to the air following those twin gunshots. Where before there were constant sounds, not just the unsettling whistles and clicks or calls from wild animals, but even those that weren’t so chilling to Gerwin’s mind, small ambient sounds that barely registered, and were only really noticeable now by their absence. Like the rustling of leaves, now gone as though the night breeze was watching with bated breath.

‘Oh...’ the sound was uttered by the swordsman Otwin, for he was the first to round a particularly large tree, even by the standards of the Drakwald, and spotted what lay on its other side. Gerwin hastened his pace to come to his side and fought away the chill that wanted to overcome his blood.

It was a small clearing. Might have even looked like a nice patch of paradise hidden within this forested avernus. Wildflowers grew freely and there was a pond with water that looked rather clear. That illusion was stripped away by the mangled carcass of a creature that Gerwin had never before seen the like of.

The body was twofold larger than a man, and even more broadness than that—in life it had clearly been graced with an impressive physique. Light brown fur coated its body, and its head had a definite likeness to a bull, including a pair of long horns that look sharp enough to impale without any true effort. Nearby the body laid a pair of large axes that were half rusted, the blades chipped and yet would clearly not be any less lethal for all the imperfections that could be seen. Upon the creature's chest was a large bloody hole, while its lower jaw was missing from its person, instead spread about the clearing in small blood-coated shards.

‘Is that a beastman?’ Uther asked quietly.

‘What else could it be?’ Allison answered derisively.

‘A daemon?’ Uther said in turn, though he clearly didn’t believe it even as he uttered the suggestion.

Otwin stepped closer to the body, poking it with the tip of his sword, not showing any particular care that he poked hard enough to stab through the flesh.

‘Well.’ Gerwin hummed out the word. ‘That’s the target, now where is the one who did the shooting?’

Allison started in shock with raised eyes. Her hand pulled back at the string of her bow, an arrow nestled between her fingers and braced against that same string. The arrow was released, shot through the air with a whistle. Gerwin followed the arrow’s path, and his eyes widened in shock as he made out a lithe form leap from the branches of one tree to another, avoiding the arrow. It was moving quickly, which coupled with its colouring matching the tree’s leaves, made it difficult for Gerwin to make out any details, but it looked to be smaller than a human by only a head or two. Before Allison, or any of the other archers could take another shot at it, the creature moved and vanished into the leaves, left no sign of its existence.

‘What was that?’ Burke asked, eyes narrowed and shifting from one treetop to the next in an effort to not be taken by surprise.

‘I don’t know, I didn’t get a good look at it,’ Allison said.

Gerwin shook his head in agreement. ‘Colouring blended too well to get a good look while it was moving.’

‘Was it the shooter?’ Burke asked.

‘Don’t know, didn’t get a good look.’ Gerwin stressed the words to emphasise the point.

‘Do you think it might have been one of those lizards that Sigismund encountered a while back?’ Uther decided to join in asking questions that Gerwin couldn’t answer.

‘I don’t know.’ Now Gerwin was growling the words. ‘I’ve not seen them myself. But my understanding is that they wear red, so I’m going to go out on a limb here and say likely not.’

Finally, the point seemed to get across, and questions that couldn’t be answered stopped being brandied about. Gerwin returned his attention to the carcass, nose wrinkling as the smell finally registered to his senses. He gagged in disgust.

‘Smells like it’s already been dead for a week.’

Allison, finally lowering her bow, stepped close to the body and gave it a look for herself, her expression no doubt mirroring Gerwin’s open revulsion. She used an arrow to prod at the body near the open wound upon its chest. Gerwin gagged as a handful of maggots crawled from the opening.

‘Euch...’ He quickly swallowed down the bile that wanted to rise up. ‘Maybe this wasn’t what was shot at?’

‘Aren’t the beasts Chaos worshippers? Maybe this one just happened to be Nurglish in devotion?’

‘Have the beasts been reported as ever worshipping individual powers?’ Burke asked, looking very green.

There was a near unanimous shrugging in answer to that question. None of them could say they knew enough about the beasts to know for certain whether they were prone to worshipping the Chaos gods independently, or if they were simply aligned to Chaos as a whole. It was simply one of those details that fell into the “don’t need to know, just know that they’re evil blights that need to be wiped from the face of the world” category.

There wasn’t much else to be done. While the clearing might have made a convenient spot to set camp for the night, the carcass ruined any such notion. And with an unknown figure somewhere about, one aware of the clearing, even if the carcass hadn’t fouled it, Gerwin would have made the decision to leave it regardless.

Unfortunately, the knowledge of something out in the wilderness had ratcheted his nerves, shot them skyward. Now he could barely focus on the ground level where he could actually assist in a fight, instead focused constantly upon the tree branches as if expecting to see that figure again.

And then the noises of the wild began again, just after he had finally gotten used to the stagnant silence.

Ulric damn it... I’m going to be dead by stress alone at this rate.


*


Another day and more scouting, more tracking what Burke and Allison both claimed to be humanoid tracks. They were quick to stress that by that they meant tracks with human styled feet, boot clad or no. The beastmen had distinctive tracks, on those rare moments that they were seen. Cloven hooves made for an easy time identifying them by footprint, go figure.

There was a light rain today, which meant that those with expertise in tracking were being quicker, but less methodical about their efforts to try and catch up to the source before the rain washed away all hope of following those tracks. It was... stressful. And while the previous day they had regular short rests as the hunters did their work, now it was a constant motion with no reprieve.

Click. Click. Click.

That clicking sound echoed the forests yet again. But after the previous night, it felt different. It wasn’t anything that Gerwin could explain, but where before he had believed the explanation of woodpeckers, now there was something off, a sense that they weren’t as random as they had been.

A whistle. Allison stopped abruptly, her head tilted. Had she been a cat, Gerwin reckoned that her eyes would have perked up.

‘That was a different sound from normal.’ She reported after a few seconds of hesitation, wherein everybody else stared at her expectantly.

‘Are you certain?’ Burke asked, brow creased.

Allison nodded. ‘Before, it was a long continuous sound. That one was two whistles, there was a slight pause about halfway through. And it was a different... voice?’

‘Pitch?’ Uther offered.

Allison tilted her head, one eyebrow raised. ‘What’s “pitch”?’

It seemed to be a question on most of the group’s tongues, Gerwin noted. Uther seemed to realise that, and rather than explain in words that might not be understood, he instead gave a low whistle, paused, then a second whistle at a higher pitch. Allison seemed to recognise what he meant by his example and gave a single nod.

‘Different pitch from all the others we’ve been hearing.’ She nodded in conclusion.

‘Is that important?’ Otwin asked.

It was Burke who explained. ‘Means either the reason for the whistle is different, or the whistle was from something different.’ He paused a moment, eyes narrowed in thought. ‘If it were a human whistling, it could be the difference between wordless signals of “all clear” versus a signal of “intruder spotted”.

Nice of him to explain in such a way, Gerwin thought to himself. While he’d worked that out himself without the comparison, Otwin only nodded his understanding after it had been broken down for why it was important in that manner.

And then the reality of that explanation settled itself into a weight in Gerwin’s gut. There had never been a reasonable explanation for what was giving the whistling sound this entire time. The clicking was explained as woodpeckers, which even with the strange sense of it being different now, was still a rational explanation. But the whistle had been an unknown, something they couldn’t work out possible reasons for being, and was now being directly compared to wordless communications.

For all that Gerwin knew, that was how beastmen communicated with each other.

It seemed that everybody else had tensed, had been stricken by the same idea and were now watching the surroundings with an almost paranoid thoroughness.

Burke drew his bow, string pulled taught and aimed upward. He didn’t loose the arrow however, and when Gerwin followed his gaze there was nothing to be seen. But, after that last night, that wasn’t as reassuring as it once was.

The wind rustled the leaves, the light drizzling—probably actually a heavy rainfall that was only barely able to bypass the thick forest canopy—pattered down, light enough so as to not feel oppressive, but fine enough that it was soaking them through regardless. Still Burke kept his bow drawn, even as his arm visibly began to shake from the strain of keeping it taut. Allison’s face contorted into confused concern.

And then Gerwin spotted it. A small space on one branch where the light rain was hitting... nothing. Droplets of water seemed to just float in the air, sliding down against a surface that wasn’t there. Then, now that he had an idea of where to pay attention, other details started to emerge. Like how the green of the leaves just below the space of nothing that the rain patted on was the wrong shade, and too uniform... it was cloth.

‘Burke,’ Gerwin murmured the words as quietly as he could while still hopefully being just loud enough for the archer to hear. ‘To your right, three paces.’

Burke didn’t outwardly react. For a moment Gerwin thought that he hadn’t heard him, but then Burke slowly rolled his eyes sideward, followed the direction given and side-eyed the space that Gerwin had directed him. The moment he recognised what Gerwin had seen was obvious, there was a squaring of the shoulders, the slightest of twitches in his foot and his mouth tugged down in a grimace.

Then he twisted around and released his grip on the arrow, which soared through the air. The target however, moved, lunged to one side and where there had previously been an empty void that rain still touched as though there were something solid, now there was actually something to be seen. An alien looking face with large bulging eyes and flesh the shade of peaches. The creature hissed, clearly startled at the near miss, and moved, springing itself forward, darted along the tree’s thick branch, barely escaped getting hit by another barrage of arrows. It then stopped, twisted around and lifted from behind it a...

‘Handgun!’ Gerwin called out in warning, lunging toward Burke with his shield raised.

The bullet shattered the shield, sent a storm of splinters raining upon Gerwin and Burke, but thankfully neither Gerwin nor Burke was hit by the bullet. The force still had Gerwin reel back and fall to the ground, arm arching. With a curse, he hurriedly un-strapped the ruined shield from his arm and discarded it.

The creature continued moving. Now that it had fired off its handgun, it had no way of attacking without staying still long enough to be an easy target for the archers. It didn’t take long for it to vanish, circled a tree, and when the archers circled that same tree found no sign of it.

‘Ok... it didn’t look like the others Sigismund described, but that was a lizard.’ Gerwin grunted with all the irritability he could muster.

‘Has it been watching us all this time, do you think?’ Allison asked, with a small amount of concern.

‘Possibly.’ The answer was blunt, and honest. They’d been seeing movement in the trees since they’d entered the Drakwald, it wasn’t unlikely that they’d been spied upon this whole time. Gerwin wasn’t about to lie to himself.

‘Shit. Why haven’t they attacked us before now?’ Uther wondered aloud.

It took a moment but Burke, rubbing at his arm, which was very clearly still shaking from fatigue, answered. ‘It defended itself. That was the first time it was actually spotted and caught off-guard. Probably won’t get caught like that again.’ He paused for a heartbeat and then nodded his head at Gerwin with a look of respect. ‘Good spot, sir.’

‘I got lucky.’ Gerwin admitted it easily enough, it was the truth. If it hadn’t been drizzling with rain, he would never have spotted it even if he’d known to look. ‘What tipped you off?’

‘It must have been its clothes rubbing against the bark of the tree. I thought I heard a tearing of cloth, but... I don’t know.’ Burke shrugged. ‘After the talk about the whistle, I was already tensed, just... stopped and didn’t want to take “my imagination running amok” as the answer.’

Gerwin huffed out a single laugh. ‘Yeah, well, good instinct either way.’

Uther opened his mouth, lips twisted upward, but anything he might have had to say was interrupted. The low blaring of a horn had the entire group straighten with blood chilled. The sound was different from those of hunting horns used within certain circles of the Empire, more ominous, more akin to a promise of pain.

‘I think the natives just heard us.’ It was spoken with an ironic tone, Gerwin trying his best not to let just how scared he was come to the fore. ‘Form up!’

It wasn’t until the swordsmen had all formed on either side of Gerwin that it dawned that his shield was gone, destroyed and unsalvageable. He wouldn’t even trust the remains as an improvised buckler. With a soft curse, he adjusted his stance. Unlike Sigismund’s new sword, Gerwin’s blade, being the same design of arming sword as the rest of the Efror Guard, hadn’t the size of hilt for him to adopt a proper two-handed grip. It left him taking up a stance he wasn’t nearly so comfortable with, made him feel like he was trying to fence with the wrong type of blade.

From around the nearby trees, the beastmen came. They were smaller than the body they’d found in the clearing the previous night, closer to a human in height, though still broader and with more bulk to their frames. Each of them hefted large two-handed axes that looked to be in about the same condition as those of the clearing’s carcass, chipped and rusted but no less dangerous to get hit by. There was only one that didn’t seem to carry such an axe, instead favouring a spiked maul in one hand while the other lifted up a standard. Gerwin felt sicked when he realised that the standard wasn’t made from any form of fabric, but instead flayed flesh, likely human. The skulls that hung from the top of the standard were likewise not recreations made in that image, but actual human skulls, one of which still had flecks of flesh still clinging to the bone.

There were twenty of them. And the moment the first laid eyes upon the humans, it let out a loud guttural call, and as one, they charged.

The archers were quick to loose arrows at the charging beasts. But this wasn’t a fight on an open plain, they were all within a thick forest, and the beasts had appeared uncomfortably close. Not as many were shot down as would have been ideal. Had this been an open plain, the swordsmen wouldn’t have really been needed, not for twenty of these beasts. As it stood, only six were felled before they were upon the line of swordsmen. They were outnumbered, and as always seemed to be the way when it came to fighting the enemies of man, they were physically weaker.

But as also was typically the case when it came to man’s enemies, the fighting men of the Empire had better training, had more skill than the barbarous hordes. Gerwin lunged, thrust his sword into the gut of one of the beasts as it came within reach and let the beast’s own momentum carry it along the length of his sword. Used his empty hand to shove the filthy creature from his blade, and then swung the newly freed weapon into the forearm of another beast. Without his shield, he was forced to be more aggressive than he preferred, there was no hunkering behind a protective shell. Had to make sure that any who neared him felt the sting of his strike.

Didn’t have to aim for lethal strikes in fact—that was impractical at that moment. But a strike at a wrist left the victim vulnerable to a follow-up, or a slice at the back of a leg, maybe even the ankle, left the target floored and in pain.

Had to be decisive, had to strike fast and with great effect. The moment he was seen as the weak link in the formation, he would be focused down, and Gerwin had no delusion about how talented he was with no shield in hand. He was almost tempted to call out for a second blade, but having never even contemplated such a style in the past he put that idea to rest swiftly. Nothing was more dangerous in a fight than trying to practice a style with no experience or training behind it.

Ran the blade through another beast then hurriedly lifted the sword to parry a maul aimed for his shoulder. Saved his shoulder, blade was wrenched from his grip though. The beastman responsible, the one carrying that disgusting standard, was undeterred from its failure and lunged forward, bowing its head. Gerwin hurriedly brought his hands up, caught the beast by its horns, and staggered backward as he hadn’t the strength to hold the beast at bay, had to back-pedal frantically lest he be overpowered and gored by those same horns he now gripped.

The beast snorted, its dark eyes glowing with a bitter hatred to all things civilised, to all things good. It shook its head, freed itself from Gerwin’s grasp, and then lifted its maul, eager to strike him down while he was unarmed. It made a bestial sound, its filthy, dark tongue uttering words that left him sickened. And then an arrow lodged itself into its flesh, deep into the neck, then another, this one just missing one of its eyes. The beast staggered then fell.

Panting, Gerwin looked about and then released a sigh of relief as he saw the last of the beasts fall to the ground, stabbed repeatedly by the swordsmen even as it gargled its death-rattle.

‘Let’s not do that again.’ He uttered the words, tired despite how swiftly the fight had ended once it had begun. He turned, waved a hand toward the archers. ‘Thank you, whoever it was that saved me.’

Allison raised a hand in silent acknowledgement then quickly lowered it so that her fingers hovered near her quiver, as if ready to pull another arrow free in a moment’s notice. Her eyes wide with the adrenaline of one’s first fight and victory over an enemy force.

A quick survey showed that everybody had come out of the skirmish unscathed, though Uther’s tabard was sporting a long tear across his left shoulder, but the chainmail beneath was undamaged to Gerwin’s eye. Otwin, his sword now sheathed, was rotating his hand in a circle with a grimace to his face. But nobody else showed any sign of injury.

‘Was that it?’ Burke asked after a pause.

‘Please don’t say that.’ Uther groaned.

‘I’m being serious. Every tale I’ve ever heard of the beastmen of Drakwald, they have numbers on their side. Not as bad as the vermin, but still.’

Allison snorted. ‘We were outnumbered.’

‘We’re in their territory, they blew a horn, yet all we see is twenty of these mutants?’ Burke rebutted.

Gerwin let out a deep breath. ‘He’s right. The Drakwald Patrols travel as full detachments at all times, and they constantly talk about being outnumbered. If they are regularly outnumbered, what exactly was this?’

He hated saying it, the moment the last syllable left his lips, he could feel morale plummet. But it also raised the question of where the rest of the beasts were. Why was this group all that immerged?


*


The rain got heavier over the next two days, soaking into Gerwin’s tabard, which in turn tried to become a solid mass determined to stick to his body in the most awkward manner rather than the usual flowing fabric it was supposed to be. It was a curse that afflicted the other swordsmen. The archers on the other hand, their cloaks seemed to be doing a sufficient job in keeping them shielded from the worst of the downpour, hoods pulled up. The only disgruntlement that they seemed to have with the weather was annoyance at the rain washing away the tracks.

It might not have been quite so bad, Gerwin sighed, if it wasn’t for the fact that the heat was still oppressively domineering. One would have hoped the rain would be cooling them down, a nice reprieve from the oppression of summer. Instead, it seemed that the rain was colluding with the summer heat with shared the goal of making those walking the planet as miserable as possible.

I hear Kislev is nice this time of year: a nice brisk chilliness and no blistering heat. Gerwin’s lips rose as he allowed himself a moment to daydream of a Kislev summer.

And that daydream was interrupted by that infernal whistling, so loud that he honestly had to look to his sides to make certain that the source of it wasn’t directing that sound directly into his ear. Alas, that wasn’t the case.

‘It’s changed pitch again,’ Burke said after a moment of consideration.

‘No pause either.’ Allison nodded in agreement.

Gerwin rubbed at his ears, fought against the ringing that the shrill sound had afflicted upon him. ‘Was it closer to us?’ he asked.

Burke shook his head. ‘No.’

‘And you know that for a fact?’ Uther groaned.

Burke opened his mouth, but a new sound filled the air. This one wasn’t a clicking, wasn’t a whistle, or a gunshot, or any of the other sounds they’d been hearing non-stop since they’d set foot in this hell. The only likeness that Gerwin could compare it to was of a man screaming in fear, but it was no man that had made that sound.

Gerwin waited a moment, inhaled deeply and then slowly released his breath. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Towards the screams of the damned?’ Otwin asked with an incredulous expression.

‘Where else?’ Gerwin gave a very shaky smile. ‘Isn’t this why you enlisted in the guard?’

‘I was conscripted,’ Otwin complained, though he gave just enough of a huff to his tone that he made it clear that for his complaints, they weren’t to be taken seriously. Notably, he still advanced with the other swordsmen, shield raised.

‘Yeah, seven years ago, same day I was.’ Uther managed to convey a rolling of the eyes with his tone alone. ‘You could have retired two years ago, but like me, you chose to stay. You don’t get to complain now.’

‘Yes I do,’ Otwin argued with a grin. ‘I chose to stay because all we had to do was fight bandits and greenskins. Undead and beastmen were never in the agreement. I want to renegotiate the terms of my service.’

Letting out a small laugh, Gerwin cast Otwin a look. ‘I shall take your opinions into consideration... and ignore them entirely. Do your job and do it with a smile.’

Otwin gave Gerwin a wide and very blatantly exaggeratedly false smile. ‘I shall make the happiest looking corpse to ever be mutilated by beastmen.’

‘Your job isn’t to die for Efror or the Empire or anything else for that matter.’ Gerwin snorted in amusement. ‘Your job is to make the other side die for Efror or the Empire or Ulric.’

Uther clicked his tongue. ‘That’s what I’ve been doing wrong this whole time.’

Gerwin continued to silently laugh, but his mirth vanished quickly as they entered a new clearing. All good feelings he had had but moments prior was transfigured and twisted into the polar opposite, a weight made of the densest of lead settled into his gut.

This wasn't like the clearing they had found the large corpse days ago. This clearing was far larger, and there was nothing picturesque about this one—not unless the picture in question was a macabre work meant to invoke feelings of dread and disgust. Blood was everywhere, pooled into shallow lakes of crimson, with thick clumps of removed muscle or mulched organs forming a twisted parody of algae. Meanwhile, bodies littered the clearing, the source of all that blood. Not a single one of those corpses hadn't been horrifically mutilated in some way.

They weren’t just in the clearing either, even a quick look around revealed that the bodies trailed into the tree line at the opposite side from where Gerwin and his group had entered. Some of those bodies were outright pinned to the trees, impaled upon branches, while others just littered the ground until they disappeared, hidden by the forest.

About the only plus that Gerwin could pull from the scene was the fact that every one of those bodies was a beastman. There were no human corpses that he could see. But then again, with how mutilated some of them were, there could have been humans that were simply no longer recognisable as such.

Also, interesting to note for Gerwin, was the lack of any insects or even the scent of rot. These bodies were not long dead.

‘Oh... fuck.’

Gerwin started in surprise at the expletive escaping Burke’s lips. He turned, saw that Burke had paled as he stared in a particular direction, and against his desires, he followed the huntsman’s gaze. He quickly found himself agreeing with the sentiment, as did everybody else if the muttered curses and oaths to Ulric were any indication.

‘Please, tell me... tell me that isn’t what I think it is.’ Gerwin wasn’t ashamed to be begging.

‘That’s a herdstone.’ Burke tore away what little hope Gerwin had able to retain.

It was a large, nay, a massive standing stone, its surface smooth, worn away by the elements over a great span of time. That in and of itself meant little, it could have just been a natural rock formation, a fluke of nature. What gave away that this rock was something more, something other, was the way that the beastmen had clearly made it a focal point. Offerings had been left, surrounding the rock. Offerings such as the decapitated heads of loyal Empire citizens and soldiers mounted on spikes, the expressions of those heads still recent enough to have their flesh forever twisted into terror and agony. Alongside that more morbid choice of offering, there were also many banners and standards stolen from regiments felled by the beasts, pieces of armour stolen from the beasts’ victims, most still coated in the blood of their former owners, more than a few weapons lay scattered about the ground, time and lack of care from the beastmen having long since rusted them beyond the point of uselessness.

This was a sight few humans were privy to witness. It was a sight even fewer humans wanted to witness.

The sergeant nodded, once, twice. ‘Well,’ he said with feigned cheer. ‘Let’s leave before whatever massacred a breyherd at their stone... comes back looking for more.’ Or more of the herd comes and thinks that we are the ones responsible. Gerwin couldn’t quite work out in his mind which of those two fates would be the lesser evil.

They slowly backed up, eyes wide, constantly scanning for any indication that whatever was responsible for the butchery which had occurred. While the victims were the beastmen, there was nothing to suggest that the one responsible would be discriminating. And with the way the bodies were carved and torn apart, there was an innate sense that the responsible party was not of the Empire—maybe ogres that had been hired as mercenaries, but for all that the bodies were ripped apart, there was nothing to indicate that the meat was being devoured. Better to not test their odds of being spared, better to be away from even the remotest chance of being slaughtered like the beastmen had been.

There was another sound in the air. Multiple sounds. Clicking, a whistle, another scream.

Gerwin ground his teeth, head turned in the direction of that last sound. Inhaled, mustered his thoughts and gathered them together.

Click. Click. Click.

There was something noticeably different about that last set of clicks. Allison and Burke visibly started.

‘That was close to us,’ Allison explained, her teeth bared.

Burke nodded his agreement with her statement but turned his head in the direction of the screaming sound. ‘But in the opposite direction of...’ he trailed off.

Gerwin hummed in acknowledgement, turned his head back toward the clearing that they had left behind. He lightly nibbled at his lower lip while his brow furrowed in thought.

‘Burke, take everybody and check the scream’s source. Allison, you and me will go look into the clicking.’

There were some quiet complaints about the idea of him and Allison separating from everybody else, but Gerwin quickly put an end to any such dissent.

‘I need Allison to guide me, and with just the two of us, we’re better able to investigate without being noticed. If there even is anything to notice us. We’ll catch up.’

A few more token complaints at the idea, but Burke quickly led most of the group in one direction, while Allison and Gerwin left in the other.


*


For as close as the clicking had apparently been, it was clear that the source had moved. But the tracks that Allison found were fresh. They had to be, they hadn’t vanished beneath, been washed away by the downpour of rain. As they moved, new sounds made themselves heard. Gerwin almost regretted his decision to go with just Allison, his anxiety was rising, heart in his throat, almost sick form anticipation and dread.

It still took the pair an hour before Allison stilled abruptly, eyes wide then narrowed. She crouched low, motioned to a dense patch of vegetation. The silent message was clear, and even with Gerwin’s lack of expertise in tracking he could hear something nearby, something that they might be able to see.

Both crouched low and moved slowly through the overgrown greenery. On the other side, it wasn’t yet another clearing, but they found the source of the latest batch of sounds.

There were two of those lizards. Like the one they’d seen days prior, both were dressed in green rather than the red of those that Sigismund had described. One had flesh that was a sandy tan, the other a vibrant almost lime green. Their heads were shaped strangely, and the eyes were so alien as to be unsettling, the way they almost bulged out from their skulls and both eyes moved independently of each other and a way that sickened Gerwin.

One was gesturing at the other, but both creatures stilled as a faint whistle was heard. The way they froze was actually a relief to Gerwin, it suggested that he wasn’t the only one unsettled by the sounds of the forest. After five seconds, the pair of lizards continued where they left off.

‘Do we know what did it?’ The tan one asked.

The green one shrugged one shoulder and rested a repeater-handgun on the opposite. ‘Not a clue. Definitely weren’t the humans though.’

‘Which ones?’ Tan asked with what sounded like a wry tone.

‘Either of them.’ Lime tilted its head and snorted with naked amusement when Tan said something that Gerwin couldn’t make out. ‘A bunch of angry men in kilts. Not seen their like running around before.’

Both of Tan’s eyes momentarily rested upon Lime with what Gerwin could only assume to be a stern glare, which lasted for five seconds before the left eye resumed rotating around, rarely resting on any one direction for more than a second.

‘A third party. Maybe the Middenheim court hired another free company.’ Tan shrugged, and then adjusted the handgun rested in its arms.

Lime’s humour appeared to fade and it rubbed at the underside of its jaw with its knuckles. ‘Do we know where the thralls are?’

Tan nodded once and opened its mouth, but then paused when a singular click made itself known. After a solid four seconds of remaining still, the creature shook its head and continued. ‘That group has started to move south. We’ve seen enough, I’m pulling us back.’

Lime looked concerned for a moment, it was the slump of the shoulders, the tilt of the head that allowed Gerwin to work that out, had to pay attention not to the facial expressions, which hadn’t seemed to change at all the entire time, but instead to their body language.

‘How bad is it?’

Tan paused for a moment then nodded. ‘If they attack now… The Legion is outnumbered. If we weren’t worrying about the Warhost…’ Tan shook its head. ‘We can’t afford a war on two fronts. We need them to stay here, but…’ It trailed off.

There must have been some unspoken signal, or they heard something that Gerwin couldn’t. As one, both lizards turned and very pointedly looked at the foliage where Gerwin and Allison had been hidden. Allison cursed softly and pulled back on her bowstring, but Gerwin quickly pushed her bow downward, away from the lizards. She opened her mouth, prepared to say something, no doubt asking what was going through his mind, but then any complaint that she might have had was silenced.

Click. Click. Click.

These clicks were recognisable to Gerwin. The click of a handgun’s hammer being pulled down, except it didn’t stop at just the three. Gerwin looked up at the trees, heart beating a melody against his ribs as he tried to count the number of lizardmen rested upon the branches, all aiming their handguns directly at him and Allison. He stopped counting midway through twenty. Allison quickly registered the threat and stopped resisting Gerwin’s effort to force her bow into a position of non-threat.

Tan crossed his arms. ‘So, you can be sensible. Stand up and get out of there.’

Gerwin stood, stepped from the foliage despite all instincts telling him to flee. It wouldn’t make a difference if he did, he already had at least twenty-four handguns pointed at him, and a bullet to the back wasn’t on his list of ideal ways to perish. Allison, very obviously doing so grudgingly, followed his example.

Tan examined the pair, both eyes staring at them, left eye to Gerwin, right eye to Allison.

Tan spoke after a long pause. ‘The rest of your group is moving into a dangerous situation. You’re going to want to run.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Allison asked, her teeth grinding together in some mix of rage of disgust.

‘Not at all, lass,’ Lime answered. ‘We’re warning ye that yer group is about to stumble across what ye’re lookin’ for.’

Tan quickly added on. ‘The breyherd are out for blood. Either your group walks into the undead, or they get attacked by angry beastmen.’

Gerwin looked at Tan, met his eye as best he could. ‘Have the undead been killing a lot of beastmen?’

‘Noticed the absence, have you?’ Tan asked in an ironic tone. ‘Yes. You’ve been getting lucky, but I regret to say that the luck is running out. When you catch up to your group, run east. That’s your best chance of surviving.’

Gerwin wanted to say more, ask something, but both lizards turned away from him, their flesh shifting colours. Despite the fact their clothing didn’t change, or the handguns they carried, it only took them three steps before they simply vanished, as if the clothing not changing was no issue at all. A glance upward revealed that the branches which had previously been covered with the lizardmen gunners were now barren. Maybe they were still there, aiming their handguns, but Gerwin doubted it. The downpour wasn’t revealing any blank spaces where the rain refused to pass.

They had gone. And strangely, there was an unsettling feeling that was different from any previous he’d been suffering. Like a weight was lifted from him, but instead of being a comfort, it was like a security blanket had been yanked away from him. He had become used to the weight, to the point it was almost a comfort, because of that familiarity. The lack was unfamiliar, and now he felt naked without it.

Allison let out a harsh breath, and then hunched over, breathing heavily. It dawned on Gerwin as he looked at her that her ground teeth during the exchange hadn’t been true anger or distaste at the non-humans that had caught them unaware, it had been her emotional shield, her way of keeping calm in the face of what could have very well been her demise. Now, with the threat passed, she was letting herself feel the anxiety and fear after the fact and processing it.

A small part of Gerwin wondered whether he should pat her back in silent consul, a gesture of reassurance. Had it been one of his fellow guardsmen, the ones he had trained with and served beside for over a decade, he would have done so. But Allison was a recent addition, hadn’t the same experience as them, hadn’t the chance to learn the habits and gestures that meant more than spoken words. It was possible she would take it the wrong way, as something condescending.

The choice was taken from him. She straightened her posture, breathed in deeply. Once her breath was allowed to leave her lungs again, she once again was the model of the calm and collected archer that had been with them from the moment that Gerwin’s group had broken off from the rest of the guard for this search.

‘Do you believe them?’ Allison asked, jerking her head toward where the two lizards had been standing moments ago.

‘Captain Sigismund said that the ones who attacked the keep were perfectly fine letting him be after they found the sorcerer who had been manipulating the count. They don’t seem to be our enemies.’

He hesitated a moment as a new thought came to him. A moment of suspicion flashed across his nerves, and unbidden his eyes turned in the direction that the lizards had moved to disappear, eyebrows raised in consternation, despite his previous words. Still, his suspicions had no evidence to support them, so he simply clamped down on his thought process and shuffled them aside to worry about at a later time.

Allison hummed, craned her neck to look in a direction that vaguely represented where the rest of their group had gone. ‘If they were telling the truth, we should move.’

Gerwin nodded, motioning for her to lead the way.


*


Burke had a bad feeling. He had found fresh tracks. Human, or humanoid. A lot of them. And mixed in with those tracks were the cloven prints of the beastmen. Prisoners? Collaborators? One group tracking another?

It was a very bad feeling that plagued him. The kind of feeling that one could almost attribute to having somebody walking over their grave, an idiom that had fallen out of favour in the Empire after the Vampire Wars. Nobody liked saying anything that could be construed as being a vampire, certain witch-hunters had needed less provocation than that in the past. But it was still the closest that Burke could get to describing the chill that rubbed against his spine with all the subtlety of a chisel and hammer.

Against his better judgement, Burke didn’t have the group now temporarily under his command pause, but instead had them continue.

And yet, every step they made, every footfall that Burke advanced by, that chill in his spine grew, turned colder and colder, chisel and hammer replaced for a pike and warhammer.

The whistling and the clicking had stopped. In fact, other than the sounds made by the archers and the guardsmen as they walked, there was no sound. No ambient noise, no wildlife, even the rain’s constant pattering, while still there, still existent, and still dimly registered on a subconscious level, it was now somehow silent.

‘Anybody else feel like they’re staring down a greater daemon?’ Uther finally broke the silence, his voice hushed, barely above a whisper.

Burke swallowed down his heart, which had jumped into his throat at the sudden sound, even if that sound had just been words from a friend. Then the words themselves registered and Burke nodded, then, realising that nobody was actually looking at him, spoke up.

‘Less like a daemon, more like I’m walking straight into Morr’s embrace.’

There was an ever so slight huffing sound from Otwin, a snort of amusement blown through his nostrils, but cut abruptly short as if he realised that letting out any sound was ill advised.

A raven cawed, and the sound had everybody start in shock. Burke pressed a hand to his chest, as though it would calm his heart from its rapid-fire beating. Once his heart slowed, he directed a glare up at the top of the trees, focused upon the raven preening itself. The wretched bird didn’t look repentant in the slightest. It paused in its preening to stare down at Burke, as if aware of his irritation. Its eye seemed to convey a sense of amusement, and it let out another caw before returning to preening the underside of its wing.

‘I ought to shoot that thing,’ one of the other bowmen hissed.

‘Don’t,’ Burke said reluctantly. ‘Bad luck to kill ravens.’

There was grudging understanding. It might only be superstition, but Burke wasn’t willing to chance upsetting any entities that could take umbrage with the death of any ravens. He could think of at least a couple, and that was before remembering that the Northmen had associated ravens with one of the Ruinous Powers.

The Raven let out one last caw then took flight. Burke scowled, saw that it was flying in the direction that they themselves were headed. On the one hand, that could be a message from Morr, a confirmation that they were nearing the undead. On the other, it could just be a wild bird choosing to fly in the same direction that he was leading the group.

As a matter of fact, it turned out to be the former. Morr was apparently watching them.

Burke swallowed down a thick wad of bile that threatened to make its way up his gullet. There were undead, moving slowly in a set direction. Lots of undead, more than he could count, not just because they were moving through a dense forest, blocking large numbers at any given moment. There were no real formations, likely because of the terrain. It was difficult to count, he could never tell which he had already counted and which he was counting for the first time, while many of them seemed to blend together, making him prone to missing them.

Instead of numbers, Burke chose to focus on what he was seeing.

He had expected the zombies and the skeletons. His limited understanding from Gerwin’s explanations—he had never envied the sergeant’s time fighting in that particular campaign—was that skeletons and zombies seemed to be the easiest thing for a necromancer to raise up, could just take any old corpse and make it useful, even if only as chaff to add numbers. He also recognised the ones that Gerwin had said were likely graveguard, or at the very least an analogue of them; they were recognisable by the black and purple uniforms that were similar yet different from that of the Efror Guard.

It was the other things that had him pause, fighting a different kind of fear that threatened to envelop him.

Figures clad in dark armour with cloaks that looked black as night and hoods drawn moved among the undead. Even compared to the uncanny visage of the grave guard, these were unsettling to look upon. The grave guard had an unnatural air to them, but it was easy to point at why they were wrong to the senses, it was the fluidity and natural grace that came of a living entity being shown from armoured skeletons, a combination that chafed at the mind at how wrong the image was. Meanwhile, these hooded figures moved with a grace beyond even that, like they were not bound by the limitations of a physical form, despite very clearly being physical entities that pushed aside vines and low hanging branches that got in their path.

One of the hooded figures stopped and the head twisted around, and for a moment, Burke was able to see the inside of the hood. There was nothing within but a pair of glowing orbs that burned with an unnatural blue light.

Another figure, dressed in similar armour, though more elaborate in design, approached the stationary wraith. This one also had a drawn hood, but unlike the others this one didn’t have the unnatural grace, and a fleshed jaw could be seen for but a moment. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. This one was clearly not like the others and might even be an actual human.

Maybe he was even the necromancer himself?

Any thought Burke had of trying to take a shot at the human among the undead was delayed though, for there was more to this mass of marching death. More wraiths, some riding skeletal steeds, some ghoulish looking creatures.

And large hulking abominations; beastmen, but bigger even than the one that the group had found in that one clearing. And very clearly as undead as much of this fly covered and decomposing yet still walking army of the dead. Large, no, huge four-armed corpses, the heads of which were those of oxen, and they towered over all else within that mass.

Not that those were the only beastmen bodies that walked among the mass. There were many that matched the one found in the clearing, just as broad, just as dangerous looking. All with graced with clear signs of how they died. They were staggering along with the same jerking motions of the rest of the undead horde, but most unsettling of all was how their movements were so perfectly synced with each other, every footstep in time with those to their side, every rise of the knee in unison with each other, right down to how high they lifted their legs.

‘I think we found where all the beastmen have gone,’ Uther said. His tone was hushed, yet that did little to hide the combination of nervousness, fear and agitation.

Burke let out a breath. His eyes were starting to ache from how wide they were, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not narrow his lids, not so long as he stared at this swarm of undeath. It suddenly made sense why they had retreated into the Drakwald, had seemingly halted their raids on isolated villages.

‘We need to go,’ he finally uttered, though it felt more like a gulp than actual speech.

Even before those words had lift his lips, they had been slowly backing up. The four words spoken aloud were simply permission to actually turn around and flee. Burke twisted around, legs tensing in preparation for the swift retreat to come.

The air echoed from the blaring of a horn. Burke swore softly, craned his head to watch as a small group of beastmen appeared, bleating out their cries of war and charging into the mass of undeath. These ones yet lived, were as full of life and vigour as Burke himself, but that wouldn’t be the norm for much longer. Even at a glance, Burke knew that the beastmen stood no chance, too few numbers against a foe that would just replace losses with the ones responsible for said losses.

Unfortunately, the beastmen had emerged near enough to where Burke and the others were, that he knew—the moment the undead beastly giant turned its head, Burke knew—that the undead swarm had also noticed the humans in their midst.

‘Run!’

The group had been tasked with finding the undead and reporting their existence to the rest of the Efror Guard so that plans of attack could be made. Nowhere had Burke been tasked with fighting the entirety of the undead army with only a handful of warriors and half that in archers or huntsmen.

He hoped Gerwin was having a better time of it, following after a mysterious clicking that could very well just be a woodpecker hitting a rotten tree or something equally benign. No, Burke quickly corrected his thoughts, that wasn’t likely, and with the way that their luck was going, almost an impossibility.

A second horn blurted out, almost directly in their path. As if summoned by that sound, a beastman rounded the tree and almost ran right into Otwin, would have run him down if the swordsman hadn’t reacted instantly, slammed his shield into the beast’s maw and then followed up with goring the mutant through the gut with his sword. The beast croaked pitifully and fell to the ground. Unfortunately, it was but the first, more emerged, appearing from the surrounding vegetation, snarling and shaking weapons and fists in clear fury.

The rock that slammed down from above, crushing one beastman and then bouncing forward and crashing into another, was regrettably not a divine favour from Ulric. A glance behind showed that one of the largest of the undead beastmen was already in the process of lifting up another rock, its glassy milked over gaze still able to focus on the humans and yet living beastmen with an intensity that pressed down on Burke’s shoulders with solid leaden weights.

Fortunately, the attack by the oversized undead mutant attracted the ire of the living beastmen, who momentarily forgot about the humans and charged toward the swarm of undead. Burke wasn’t about to question his blessings. He simply reiterated that everybody run. If his tone was slightly higher pitched than normal, well that was normal when faced with certain death.

Another horn blared out, but Burke wasn’t holding much hope that the beastmen would be more than a minor inconvenience. A small part of his mind actually wished that the mutants would stop trying to attack the undead swarm, or as much as he relished in the notion of his enemies fighting his other enemies and weakening both from the clash, that didn’t exactly work when the clear inevitable victor was able to use the bodies of the fallen to build up a stronger force.

A hurried look back showed that there were undead actively pursuing. Leading the charge were zombified beasts that had the legs and bodies of horses, while a more humanoid torso arose from where the horse’s neck would begin. Undead or not, these parodies of horses still moved with a galloping speed that would have already caught up to the humans were it not for the thick forest preventing them from building up to a straight dash.

But their handicap wasn’t enough to stop them from slowly gaining. And Burke honestly believed himself about to die as one of the mutant zombies managed to get close enough that the human torso started to ready the spear in its hand. Burke silently whispered a prayer to Ulric, was prepared for that inevitable moment he was run through...

The zombie fell, an arrow now lodged firmly into one leg, the force of the projectile enough to trip up the undead abomination, even if it were incapable of feeling the pain of the strike.

Gerwin appeared, waving an arm in a wordless order to rally on him, then a wave that directed them to run in a particular direction. At his side, Allison was already letting loose another arrow, was using her momentary distance to let loose a number of arrows, each aimed not for what would be fatal strikes on a living target, but instead for what was certain to inconvenience and trip up those chasing them. It was a short-lived opportunity, and Allison was soon running alongside everybody else.

‘This way,’ Gerwin was urging everybody.

Burke hadn’t time to wonder if there was a reason that the sergeant had chosen that direction specifically, or if Gerwin had picked at random, but he seemed to be committed to having them flee in that particular direction, and in all honestly, Burke wasn’t overly fussed, so long as they were moving away from the chasing swarm of undead.

It wasn’t long before the undead beasts started to catch up to them again. A process that came even sooner than it otherwise would have due to the stream that obstructed their path. Gerwin’s commitment to his chosen direction meant that he started to ford the water without any hesitation. With the choice being ford the stream or start running parallel to it, Burke and the others quickly followed Gerwin’s example. But it was still enough to slow them down, and on the other side of the stream, they’d barely make any real distance before the undead beasts caught up to them.

Gerwin swiftly turned, ran his blade through the first of the undead beasts, almost took a spear through the shoulder as the equine-bodied zombie collapsed. Otwin and Uther quickly formed up, but they were outnumbered, still panting from their prolonged sprint. Burke shook his head, certain that this was the end, even as he readied his bow, arrow readied. If they were to fall, he would not go quietly.

‘Ya-hah!’

Burke started in shock at the unfamiliar voice that projected a loud battle cry mixed in with triumphant laughter. Seemingly from nowhere, a horde of men appeared, large blades already swinging. Burke had to blink, uncertain that what he was seeing was actually real.

They were large, muscular men, with long wild hair and beards. They all had half their faces covered in a blue paint, and most bafflingly, they wore kilts. A small portion of Burke’s mind wondered whether they were Northmen, wild and savage tribesmen, but he quickly took note that for all that they seemed to have a savage glee about them as they charged the undead abominations, they still spoke with an accent native to the provinces. Ostlandic, if the slight twinge more often associated with Kislev was any indication. They also were wearing armour more likely to come from the civilised lands of the Empire than the savage north—a chainmail shirt on that one, a typical empire breastplate on that one, and so on.

They just happened to be running into battle wearing kilts, of all things.

‘Yer dead,’ one of the kilt-wearing warriors crowed, having managed to cleave a particularly large monstrosity in twain with a single swing of his sword.

A closer look to the swords these warriors wielded had him note the size. Greatswords, but not the flamberges or zweihänders typical of the Empire, but instead an older style, like somebody had looked at a longsword and declared that it wasn’t long enough. Gerwin, Uther or Sigismund would likely know the proper name for the swords in question.

From the same place that these greatsword carrying warriors had appeared, more conventionally armed and armoured men also made an appearance. Men of the Empire, carrying halberds and pikes, already positioned such that they had encircled the skirmish in its entirety and were now just slowly tightening that circle. The only way anybody could go to retreat was to ford the stream once more.

Fortune clearly had decided to favour them. This was only a small portion of the massive swarm of undead, had the entirety chosen to pursue, then even with the large number of reinforcements they would still have fallen. As it stood, maybe the beastmen attacking the swarm had been enough of a distraction, or else the one controlling the undead had elected to put what they saw as the minimum effort that would succeed into hunting down the humans and not counted on reinforcing troops. Either way, Burke let out a sigh of relief, they’d survived.

As the last of the undead finally fell to blade and pike, the strangers reorganised themselves, kept a cautious eye on the other side of the stream as though expecting more to emerge. Burke now took the time to examine the pikemen and halberdiers.

They weren’t uniform in their colours, he noted quickly. That suggested that this wasn’t a state regiment, likely a free company landsknecht then, though whether formed for a singular purpose or the personal army of a noble of wealth remained to be seen.

‘Hail, friends.’ Gerwin spoke up, raised a hand in greeting, still breathing heavily.

The strange warriors all stared at the small band of Efror Guardsmen. The kilt-clad warriors had an air of open caution to them, while the more conventionally garbed and armed men were expressing curiosity more than anything else. Then, they parted, allowed passage for somebody new.

He had a look to him that suggested that he was one of the kilted warriors even though he was wearing clothing better suited for the Empire—albeit a strange mix of good quality and still humble—and he lacked the vivid blue warpaint. It was the wild mane of hair and beard, and the way he carried himself. Instead of an oversized sword, he carried a warhammer, and his upon his breastplate was the image of the Twin-Tailed Comet.

It didn’t take a learned man to recognise this individual’s position in life.

The warrior-priest of Sigmar carried the air of experience about him like a second cloak. His dark eyes fixed themselves upon Gerwin’s tabard, and raised an eyebrow as he noted the quartered black and purple colouring.

‘Hail yourself, sons of Efror. And what exactly brings the militia of a defunct county to the Drakwald?’

Over the stream there was another distant horn bared out in advertisement that the living beastmen were still engaged with the undead. Gerwin momentarily glanced back, seemingly ignoring the mutterings of the kilt-clad warriors. After a moment, he visibly breathed in and turned to address the warrior-priest.


*


Sigismund wasn’t prone to worry. He might get concerned, might wonder if he had made a right call or not, but worrying was energy that could be better spent correcting any causes for such worry to begin with.

He had sent out a number of small groups, each tasked with tracking down the undead while the far larger majority of the Guard fortified their position and kept the attention of the beastmen instead upon them rather than the trackers. Of the four groups, three had returned, one unharmed and with little to report, the other two with injuries and two deaths. Gerwin’s group had yet to return. Enough days had passed by that Sigismund was beginning to grow concerned that they had perished within the deepest, darkest depths of the forest.

Click. Click. Click.

And those infernal sounds were grating at the nerves. They sounded uncomfortably akin to the hammers of handguns pulling locked back. He kept expecting somebody to fire at him after those clicks disturbed the air.

With a dower glare up at the sky, or rather at the thick covering of leaves and branches that acted as a ceiling obstructing the view of the sky above. Not that this ceiling was any use in stopping the rainfall from pouring down and drenching any with the misfortune of being out and about. Snorting, exhaling as though it would expel his less than stellar mood, the captain turned and started to move further into the encampment, if just to get a few minutes of his time spent under the canvas cover of his tent, free of the rain.

His movement was aborted shortly after he rounded a thick tree that didn’t seem to match any type of tree typical elsewhere in the Empire, certainly wasn’t oak. The reason for his pause was the awareness that hit him. Awareness of the keen edge of a blade hovering uncomfortably close to his throat. He wagered that a simple gulp of air would be enough to nick the skin.

The owner of the blade took a step closer to him, not that Sigismund could see them, as they were behind him. He wasn’t even able to hear the movement, the only reason he could fathom his awareness of the movement was just a simple case of hyper-awareness of the presence behind him, now so close he could feel their breath tickling at the back of his neck, disturbing the strands of his hair.

‘You wished to speak-talk?’

At the voice, Sigismund relaxed infinitesimally. He wasn’t safe, he wouldn’t make that delusion anytime soon, but this was a danger he had some familiarity with, some idea of how to navigate.

‘I wanted to hire you again.’ He spoke in a carefully bland tone.

‘After you killed-massacred Snitun Deadfinger and his warclaw? What makes you man-thing think we can trust-believe you?’

It took Sigismund a moment to place the words, and he risked a derisive snort.

‘That so-called warlord broke the terms of our contract. I wanted nobody harmed, just the boy found. He took it upon himself to kidnap more than just the boy. I did you vermin a favour. I imagine that was by design.’

There was a moment of silence, then a soft, chittering laugh, and the individual behind him moved even closer, the arm not holding a knife to Sigismund’s throat now draping itself across Sigismund’s shoulder and chest in a mockery of an embrace. Their mouth was now close enough to tickle at Sigismund’s ear.

‘True-true. You did a big-huge favour. Culled the weak for us. It’s why we left you alone-unharmed. Very well, man-thing. What is new contract-job?’

‘Information only. We have a name, we want more.’

There was a sigh of apparent disappointment. ‘Is that all?’ The voice had a distinct whine to it, but then a sigh brushed at Sigismund’s ear. ‘Very well. Must be interesting-special if a name is enough to find-seek. What is this name?’

‘Pugna Textrix.’

For a brief moment, the arm that was wrapped about him loosened, then tightened itself again.

‘Old language... you man-things call classical, yes-yes?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Sigismund admitted. ‘You speak it?’

The chittering laugh repeated, still so soft that nobody else in the camp heard, still nobody had noticed Sigismund and his position as technical hostage.

‘No-no. A knife-blade does not speak-talk old speech. But...’ there was a pause, and Sigismund reckoned that the head of the one holding him was tilted in thought. ‘Name is unique... I find-seek. I tell you. You pay. Yes-yes?’

‘Yes-yes.’ Sigismund repeated as an answer.

‘Good-good.’ The voice paused a moment, and Sigismund believed he heard a sniffing sound. ‘Why you in evil forest? Things lurking-prowling... dangerous, even for the cow-things.’

‘Hunting undead,’ Sigismund said in answer. He could have lied, but with this individual, the question could have been a test, and so far, he had never quite mustered the nerve to see what happens if he fails such a test. His current position was hardly the first time, it was a reoccurring position where this individual was concerned, ever since they’d first met, and Sigismund had made a panicked barter to not find himself breathing out of a new hole.

That this individual had become somewhat beneficial to Sigismund was a double-edged blade, on the one hand, it had become quite useful having such a contact, even before he’d joined the Efror Guard, when he’d been a lowly soldier fighting up north. On the other hand, he was still waiting for the moment that the scales tipped and revealed what the price was, the price that had nothing to do with gold.

The individual chuckled again, and Sigismund felt something cold press itself into his ear. He pointedly did not flinch.

‘And why would you man-things do that?’

‘There might be a connection with the name I just gave you. Even if there isn’t, they still played a role in destroying my home.’

‘Hmm, so you hunt dead-things instead of fight Chaos-things.’

‘Everybody else is looking at the Chaos Warhost. Somebody has to chase off the undead.’

One last chittering laugh was heard and then the arm and the blade seemed to vanish. When Sigismund turned around, there was no sign of the one who had held him at knife’s edge. Finally, he let out the breath he’d been holding in, relief flooding his nerves with all the potency of the most powerful of opium.

Every single time he “met” that individual, he felt a keen sense for his mortality. In a straight fight, Sigismund had a feeling that he would be able to best the other, but he’d never been witness to that individual being any position other than behind him with a blade to his neck. It just seemed to be to his good fortune that the individual seemed to feel some twisted fondness for him.

‘Movement, north-side!’

Sigismund moved briskly to the northern edge of the camp, followed by a large number of archers. The archers readied their arrows, though didn’t yet pull back on their strings, not without knowing what they were about to loose arrows against. Could just be Gerwin making his delayed return.

‘Peace,’ a voice shouted out. It wasn’t a voice Sigismund had ever before heard, but it was speaking in Reikspiel with an authentic enough accent that he lifted his hand in silent order for the archers to relax their stances.

And into the clearing appeared a collection of humans, a most relaxing change from the almost daily clash with hunting bands of beastmen. Sigismund’s eyes were instantly drawn to Gerwin and his men, ruffled, dirty and baring clear signs of having at some point gotten into a fight, but alive and well.

Once certain that his assessment had been correct, the captain’s eyes drifted to one of the strangers, and his eyes widened in surprise. He wore obsidian armour that was mostly hidden beneath a dark hooded robe, the hood drawn so that all that could be seen of his head was a bleached white skull mask. Rested against this figure’s shoulder was a scythe, and affixed to his back were wings, identical in design to those worn by the winged hussars of Kislev.

‘A Knight of Morr,’ one of the archers whispered in shocked awe.

Sigismund nodded dumbly, taken off-guard by the presence of the Black Guard. The other figure in comparison was hardly of note, she was a woman clad in the standard uniform of the Empire’s armies, though a second and more thorough look at her crimson uniform and the small personal touches to it that were functional while still reflecting her status, rectified that previous assessment quickly.

Behind the group, it became clear that there were more. Lots more. Though it appeared that the infantry—for that was clearly what they were, regiments of pikemen all dressed in the vibrant flamboyance that was the Empire’s go-to fashion and uniform of choice, they were obviously the infantry to the command element that was now approaching with Sigismund’s men—were staying back.

The group approached, reached the edge of what was the actual encampment. It was the woman in crimson and black who spoke first.

‘Captain Sigismund?’

‘Aye, that’s me.’ Sigismund stepped forward. ‘And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to.’

The woman and the Knight of Morr exchanged looks, a tilt of the head from the Black Guard had her turn to look Sigismund in the eye.

‘This is Brother Kakovlev, and I am Captain Tanya von Eisling. We’re the commanders of a landsknecht formed by Grand Count Haupt-Anderssen with the purpose of tracking down and eliminating an undead threat that attacked Stirland a couple of months ago. The same undead that you hunt now.’

The Black Guard spoke up then, his voice a whisper that still carried enough volume to be heard. That he was speaking at all was indication that either he had never taken the Vow of Silence that most Knights of Morr swore to, or his position as a leader gave him exemption so to better communicate with others.

‘We were approached with news of this undead threat and tasked with eradicating the affront to Morr from the land. We’ve followed them here.’ Despite the skull visage blocking his features, Sigismund felt the full force of the Morr’s brother’s stare. ‘Aside from returning your lost lambs to you, we’re here to propose that we consolidate our efforts and join together.’

 

Village of Tears​

Over five hundred years ago

-


Moretexl eyed the temple-host with a judging gaze. This entire venture felt like a fool’s errand, something destined to fail. But who was he to argue with the commands of Lord Annat’corri? Lord Crofts’nomi had naturally argued against this venture, in much the same way that Annat’corri and Crofts’nomi never seemed to agree on anything anymore, unlike days long gone when the two slann were almost of one mind. And as ever, that meant that it was left to Lord Amer’dotie to be the one to tip the scales. And in this instance, he had decided that Annat’corri’s idea did nothing to harm the Great Plan, so gave as close to agreement as he was willing to get.

A small corner of Moretexl’s mind wondered what he had done to warrant punishment in what was in all but name an exile. Those that left Madrigal’s shores were unlikely to get to return. Oh, he knew what Annat’corri had said, knew the rationale for his inclusion. But it felt like a punishment none the less...

The question that really lingered within the Eternity Warden’s mind, festering and leaving a constant itch: how long was Annat’corri planning to allow this experiment of his to go on? Would there reach a point where he allowed those who had left to return home?

Oldblood Ingwel’tonl hummed absently, head tilted as he examined the warmblood village that lay down the bottom of the hill. There was something indecipherable to his eye, and Moretexl didn’t care to look too deeply into it.

‘Think we can communicate with thisss one?’ the oldblood that Annat’corri had placed in the position of leadership of this venture asked, tongue flicking.

‘Doubtful,’ an unwelcome voice answered.

Moretexl refrained from letting the low hiss that wanted to escape his throat be heard, knew that the oldblood would not appreciate any sign of disrespect toward his spawn brother. That didn’t mean that the eternity warden held back on the glare, felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the way that the smaller saurus flinched back.

‘What makesss you certain?’ Ingwel’tonl asked his spawn-brother, seemingly ignorant of the byplay. That apparent ignorance was quickly revealed to not be the case when the oldblood’s tail slapped into Moretexl, left a stinging welt to form on his thigh.

Solinaraxl cast an uncertain look at Moretexl, seemed to retreat into the thick warmblood clothing he had taken to wearing sometime after leaving Madrigal, a leather and cloth combination that formed a white robe and hood.

‘The warmbloods don’t know of us. And we are easily mistaken by those ignorant of our existence into believing us daemons. If any of you walk into that village, the reaction will not be kind.’

‘Any of “you”, sssuggesting that you think you can do better?’ Iycan’ceya said with a small “harrumph” while absently pulling at the leather straps that secured his feathered cloak to his body.

The saurus tilted his head. ‘If you use an illusion, you might be better than me, but you would need to learn to speak as they do.’

‘I can speak their language fine,’ the skink snapped irritably, pointedly held back the sibilant hiss that all their kind spoke with.

‘But you do not speak as they do. And they will notice. They're not stupid: they are just uneducated.’

Moretexl’s head tilted, eyes narrowed. ‘You ssspeak of that, and yet you no longer ssspeak as we do.’

‘I’m adapting,’ Solinaraxl snapped at the Eternity Warden for the first time in his existence. Moretexl flinched back from the surprise of the moment, then narrowed his eyes in anger, but the younger saurus was not yet finished. ‘I have taken the time to learn, to adjust. You cling to the traditions as if they will mean anything to the warmbloods. But it means nothing, because they’ve never had reason to learn to respect our ways, to know what we are. So, I’m meeting them on their level. I am making myself...’

He stilled, heaved a breath and then muttered something that Moretexl was not able to hear fully. Ingwel’tonl rested a hand on the other saurus, and Solinaraxl’ leaned into the touch, eyes closed. After a moment, Solinaraxl continued speaking, though now he was controlling his tone.

‘Fourteen summers and you’ve not achieved anything. You need to learn to change. To adapt.’

‘You would have us abandon the traditionsss put in place by the Old Onesss.’ Moretexl hissed.

The rebuttal of ‘I would do what Annat’corri has commanded of us,’ was delivered in a cold tone, and the Eternity Warden had to pull himself back before he did something in anger.

Iycan’ceya spoke up next, voice uncharacteristically soft, a tone he usually reserved for a certain skink that he had taken to caring for after a close encounter with a Nurglish daemon had left the skink with permanent respiratory problems.

‘What exactly do you sssuggest we do, Oldblood Sssolinaraxl?’

Solinaraxl shot a surprised look at the typically cantankerous skink, then heaved a breath. ‘The winter season is coming. Give me a month to find a town that could do with our protection throughout the winter, and while we are there, you all learn from the warmbloods. Learn to speak as they do. Learn what to do so that they instinctively know that we are not barbarians or savages. Learn how they see the world, and learn how to use that knowledge...’

Instinctually, Moretexl didn’t like the idea being proposed. But form the looks of both Ingwel’tonl and Iycan’ceya, he knew he was in the minority.


*


Present Day

Northern Middenland

-



Mort stood, static, stationary and stoic. Millennia had been spent perfecting this. Millennia spent watching over Lord Annat’Cori when the slann was at his most vulnerable, not moving a muscle, not a twitch, not even the blink of an eye. This was his purpose, more so than leading guardians into conflict. He was the stalwart sentinel, silently safeguarding that which his station demanded.

A small part of him did wish to be out there, to be fighting against the Great Enemy. But he had a duty. He had been given one of those golden plaques that his kind held in such reverence, and as Eternity Warden of Tiamoxec—it mattered little that there was likely another with that rank now that he had spent centuries outside the borders of Madrigal, centuries since he had last laid eyes upon his charge, once an Eternity Warden, forever an Eternity Warden—he was the one with the duty to safeguard the gold plaque.

But most unusual was the itch. It wasn’t a real itch; it wasn’t anything that could have been relieved by something so mundane as to scratch at the spot where the itch had manifested.

This was an itch in his mind. And the golden plaque seemed to project an aura to it that burnt a hole in the back of Mort’s head.

Weeks he had spent, unmoving outside of basic requirements, and even then, he had skipped over more meals than Muja would be happy with if the ancient kroxigor ever caught wind. He had resisted the pull. He had a duty. His purpose could not be shirked. He had been stood in this wagon for weeks, his spear rested in one hand, while his other held his shield at chest height, as if anticipating an attack and ready to defend in the instant there was a disturbance.

The itch nagged at his brain.

Outside the wagon, he heard two members of the Legion pass by, close enough that he was able to hear their voices as they conversed about irrelevant and meaningless nothings. One—tone suggested that it was a skink—was asking the other—gruffness gave away that it was a saurus—whether he had been practicing dancing. Dancing !? Of all the wastes of time... What was worse, Mort knew—knew—that the question wasn’t about any of the more traditional practices that might have been performed on days of significance back on Madrigal. No, the question was no doubt about the latest trend that had been passing around the Legion for the past four months: Kislevite Ballet . For whatever reason, many saurus had lately taken to wanting to learn the practice in what time off they got. They could have been practicing with their weapons, drills, sparring, but instead had taken to learning some strange warmblood dancing. It was the sort of thing he pictured skinks doing just for the sake of learning something new. Not saurus.

‘Haven’t had a chance. The colonel was the one teaching.’

Mort didn’t grind his teeth. Honest, he didn’t. But it somehow didn’t surprise him that Colonel Solinaraxl was the source of yet another of these strange behaviours that were so unbecoming of the Children of the Gods. What purpose was there in learning warmblood dances?

When did Solin even have the time to learn to dance a ballet?

He didn’t presume even for a second that he had come to the wrong conclusion, that it was the other colonel of the Legion. Mostly because he was already aware that Iycan was in the process of learning a completely different yet still irrelevant skill: the waltz, whatever that was.

But he was more forgiving of Iycan than he was the mutant oldblood. As spymaster, learning such skills could be useful in some capacity. What purpose was there in a saurus warrior learning—and teaching—a ballet?

Silently berated himself for calling Solin a mutant, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. He wasn’t ignorant of the flash of hurt every time he called him such out loud, a flicker that was swiftly hidden behind the mask of the fool. Was aware that it was cruelty to constantly remind Solin that he was different, the first to spawn of that crestless subtype, lean and wiry where saurus were normally broad and solid. He never called the others of that as-yet nameless subtype mutants, but Solin was the first, and for the longest time the only, hard to let go of bad habits and disdain that never truly faded when constantly confronted with an attitude of unrepentant foolishness that hid away the competence that could have made him equal to Ingwel.

And who’s fault was it that he shies away from that potential? That he came to believe himself lesser? For all that we listen and embrace the signs of the Old One’s plans, we ignored how his was a blessed spawning, one of only two to spawn from the pool: he and Ingwel’tonl. The first of his type and stigmatised for it, looked over in favour of his brother who fit the mould. Ignored that they are two halves to a whole, the unconventional cunning to Ingwel’s keen foresight.

Mort didn’t groan. Banished the thoughts that plagued his mind while he stood in solum duty, ignored the twinge of a phantom injury, a memory he’d prefer to forget. He inhaled, held his breath and then slowly let it out. It was probably the most movement he’d made for the past seven hours.

That itch in his mind was still there.

For the first time since he was tasked with the protection of something that any Child of the Gods would value above even their own lives, Mort did something selfish.

He turned to the desk against the far back of the wagon and put the golden plaque upon it, then grabbed a sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal. And he stared at the inscriptions on the slab of gold, squinted, cursed his eyes, and then sighed and opened the drawer attached to the desk, carefully pulled out a pair of glass spectacles which were carefully perched upon his snout.

If every other saurus was going to practice inane and meaningless skills, then Mort was going to practice something actually useful. There was nothing saying he wasn’t allowed to do this, so long as he still put its protection first and foremost.

Unlike some people, he was perfectly capable of multitasking, thank you very much. And at least in doing this he could momentarily drown out the unwelcome thoughts in favour of something productive.

His finger gently ran across the surface of the golden slab, felt the inscriptions etched upon its surface, and then picked up his stick of charcoal and started making his own inscriptions upon the parchment.


*


Solin shook his head as though the action would dislodge the thought that briefly came to his mind and took a sip from the mug in his hand while turning his attention back to Boney, who as watching him with the usual mixture of rapt attention and wary nerves. Someday, Solin resolved, he would find out just what the root cause of the wariness was. He knew all too well the consequences of letting such a feeling fester, but he wasn’t Muja, he wasn’t prepared to even pretend to know how to navigate something as complicated as a mind, let alone when he was causing the negative feelings that he was trying to root out.

The knife in his hand lightly dragged against the dirt between them, an improvised method of drawing to better explain his point. ‘When cavalry charges skink gunners, the best counter we’ve established is the square formation.’

Boney peered at the square that had been scratched into the ground. ‘Square? Why?’

Solin gave a single nod of approval. Let the skink ask questions if it allowed him a better understanding.

‘Well, for one thing, the mounts are typically not stupid. Skink musketeers form into a square and have bayonets thrust out, any animal with basic survival instincts is going to want nothing to do with that. Charge headfirst into spiky death? Thanks, but no.’

Boney’s eyes crinkled into a momentary grin of amusement. Then he tilted his head again. ‘But that applies even with gun lines. I’ve noticed the lines are always still three skinks deep at a minimum.’

‘Three ranks minimum, yes.’ Solin nodded, then started scratching more lines on the ground. ‘But cavalry, outside of particularly large exceptions, has always come about for a particular purpose in warfare: speed. So, if a cavalry unit notices a line of gunners with bayonets at the ready, the intelligent rider will decide to use that speed to circle and smash into the rear of the line, typically at the middling point of said line to separate the individuals and cut them off from each other, something even Orcs understand on an instinctual level. A square, on the other hand, has no exposed flank for cavalry to exploit. No matter at which angle they approach, guns are pointing at them with pointy-stabby blades attached to those guns.’

Boney examined the etched drawings in the ground with an expression of consideration. ‘So, it is just a flank denial thing then?’

Solin wiggled his head in a “sorta” gesture. ‘There is more to it. When gunners form into the squares, they very deliberately angle the muskets in such a way that if we have two squares overlooking each other,’—another square was etched into the ground adjacent to the first—'then if the cavalry thinks that they can be clever and get between the two squares, that they’d be safe from gunfire, they'll be in for a surprise. Because of the angling of the muskets, gunfire will actually be safely aimed over the heads of the next square. Something that the Bretonnians learnt the hard way when the Empire first started using square formations with their handgunners.’

More etchings in the ground, diagrams showing such angles and the trajectories of the bullets fired, though the drawings were crude because of the chosen medium.

He elected not to mention that the Bretonnians had quickly realised that their weapon of choice while riding as cavalry—the lance—had a reach that allowed them to still break through a squared formation formed of handguns and affixed bayonets. It was likely the reason that the Empire hadn’t phased out pikes and halberds from their arsenal. Certainly, it was why Ingwel allowed those saurus regiments that preferred polearms to continue with them—looking at you, Zak.

Boney examined with a look of deep concentration. After a moment, he seemed to nod to himself, then peered at Solin and, after a brief hesitation where the wariness in his eyes seemed to become more pronounced, he opened his mouth. ‘What exactly do you have against Bretonnians?’

Solin gave a questioning hum, while absently rubbing his foot against the ground to erase the etched drawings now that they were no longer needed.

‘I have heard others comment on it, and you always seem to have this... disdain... when you even mention the Bretonnians, assuming you actually use the name. I think I have heard more ways of calling them “Lady Botherers” than I knew existed.’

Solin’s eyes crinkled into a smirk then narrowed into a bemused glare that was directed toward the distant treeline while one hand absently rubbed at his neck.

‘Bad experiences and a dislike for their hypocrisy.’ He gave a scoff. ‘Get this, they worship “The Lady”, but outside of a few exceptions, their women are relegated to a second-class citizenship. And the way that their nobility treats the peasantry?' He shook his head and snorted.

Boney hesitated. ‘But I’ve noticed even here in the Empire...?’

Solin shook his head. ‘A common theme around most warmblood races and cultures is a perception of classism and perceived roles in society. Even the Asur—the high elves—who are regarded as being among the most civilised of all the races, have a very strong sense of natural roles dictated by circumstance of birth, but then again’—Another tilt of the head—‘I suppose even the Children of the Gods are guilty of it, if you really think about it. Saurus are spawned to be fighters and the exceptions are very few. Kroxigors are meant to be labourers for skinks, who are artisans. But both skinks and kroxigors are capable of fighting, while saurus very rarely get to leave the warrior role.’

‘But that was decided by the Old Ones when they created us.’

Solin held up a finger and lightly tapped Boney’s snout. ‘True, but to an outsider if they were trying to learn of our society, they haven’t the same sense of understanding that we have, so to them it looks exactly the same.’ The saurus then shrugged a single shoulder. ‘Just warning that others might see my issues as a form of hypocrisy. We all see our own culture as the correct one, ignoring the similarities that we criticise in others.’

Boney examined Solin for a long moment, and the oldblood waited patiently for what the skink was about to say.

‘Do you wish you weren’t a warrior?’

Solin chuckled softly. ‘I sometimes wish I had been given the choice. But I believe even if I had had that choice, I would still be on a very similar path. But the singular focus on the warrior skillset has on occasion made it... difficult... for me to find activities I can enjoy recreationally. That doesn’t get mentioned often. You know about the geas, yes?’ Solin paused, allowed Boney the chance to nod an acknowledgment. ‘Even when the geas is no longer in effect, whether it has aged out or experienced out, there is still a mental block on saurus that prevents us from truly being able to learn skills that are not dedicated in some capacity to hunting and general survival, fighting, and leadership. It makes us very competent at warfare, but...’—he shook his head—’that’s why it’s so rare for a saurus to leave the warrior lifestyle. Even kroxigors don’t have that issue, because of their natural role as labourers for skink artisans.’

Boney leaned back and gave a small hum of thought. No doubt that was new information, it wasn’t exactly one of those details that got mentioned often, most saurus didn’t even give a second thought, and most skinks didn’t think to consider why outside of a few select traditional activities saurus never seemed to take the time to engage in any activity that wasn’t in some way tied to their status as the warriors and guardians of the Great Plan.

Muja, who had been sat nearby the whole time, silently watching but not getting directly involved in Solin’s nightly lessons and lectures to the Legion’s newest major, gave a low guffaw.

‘Rare. Not impossible.’ The ancient kroxigor gave Solin a knowing look.

‘Right.’ Solin crinkled his eyes in an amused smirk. ‘Not impossible.’

Boney looked between the saurus and the kroxigor, his expression said that he was aware that he was missing some context, couldn’t quite work out what it was that was causing such amusement that the two older individuals were sharing between them.

Solin picked himself up and peered into his cup, which had previously held a quantity of some Indish blend of tea. A mournful look was cast at the empty cup, but the saurus didn’t let himself be overly put off at the fact he’d already finished off the beverage, that all that remained within were the now cold dredges.

‘Come on, that’s it for tonight. Rest up, I want us to get an early start in the morning.’

As if his words were permission, Boney let out a soft yawn and picked himself up and slowly trudged off toward where his tent had been set up. Solin watched him go, then turned toward Muja, who had started to curl up on the spot.

‘How is he?’

Muja let out a low rumble. ‘Still nervous around saurus. But he is finding it easier to focus on something else when given a chance. Listening to you teach, he can focus on your words not on your body.’

‘Oh my,’ Solin let out a soft snigger, which was echoed by deep rumbling guffaws as Muja recognised the way that his words could be interpreted. Solin flicked the cold dredges from his mug and made to move away, but a large hand encircled his arm and lightly pulled him back toward Muja. ‘Hey, oh come on, I’m not a skink.’

Muja gave another low rumbling chuckle and pulled the saurus to the ground and then started to curl himself around Solin, cocooning him within his body. When he spoke, it was with the tone that Solin had come to associate with Muja being a professional mind-healer. ‘You been distracted lately. Bad dreams, staying awake. You sleep now.’

With a put upon sigh, Solin didn’t resist. Muja the Mind-Healer took that role seriously enough to voluntell people to use him as an emotional support aid when needed. Apparently, he had decided Solin needed to spend time with him at night.


*


Despite all efforts, not everywhere could be saved, not every town, village or farm could be reached before the rampaging hordes of the Sons of Malice. There were simply too many splintered fragments of the overall whole, and in at least a few of those moments where they were caught in time, the conflict could then potentially slow down the effort to move on to the next potential target of the raiders. Even a victory didn’t mean the threat was over.

As much as the stories told would like to paint a picture of victory resulting in the opposing force wiped out to the man, the sad truth of the matter was that very rarely were routing foes chased and cut down as they fled. The victorious side typically had other concerns to prioritise themselves with. While the broken and fleeing men typically disappeared, their numbers too scattered to ever truly rally up, it didn’t mean that the surviving raiders couldn’t regroup later down the line. Depending on the intelligence of the one who took a position of leadership in such an event, the newly rallied raiders may very well lay in wait for the ones who had beaten them back the first time to move on, and leave their original target exposed.

As a consequence, while the routing force hadn’t been chased down, time still had to be spent hunting for any potential rallying and should an attempt be made, to encircle and only then fully eradicate them. That was time spent not moving on to the next settlement at risk of the hordes of Chaos.

This applied even to the Legion. They’d arrived, they’d managed to fend off an attempt to devastate a Middenlandic farm, had even arrived soon enough to prevent the future harvest from being put to the flames. And the horde of raiders had broken and fled. And the regiments of the Legion hadn’t been able to chase down the routing raiders, had been more concerned with checking the injured and making sure that the farm’s occupants were unharmed. And then they’d learnt that a particularly ambitious Chaos warrior was trying to rally the raiders, so time was spent circling around the gathering of Chaos worshippers, and then tightening the noose until those remnants, those who hadn’t done the intelligent thing and tried to flee the Empire in light of their defeat, were crushed to the last.

And therefore, they’d arrived too late to save a small village of no significant importance. Struck and burnt for no reason other than to inflict misery. Fortune wasn’t wholly against the residents of this village, however. The fragment of the Legion had arrived in time to save some amount of the population, just not the village itself.

And it was with that that Solin made an executive decision and instead of waiting and scouting for the rallying point of the raiders—who had fled sooner than usual in light of their partial success and the knowledge that without buildings for the human peasants to hide in, the lizardmen would be forced to protect vulnerable targets that were exposed—he had instead elected that the chunk of the Legion under his command begin moving on to the next settlement, taking the surviving humans with them. From there, the humans would get to choose to stay as refugees in that settlement, or they could elect to flee from there to one of the larger settlements once the immediate threat was dealt with. It wasn’t ideal, but with the Legion having already been slowed by the stubbornness of the previous raiding party, Solin wasn’t in the mood to have them further delayed with a handicap in the form of VIPs to protect.

Most of the time, despite the cooler than ideal climate of the Empire’s Provinces, Solin actually enjoyed the lands within the Basin. There was an untamed beauty to it, once you were a certain distance from the well-known cities. Forests took up so much of the Empire’s land that sometimes, if he closed his eyes for a moment, he could pretend to be in one of the parts of the Madrigal Isle where the jungle overgrowth was thin enough to pass as a forest instead. A small reminder of home.

At that moment, however, he was very much taking back his usual enjoyment of the Empire’s forest growth. It wasn’t enough to make travelling difficult, no more than usually happened when travelling in numbers that can be put into formations—which they naturally were, since doing so meant that at least they were marching at a steady pace—and it wasn’t as if the Empire didn’t have its beaten paths for them to traverse. Instead, the problem was that the trees made it difficult to spot any threats before they actually became a threat.

Admittedly, if the Chaos marauders were going to attack, they’d probably do it at night, while the Legion was camped. Low light, high cover offering low visibility even if the sun hadn’t set, and a chance of at least a portion of the Legion being caught asleep.

Wasn’t glamourous, certainly wasn’t any definition of honourable, but nobody ever accused Chaos of being worshipped by particularly valorous warriors.

For the sake of the villagers’ safety, the weak, the elderly and the children had been given the privilege of riding the stegadons. Within the Legion, the stegadons were mostly relegated to logistical use, pulling carts and wagons or carrying equipment as if they were part cart themselves. Time and natural wear had long since had its wicked way with the large skystreak bows typically carried by the horned thundersaurs, and with the choice to put carronades on the excess bastiladons, it had simply been decided not to do the same with the stegadons.

However, where stegadons did see use in combat—use that wasn’t pointing at a large formation and laughing as the formation was sent flying in much the same way as those clay targets when warmbloods bowled a heavy ball at them—was in the form of mobile firing platforms for a half-dozen skinks with muskets. Those same wooden platforms that were so useful for carrying the Legion’s gear while travelling were also a perfect place for particularly good shots to have an elevated space to perch themselves and move across a battlefield firing death to the foe. But at that particular time, as much as Solin would have liked to have had watchers planted on those very platforms, he’d made the decision to let the more vulnerable of the warmblood refugees ride in relative safety.

He rather hoped that he wouldn’t miss the sharpshooter support, but if things went well—which was rather a tall hope, considering the nature of the world and its determination to screw people over—then there wouldn’t actually be a need for any elevated shooters on a mobile platform of death.

Solin patted the shoulder of one of the skinks marching nearby, and pointed off to the side of the road they were marching down.

‘Eyes on that treeline, sergeant.’

The skink nodded, but otherwise didn’t outwardly react. It wasn’t as if he could march sidewards, but Solin trusted that the sergeant and those under him would be keeping a regular eye in that direction. Even as they marched, they twisted themselves so that they had one eye permanently affixed to the potentially dangerous treeline.

Muja rumbled softly as Solin, scanned the surroundings again, his small yet sharp eyes looking not just at the oldblood, but through and into him.

‘How long to next village?’

Solin cast a bemused look at the ancient kroxigor. Muja didn’t outwardly react to him, continued to walk with long powerful strides that easily kept up with the marching column despite seeming to move slower than the surrounding skinks and saurus.

‘We should arrive later today, assuming we don’t get delayed.’ Solin pointed glanced at the treeline as he said that last part. ‘Why? Going to miss the children?’

Muja guffawed. At night, while they had been camping, the human children had displayed that characteristic bravery fuelled by curiosity that all infants seemed to inherit until they reached a certain age. Muja, one of the gentlest souls that Solin had ever met—something the children had apparently sensed—had borne the brunt of their curiosity in the form of a dozen children climbing upon him whenever he sat down. He gave no complaint, hadn’t moved an inch.

Not one complaint, not even a rumble of displeasure. Not even when one child started to use mud as a form of paint and begun to draw abstract nonsense upon Muja’s snout.

Solin had a feeling that Muja enjoyed the attention. Even more so than the skinks and saurus of the Legion, kroxigors tended to be looked upon with fear. It was natural, kroxigors were large and powerful predators, and even other predators knew to be wary around the crocodilians. Humans must feel so small and weak when faced with a kroxigor.

But children lacked that fear, instead saw Muja for the gentle giant that he was.

Though make no mistake, he was a gentle giant by choice. But he was certainly no pacifist. Even at that moment as they marched, he carried a massive maul, and would have no issue swinging the weapon at the first Chaos warrior that came within his large reach.

Solin turned his attention back to the nearby treeline, noting that the skinks tasked with watching the same had tensed, though there hadn’t yet been any calls of alarm. That meant they believed that they had seen something, but they couldn’t be certain of what. Give it a few seconds, there would be a quiet call that they might have seen a threat and to be alert.

Solin pre-empted that call. He pointed toward a random sergeant.

‘Ey, ey, you. Sergeant...’—he paused, took a second to look at the sergeant in question to know who he was talking to, then continued once the name came to mind—‘Aniel, gather your troop and come with me.’

Sergeant Aniel unconsciously straightened at being addressed. The skink tilted his head as the words registered. ‘Where are we going?’

‘We’re going to prune the forest of its unwanted parasites.’ Solin’s eyes narrowed into a grin.

Aniel clicked his tongue and called out for his cohort. None were equipped with muskets, for Aniel’s cohort was formed up of those who either hadn’t yet passed the tests to be allowed use of the gunpowder weapons along with those who were simply melee skirmishers by choice. But that was fine. For Solin, they served the purpose perfectly well without guns at hand.

‘Each of you grab a dozen javelins. Or, if you have any talent with them, grab a bow and a quiver of arrows. We’re hunting.’

The cohort chittered excitedly, moving over to the stegadon which was pulling the wagon that had been assigned for the more archaic or specialist weapons that weren’t in regular use. Most grabbed the javelins, but a handful of the skinks did indeed arm themselves with the recurve bows usually used by the Freshbloods. It was possible that at least a couple of these skinks had been hunters working within the pseudo-regiment at one time.

Once they had equipped themselves and returned to Solin, the oldblood looked toward the front of the column. ‘Ey, ey. Major Adorable, you have command while I’m gone.’

At the strangled scream that came from Boney, Muja rumbled a deep laugh. ‘Don’t know why he complains. Skinks are cute.’

Solin shared a grin with the kroxigor, noting the way that Aniel’s cohort shuffled as though they wanted to protest that comment, but with the one saying it being Muja, they abstained. Muja’s eyes glittered with humour, well-aware that he was likely the only entity in existence that could get away with calling skinks cute to their faces.

‘Right, sergeant, sergeant’s cohort, on me.’

And with that, Solin pivoted and stalked towards the trees, followed closely by the skinks.


*


Muja watched as the saurus and skinks marched, their pace just brisk enough to reach those trees and disappear from sight in a short span of time, but not so quick as to let any potential threats watching from those same trees think that they were doing anything other than a rudimentary scouting effort. If there were indeed any Chaos marauders hiding in the woodland, they were in for a bad time.

If they believed that they were about to get the drop on the group sent to hunt them down, they were about to learn why Solin felt he only needed a single cohort to deal with them in the forested terrain. Skinks were the assigned hunters of their race for a reason. And Solin?

Muja rumbled another laugh, this one simply to himself, then picked up his pace, neared the major who had just been put in charge of the entire train, had just had the lives of every skink, saurus, kroxigor and even human put into his hands.

As Muja predicted, Major Boney was looking a little ill at ease. He was doing an admiral job of hiding it, even from his fellow kin. But he was many centuries too young to be able to hide anything from Muja. The spawnling was nervous. This was probably—Muja paused that thought, ran through the Legion’s recent history with the same methodical deliberation that he used when treating patients as their physician, deliberate but not slow, despite appearances—this was the first time that the major had been directly tasked with more than a few dozen lives without somebody more experienced nearby. Unfortunately, Muja couldn’t help in that regard, despite being old enough to be classed as an ancient, he had never felt the pull for leadership. But that didn’t mean that couldn’t help to distract the skink from his worries.

That it would also serve the purpose of allowing Muja to actually speak to Boney for the first time, and gauge his mental state was just a bonus. Even with just a look, the kroxigor wasn’t certain he liked the slight sunken look to the skink’s eyes, an early sign of insomnia. Muja made a careful mental note of that, and a silent promise to look into the major’s night cycle while they were attached to the same portion of the Legion.

‘Major.’

Boney didn’t startle, so he hadn’t been so lost in nerves as to fail to register the approach of a giant crocodilian. That was good.

‘Ah, Muja, wasn’t it? I don’t think we’ve met yet. Not... not properly anyway.’

Oh, he’s so polite. Muja’s eyes curved into grin of delight. Even back home in the city of Tiamoxec, it was an unfortunate fact of life that kroxigors often got looked over by their smaller cousins, seen as a part of the scenery if they weren’t actively useful for a purpose at that given moment. But this charming little skink had managed to memorise him before they’d even met. He didn’t count his watching over the lessons Solin imparted on the skink, as he didn’t typically involve himself.

Muja bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘That’s me. Pleasure.’

Boney gave a single nod and cast an eye to Muja, examining him, seemingly drinking in every detail. Muja allowed him, wondered what outside of the usual thoughts were running through the skink’s mind. He saw the way the major’s gaze lingered for a moment on Muja’s kilt, the slight widening of the eyes in silent confusion, before his examination rose, where he likely took note of the fact that Muja wasn’t wearing a red coat, just a simple beige tunic.

Muja chose to pre-empt the question regarding the kilt, it was usually the first question asked by those not yet used to the various clothing choices of those within the Legion, alongside the question of “aren’t dresses a female garb?”. Fortunately, that particular question didn’t need answering this time, Marz had already ranted at Muja about Boney making that mistake in the first day of being a member of the Legion.

‘All kroxigors wear kilts. More convenient than breeches. Far too many tears.’

Muja recalled those early days, when much of the Legion had transitioned to breeches. The kroxigors had all tried to follow suit, but no matter how hard the tailors tried, the breeches would consistently tear whenever the crocodilians did anything. In the end, it was established that the thick woollen skirt-like garment that were favoured by the descendants of the Udoses was simply more practical for kroxigors.

As to Muja’s lack of a red coat, that was simply because he wasn’t in a warrior role, though he did have the right to wear one if he chose. None of the redcoats would argue if he ever decided that he was going to take up his maul and step into the front ranks alongside them. But Muja felt himself better able to contribute being in a role that wasn’t more brute force for the ranks.

Boney hummed at the answer given before he even had to ask. ‘So, what’s Marz’s excuse?’

‘Marz just likes them.’ Muja grinned. ‘Think it’s a tailor thing, they all try to look different.’

The skink huffed out a breath of amusement. Muja was satisfied to see that some measure of tension had left the smaller reptile’s frame, his posture slowly eased to a more natural slouch that helped make him look like he wasn’t on high alert.

A large meaty finger poked lightly at Boney’s cheek, just beneath one amber eye. ‘Are you sleeping right?’

Boney let out a soft hiss of surprise at the physical contact but didn’t flinch away. His eyes narrowed, a look of bemused confusion crossing them before he tried to school his expression.

‘It’s just a few night terrors. It’ll pass.’

Muja’s chest vibrated with a rumble that wasn’t audible to the skink, he held back the actual sound out of concern that he’d give the wrong impression.

‘How many nights?’ His tone brokered no argument. He would have an honest answer.

Boney considered the question, head tilted. Then shrugged. ‘Every few nights since just before we left Middenheim.’

Muja frowned, mind already going through possible reasons for the skink to be suffering night terrors bad enough that he was showing signs of insomnia. Battle shock? No, he’s not showing any of the other usual signs. No mental strain... still very focused. A side effect of his miscast? Did he have anybody check him over after that? Probably not. Fools, but no more foolish than the one who actually miscasts in battle and then tries to cast again after the fact.

Boney looked taken aback as Muja’s expression no doubt showed what he felt regarding where his thoughts had just gone. He opened his mouth, but Muja beat him to the act of speaking, his words emphasised with a couple of pokes to his breast.

‘Next time you miscast, step back and do not continue to shape the winds.’

Boney groaned softly, had a look best described by the Empire term as “hangdog”. ‘I’m never going to live that down, am I?’

‘Likely not until someone else makes a mess-up, then they’ll remember that one,’ Muja admitted easily.

‘Great.’ Boney drawled out the word, clearly not happy with the answer but accepting it regardless.

Muja didn’t get a chance to say much else, there was a sound from the back of the column, the sound of a horn being blown into. The effect was immediate, the entirety of the procession immediately ceased all forward movement, and those who’d been positioned at the surrounding edges immediately fell into defensive stances, weapons held at the ready. In the very centre, as far from potential danger as was possible to be, the human refugees huddled closer together, tried to find their strength in unity.

Boney hesitated a moment, and Muja was again reminded that this was the first time he’d commanded such numbers. And this wasn’t even the full breadth of what he’d have charge of as a major, the Legion had fractured itself into more groups than there were majors, colonels and the marshal combined. Had he not been so fresh to the Legion, Boney wouldn’t have had Solin with him, but to Muja’s understanding, neither Solin nor Ingwel had any desire to throw Boney into the deep end, even with circumstances being less than ideal as they were. So, where Solin would have been commanding a separate force, Captain Preda was tasked with that command, so that the colonel could continue to watch over the skink.

Unfortunately, Solin had gone to hunt the marauders lurking in the trees. It likely wasn’t a planned detail, the hunting party wasn’t a large chunk of the force, and it was pure coincidence that Solin had decided to personally deal with the foe in the woodland.

It was an unfortunate coincidence that had hit at the moment that would have Boney forced into leading beyond his practiced numbers.

Credit to the skink where it was deserved, it took only ten seconds for Boney to regain his wits.


*


‘Report,’ Boney shouted toward whoever it was that had blown the horn.

‘Orcs approaching!’

A queer look crossed Boney’s features, and he let out a sigh of bemused irritation. ‘Why in... Why are there orcs coming to us?’

A nearby saurus snorted. ‘Probably caught wind of the Chaos marauders and thought to themselves “well dat sounds like a royt proppa scrap, dat does!”. We’re just in the way.’

Boney exhaled heavily from his nostrils, holding in the chuckles at the orcish accent being pulled off so perfectly by a saurus, who still managed a deadpan with that same accent.

‘Bad luck,’ Muja huffed. He turned his head, stared at Boney. ‘You are in command.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ Boney muttered softly enough that Muja barely heard, but after inhaling, he started to move toward the back of the column. ‘Are they on foot, are they riding?’

There was a pause, then the same voice as before called back ‘Boar riders as a vanguard, a lot of boys on foot behind them.’

Boney’s eyes briefly screwed themselves into an exasperated expression at the reminder of what orcs called their basic infantry. “Boys”. It felt, even to the lizardmen of Madrigal, so utterly juvenile and yet... that perfectly described the vast majority of greenskins, didn’t it? A mob of thuggish cads that somehow became the entire basis of a race. Gork and Mork must have been having the greatest of laughs at the rest of the world when their greenskin followers developed such a mentality.

Focus. The major inhaled a deep breath and ran his mind through the lessons that Solin had lectured him on every time they had set camp. They were the rare moments where Solin didn’t seem to delight in prodding at Boney and call him that infuriating nickname that still would not go away, but instead went completely serious and simply taught him about the nuances of leadership for the Legion, the tactics that had been developed or assimilated as part of the Legion’s conformation into its current self, as well as answering any questions Boney gave, regardless of whether they were about why such tactics had come about, or comparing them to the established tactics and strategies of their more traditional kin and asking about the differences and rationales.

It was strange that the oldblood could be serious, outside of that one fight against the human captain in the keep, he always seemed to act so... unconventional. More than that, he respected Boney, didn’t hold inexperience against him as he taught the young skink, and any confusion on Boney’s part was never looked down upon, just as a chance to explain further.

He actually managed to make Boney feel comfortable enough to not feel the normal hyper awareness of the larger saurus being so close to him at those moments.

What was it that he said about enemy cavalry? ‘Muskets, form squares.’

He didn’t dwell on the nuance of the square formation. Part of the first lesson Solin had imparted to him was that he didn’t need to dwell on the whys at a given moment. And more than that, he was told very specifically that he didn’t need to micromanage, especially if he wasn’t in the understanding of the finer points of a formation’s strengths. His subordinates weren’t stupid, and they practiced and drilled enough that they could perform their roles without being ordered to the last detail. The alphas—the sergeants—would fill in the blanks as needed and had the experience to give commands on the level, while Boney could focus on the bigger picture.

Case and point, as Boney finally reached the back of the column, he could see that the skinks armed with muskets had formed three squared formations, had clearly known how to best distance themselves from the next square formation, and were now braced and ready.

If you don’t give the order to fire, then your subordinates will wait until the threat is a certain distance before assuming that they have permission to fire at will.

That had been another point stressed to him. There was a reason for the wait, to not immediately assume that they were supposed to fire. The possibility that the threat will see the warning and stop approaching, a chance for the approaching threat to call out a truce or parley or whatever other term that requested permission to approach, right down to the fact that once the threat was close enough there was no chance of missing a gunshot.

At that moment, with Boney able to see them, and with the approaching threat being greenskins, there was no need to have the muskets hold fire. And he called out as such.

Even as the thunder of gunfire echoed through the air, Boney considered what he knew. The boar riders were spread out, enough so that the hail of gunfire wasn’t as much of a massacre as it ought to have been. With a snarl, Boney flung out a hand, shaping the Winds and pushing them out. The projected blast of concentrated air was enough to cause a dozen of the riders to stumble and fall, skin peeled and parted by the razor shaped winds, but again they were spread out enough to avoid the damage being worse to their numbers.

Whether that was deliberate or just an instinctual behaviour, Boney didn’t know. He remembered his lessons on the greenskins, before leaving the city of Tiamoxec. A race of dim intellect, thuggish brutes, yet gifted with an instinctual knack for warfare that bordered on genius. While other races needed to teach formations and strategy, to develop tactics over time and through experience, the greenskins simply knew on an instinctual level to move in a particular formation, even if they weren’t fully certain why they chose to move in such a way.

In the grand scheme of things, the boar riding orcs weren’t that big of a threat. Especially not with the way they were focused upon and gunned down, though Boney made a point of checking the surroundings to make certain that there were no flanking efforts. The real problem was the sheer number of orc boys—Boney sighed internally as he used the juvenile name, even in the privacy of his mind—that were jogging toward them from behind the cavalry vanguard. Numbers enough that they would not all get gunned down before reaching the back of the train. And like the cavalry, spread out enough to minimise the effectiveness of gunfire. They'd still die in droves, but not as many as could have been.

The major cast half an eye toward the stegadons carrying the civilians, as well as those who were able enough to be travelling on foot. They were vulnerable. Maybe not so much for the elderly and the infants riding the thundersaurs, but still at risk regardless. Boney opened his mouth, was about to call out for a protection detail, but paused, more of his lessons on greenskins rushing through his mind.

The problem here was that Boney had been about to task the kroxigors with protecting the warmbloods. Except greenskins naturally gravitated toward the biggest “scrap” they could find. Kroxigors would fit that description quite easily. By tasking the kroxigors with protecting the warmbloods, he would be luring the greenskins right to them. So, in a moment of irony, the best option for protecting the warmbloods, was to deliberately task the weaker option as protection.

‘Sergeant,’ he called out, pointing at the one he was addressing to avoid any confusion—would have used his name, but Boney honestly didn’t know it. The sergeant in question was a skink in charge of a melee skirmisher cohort, and while Boney resented the idea of his kin ever being deemed lesser than saurus or kroxigors, he could still acknowledge that standing as a protective detail was not one of their strengths. ‘I need you and your cohort to protect the warmbloods.’

The sergeant gave Boney a queer look, likely wondering why the major had felt a skink skirmisher cohort the better option as opposed to saurus, but he didn’t argue. He clicked his tongue and already the entire cohort were encircling the warmbloods in a protective cocoon.

‘Sergeant.’ This time his finger pointed to a redcoat clad kroxigor alpha. ‘The orcs will try to challenge your cohort as the best scrap they’ll get, so I need you and your cohort to find a position that lures them away from the warmbloods.’ He motioned vaguely in a general direction that was away from the warmbloods under the Legion’s protection. ‘Over there somewhere.’

The kroxigor sergeant grunted and led his cohort very pointedly to the outer edge of the column, away from the warmbloods. Whether they understood the rationale for Boney’s order, Boney couldn’t quite tell. There was no offence in the kroxigor’s eyes, but sometimes the crocodilians were among the hardest of the Children of the Gods to get a read on. That included slann, who were surprisingly open about what they felt, they just felt little when compared to the other Children of the Gods.

Another crack of thunder as the next volley of gunfire cut down more of the boar riding cavalry. Right, no time to get lost in thought. Was there anything else Boney could do? Aside from another moment of shaping the winds into another blast that flayed the dozen greenskins and their mounts with the misfortune of being caught in its area of effect.

Boney’s eyes drifted, and he drank in the sight of the quartet of bastiladons that had been rumbling along at the rear of the column, and the carronades that they carried upon their hard-shelled backs. He would not deny curiosity regarding those large metal guns. Thus far Solin hadn’t felt a need to use them, had been in favour of speed and pushing forward to chase off the Chaos forces, which the oldblood admitted meant that the enemy were typically routing before the artillery weapons were ready to use.

But with a large rabble advancing, maybe it was time to use them?

Boney turned, looked to the skinks riding atop the bastiladons, even as he called out for the saurus warriors to form lines behind the muskets so that the gunline could withdraw behind them the moment the orc mob got close enough to be a concern.

‘Turn the bastiladons around and line those guns up.’

One of the skink artillery operators grinned.


*


There was a stagnant stillness to the forest. The marauders of the northern lands skulked through the trees, eyes constantly moving from tree branch to tree branch. It had not taken them long to realise that they were being hunted, that something had entered the forest with them.

The strange creatures that had attacked them were proving themselves to be an interesting foe. They had arrived in time to save a small number of the southerners from the village, and their attack upon the warriors of Malice had been swift and brutal, shattering their morale abruptly and forcing a rout in an almost embarrassingly short span of time. But routing did not mean beaten. They had rallied, they had planned, and they had speed on their side. So, they moved, stayed ahead of the marching creatures and the Empire weaklings they seemed to want to protect. And they watched and waited for the opportunity to retaliate.

Somebody must have been seen, or else these mutants were smarter than they had given them credit for.

Igrun cursed softly as one of his fellow warriors stumbled, gasping for breath as an arrow lodged itself into his chest. With a snarl, he grabbed one of the many axes he carried about his person, and he hurled it in the direction that the arrow had come from. He didn’t hit anything, one of those redcoated creatures, one of the three carrying bows, had already been moving, left the space he had perched himself to fire off the arrow, and chittered mockingly when the thrown axe embedded itself into the bark of the tree.

Still, strangely enough, Igrun preferred these smaller ones with their javelins and their bows. The larger one was... terrifying.

Igrun once thought he would swear allegiance to Khorne, before he had come across Malice and realised that unlike Khorne, Malice wasn’t about mindless berserk fury, but preferred its followers to think, to make calculated acts of violence, to work out where best to apply pressure and make the foe feel that pain. It wasn’t always all or nothing with Malice, it was possible to be quietly malicious and hateful, and pile on the small acts that would result the ruin of the victim of that hatred. Even complying with the orders of those beneath you could be twisted into such a hurtful act. But Igrun still harboured that glee for combat that had made him consider Khorne at one time. He didn’t fear easily.

He was re-evaluating that fact. The larger one was a monster , and if it wasn’t for the way it was trying to protect the weak men of the south, he would have assumed it to be some strange bloodletter, but no, it fought with cunning and deliberation, acting like a hunter not a berserker, in spite of that oversized sword it carried. It struck, hard and fast, and Igrun was rapidly losing his nerve, especially as a green and blown blur—that monster again—flew forth from behind a tree, crashed into one of Igrun’s companions and dragged him, screaming and panicking, deeper into the forest. His cries of pain and terror didn’t cease, but experience had taught that the moment Igrun or any of the other warriors with him came to rescue their fellow warrior, they would suffer.

That was something that Igrun could appreciate, to a small degree. It was a classic hunter’s trap. Use the cries of their fellows to bait them into a trap. It had taken two instances of falling for that trap—of approaching their wounded companion and being bombarded with javelins and arrows enough so drop at least a handful of warriors—before Igrun weighed the risk versus reward not worth it. Experience after that moment had taught that it took five minutes before the one who had been dragged away would finally be silenced. Whether that was because the creature had shut him up, or he simply succumbed to his wounds, Igrun couldn’t tell.

Honestly, are they just playing with us at this point, they’ve cut our numbers down enough that the large one could probably just finish us off by himself at this point.

A flicker of movement had Igrun throw himself to one side, barely avoided the javelin that one of the smaller creatures had thrown. With a vulgar bellow, Igrun grabbed the javelin from where it had embedded itself into the dirt and hurled it back. He missed, and the little creature must have been mocking him when it picked up its javelin and waved at him.

‘Bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Fight me like a true warrior!’

There was a startled scream from behind him. Igrun spun, hefting his axe. But he wasn’t fast enough. He spotted the larger creature with its oversized sword in hand, stood over the body of one of his warriors. By the time he had finished turning to face it, the creature was already swinging its blade around.

Igrun’s head fell to the floor long seconds before his body eventually toppled over.


*


Solin flicked his zweihänder, used the abrupt movement to force the worst of the blood upon it to fly from the blade to the ground, before he then rested it upon his shoulder. His crimson eyes lifted, took in Sergeant Aniel, still perched in the tree, javelin that had been so thoughtfully returned to him rested in a light grip.

‘Any other groups?’

The skink shook his head. ‘No more groups, just stragglers travelling alone.’

With that news, Solin adjusted his greatsword, slung it over his shoulder so that it would rest upon the small hooks that acted as a method of sheathing the weapon.

‘Very good. I’ll leave you and your cohort to continue keeping this forest clear as we travel. If you need rest, just tell me so I can have another cohort relieve you.’

The sergeant gave a single nod. ‘We’ll make sure nobody can sneak up on you.’

Solin turned, but he paused as a deep bone-rattling boom echoed through the air. It took the saurus a moment to place the noise.

‘That was one of our carronades,’ he said in realisation.

Aniel peered in the direction of the rest of their band of the Legion, but they were still deep enough into the forest that they couldn’t see the road from their position. ‘Do you think the major is in trouble?’

Solin grunted, already starting to move back toward the rest of their band. ‘He’d better be, or else he’s wasting my carronades for no reason.’

He scrambled up a tree, and leapt, grabbed a branch and used the momentum to fling himself to the next branch, used the trees as a roadway to move swiftly. For a moment, he was able to close his eyes and remember his youth, those years before leaving Madrigal. How he had enjoyed traversing the thick jungle that dominated the isle, how he and the others had all turned the canopy of the jungle into pathways. Hunting with his kin. Times long past.

For a moment, he was able to pretend he was home. This was just another day exploring the jungle...

The moment was gone all too soon, he threw himself out from the forest, landed already in a sprint and... slid to a stop, eyes wide in surprise as a dozen greenskins ran past, their morale clearly shattered and any desire for a good scrap lost.

‘Where did they come from?’ he asked aloud, watching the routing greenskins flee. The group he was watching abruptly scattered themselves when a carronade fired at them. The heavy iron ball crushed the spine of one orc to paste and left him as a smear on the grass, but not before crashing into and mangling another orc who had happened to be in the direct path.

No longer in a hurry, Solin resumed moving toward the column, pausing only to remind any wayward orcs that they shouldn’t stop running through the persuasive argument that was his blade. Their counter argument was usually something along the lines of a gargling sound while they slumped to the ground. Heedless to say, Solin was quite adept at keeping his debates short and to the point, only offering a single cutting remark.

The rest of detachment of the Legion was in the midst of celebrating their minor victory over the orcs. He wouldn’t fault them, it didn’t look as though the orcs had actually done any damage, despite the large number of greenskin corpses littering the ground. No wonder they chose to use the artillery. Though Solin took note very quickly that a few were giving wary looks toward the bastalidons.

The reason was soon unveiled. Solin found Boney, leaning against the shell of one of the bastiladons and grinning maniacally, huffing out his breath in what Solin could only call “giggling”.

‘You seem happy,’ Solin said as he neared.

Boney, still giggling, waved a hand at Solin and looked to the carronade atop the bastiladon with a new look to his eye, one that was best described as “reverence”.

‘Why haven’t we been using these?’ Boney asked, almost breathlessly.

Solin shrugged. ‘Haven’t seen the need so far,’ he admitted lightly.

‘I like these. Point and boom.’ Boney continued giggling, and now Solin was starting to feel a little concerned, secretly wondered whether the skink major had started over-indulging in alcohol in the short span of time that he hadn’t been there to supervise.

‘They do cause quite a bit of damage.’ Solin commented, while examining the carronade. The skink operator looked a little uncertain, eyes fixed to the major as though concerned the other skink would start trying to steal his carronade from him.

‘Why don’t we use more of these?’

Another skink nearby—Sergeant Coadmit—coughed to hide the laugh that his eyes gave away, and then muttered under his breath. ‘If he’s this way over carronades, imagine him getting to see proper cannons.’

Regrettably, Boney’s strange mood did little to hamper his hearing, and his head turned to face the other skink, eyes alight with a manic glee.

‘These aren’t proper cannons? They get better?’

Damn... we’re going to get complaints about a skink stealing from Nuln now, aren’t we? Solin chuckled despite himself. ‘We chose carronades because at the time it was simply the more convenient choice.’ He patted the shell of the bastiladon, which rumbled despite most likely not being able to feel Solin’s affectionate gesture. ‘And it’s not just the weight of the cannon these beauties have to carry on their backs, they’d also have to carry the ammo, which is not light.’

Despite the warning and rationale for going with carronades instead of trying to make use of the Empire’s great cannons, the stars shining in Boney’s eyes did not abate, if anything they grew larger.

‘I want some.’

Solin shared a look with Coadmit, silent laughter in his eyes. 'Sure, we’ll take it up with the marshal when we next see him.’ After a pause, Solin turned fully toward Coadmit. ‘Any casualties?’

Coadmit shook his head. ‘A few injuries, but no fatalities. The major had the artillery focus on the orc archers while the...’—a groan of disgust left the sergeant—’boys... chose to go challenge the kroxigors.’

‘And the humans?’ Solin asked, concerned.

‘Were never in danger.’ Boney seemed to regain his wit enough to properly contribute to the conversation. ‘I had the kroxigors positioned away from the warmbloods for that exact reason.’

Solin turned, looked at the scene and his mind’s eye pictured the scene. If the kroxigors were currently standing where they had been when the greenskins were approaching then... yes, Solin could see what Boney meant. It also had the benefit of exposing the melee-focused orcs to musket-fire while they charged at the kroxigors. It wouldn’t have taken long for the orcs to reorient themselves and to divert some attention to the gunline, but for those precious seconds...

Not bad. Not that there wouldn’t be room for improvement. Any goblins in the midst would have instantly led to a bit more cunning from the greenskins, and a proper warboss might have had the sense to channel the brutality of the orcs in a way as to curtail the desire to scrap with the biggest looking threat visible but to work up to it.

But for a random band of orcs, Boney hadn’t done badly.

Solin let out a breath and turned to address everybody in the column. ‘Alright, fun is over. We still have a village to reach before a Chaos warband does.’

And here I thought the Chaos warriors in the trees would be the ones to slow us down.

With a few more calls, the procession resumed its forward march.


*


Soulshriver—it was a title as much as a name, Kranax Soulshriver, born with a different name, but that man was gone, torn to sunder by the ministrations of the Lord of Excess—slowly moved down the dark catacomb tunnel. Weeks they had spent, scouring these catacombs. Skaros was looking for something, had arrived at this pitiful land with intent, deliberate in his actions.

Skaros had a plan, had an agenda. And there was something about these catacombs. It couldn’t be somebody that was buried here however, the bodies of the dead had been long gone by the time the warhost had found the catacombs. There was a story there, Soulshriver was sure. A distinct lack of bodies in what was very clearly a place of internment, while shrivelled black roses spoke of desecration.

There had been something going on even before the Warhost of Malice had arrived in Efror. If bodies of the dead were involved, it likely had something to do with necromancy, but to Soulshriver’s admittedly limited understanding of these lands, the threat of necromancy was to the south and east, in the province that the Empire called Sylvania, not here in Middenland, or Efror or whatever these Empire-men called this patch of insignificant land. It intrigued the exalted champion. But at the end of the day, it wasn’t of his concern, or the concern of the Warhost of Malice in general.

He found Skaros and a small number of warriors that Lord Skaros trusted. Skaros himself was running his hand against a mural in the wall. That was... The Nipponese warrior tilted his head and examined the mural, surprisingly ornate and tasteful while still being extravagant enough to suggest that there was some importance at play.

‘Did you know...?’ Skaros started speaking once he noticed Soulshriver approach. ‘That these caves that the southerners use as catacombs pre-date the Empire of Man? They pre-date even the birth of Sigmar Heldenhammer.’

Soulshriver looked upon the mural with vague interest. He wasn’t wholly ignorant of what that meant, knew of Sigmar as the founder of this paltry mockery of an empire, but somehow became revered as a god. The mural’s colouring was long faded, but still held enough of its original hues to convey the scene it wanted to tell. The image depicted a faceless entity, with glowing tendrils of light bursting from its back as it floated over what looked to be a sea but in place of water was a purple substance that made Soulshriver uncomfortable looking at it.

Skaros continued in a conversational tone. ‘These catacombs were made around the tomb that has sat deep within these caves for longer than time’s records. A tomb belonging to somebody who might once have known Be’lakor before that bungler was gifted with the attentions of the Ruinous Powers.’

Had Soulshriver still had eyelids, or eyebrows, his eyes would have been wide with that knowledge. Old was quite the understatement.

‘Who were they?’

‘No one of real consequence, not really.’ Skaros took one last look at the mural, and then made a gesture to the quintet of warriors who had been standing a respectable distance the whole time. Without a word, they advanced on the mural and began to swing large pickaxes at the painted rock. There was no sound of complaint about being made to perform such a menial task, not with these warriors. ‘At the end of the day, it’s what was buried with them that is of importance.’

Soulshriver tilted his head in silent question, watched as one of the warriors swung their pick and impaled the end into the blank void where a face should have been beneath the hood worn by the entity.

‘Those lizardmen will hate the fact that they walked right past this in their escape from us.’

Skaros’s helmet hid any expression, but Soulshriver had counted the warmaster of Malice as a friend for long enough that he knew there was a smug grin beneath that featureless helmet. Something about this object and the lizards missing it amused him. There must have been some context that Soulshriver lacked.


*


The procession neared the village shortly before the eve of the next night. Unfortunately, as they neared, the skinks he had sent ahead of everybody else as advance scouts came back with expressions to their eyes that bode ill news.

‘The marauders beat us here,’ Sergeant Yuecan reported in a soft tone. ‘They’ve already taken the village, and it looks like there are no survivors.’

Solin barred his teeth, feeling a bone-deep fury chill his bones before he calmed himself, inhaling deeply through his nostrils.

‘I have had it with these Chaos bastards,’ he snarled softly. He looked out, took in the distant village, lost to the Great Enemy. ‘They aren’t going to rout this time. I’m not letting them.’

The sergeant tilted his head, hummed in query. Solin turned, took in the entirety of his command.

‘Listen up, the Chaos harlots have just signed their death warrants. We are going to kill them all, no quarter given. Any that attempt to flee will be cut down.’

There was a startled gasp from the humans they’d been escorting at the news that the settlement had been sacked by Chaos, likely they’d been hoping that they’d all reach the settlement in time to deter marauders, but Solin had, unfortunately seen this coming with the way they'd been constantly slowed. But with the marauders still within the settlement, they had trapped themselves. It was easy to make sure that none survived for their deeds.

Inhaling, he started jabbing his finger like it was a conductor’s baton at a Riekland opera.

‘Ey, you, you, you, you and you! Take your cohorts, form gunlines on that side of the village. Meanwhile you, you, you and you! You’ll do the same on the opposite side of the village. As we advance, encircle and kill any that leave the village, understood.’

The skink sergeants he had motioned toward all leapt to do as he commanded, calling out to their individual cohorts and organising themselves rapidly. Solin watched them go with some small satisfaction, then jabbed his finger toward a number of saurus sergeants.

‘Form staggered lines behind the guns. If any Chaos warriors manage to get close enough to be a threat, the skinks need to have space to reposition behind you and then you take out the bastards. Meanwhile, all kroxigors stay here and protect our guests in case any of these marauders think they’re clever. Muja, I’ll trust you to keep them safe.’

He inhaled again and glanced out toward the village, then focused his attention upon Boney, who faltered at the abrupt and very pointed focus upon him.

‘Since you seem to want to become an artillery commander, I’m putting you in charge of the bastiladons. Any attempt by these marauders to escape us, blow them to hell. Sergeants Coadmit, Yuecan, take your cohorts, circle around to the other side of the village and any that try to flee that way before the circle is complete, shoot them down. Everybody I haven’t already addressed, form up on me. We are marching into that village and cutting down any foolish enough to think they can take us.’

There was a moment where everyone shuffled themselves into position. Solin pulled his blade from its place at his back and gripped it firmly, eyes locked forward. By now, there must have been somebody within that village that had noticed the large number of lizardmen on the outskirts. They would try to fight first, no matter which Chaos god was revered, even Tzeentchian aligned warriors of Chaos stood and fought initially when confronted.

‘What are we?’ He called out.

‘We are the Children of the Gods!’

‘What are we?’

‘We are the coming storm!’

'Who are we?’

‘The Outland Legion!’

Solin allowed himself a grim smile, and then switched to High Saurian. ‘Legion, advance and leave none that call Chaos their master left breathing!’

As soon as the last word left his maw, they advanced, stepping forward in time with one another. It wasn’t synchronised, that was a level of organisation that was unnecessary for the Legion, so long as they remained in their formations, which they did. Their march was silent, yet still rumbled as thunder in the air, the force of an army marching as one vibrating the ground in open challenge.

It didn’t take long for the first group of Chaos marauders to make an appearance. The massed gunline on the northern side of the village stilled their advance as they took note of the armoured warriors that looked to meet them. Unfortunate for the Chaos warriors that they were marching on a line of musketeers, the results that were to come would be considered inevitable. A moment of silence, the Chaos warriors must have taken the sudden stop of the formations as some kind of sign that they were intimidating the skinks, they didn’t stop their march.

The skinks proved that they didn’t fear the slow advance of Chaos. The sergeants of each cohort on that side called out, and the skinks opened fire. The previously seemingly distant thunderous rumble turned to an immediate crackling as though lightning should have been painting the sky at that moment.

That was the last that Solin made out regarding what was happening on that front though, he quickly lost sight of them when his own advance had continued onward. Shortly after, they quickly encountered their own first sign of resistance. Horsemen sallied forth, charged towards his lines. He had two gunlines mixed with the high numbers of saurus he was leading to enter into the village proper, and those skinks were swift to fire, to cut down the charging cavalry before hurriedly reorganising themselves into squares as the survivors continued undeterred. The first of the mounted warriors reached Solin, likely assumed to be an easy target, a single figure seemingly separate from the formations alongside him.

His blade swung low, cut out the horse’s legs, then came down and carved into the torso of the now grounded warrior as they were thrown abruptly from their saddle to the mud-caked ground. Another horseman charged, but Solin’s large blade was already moving in an upward arch that cleaved through flesh and bone. To his sides, the saurus met the charges that had targeted them, while the squared skink formations took careful aim and fired, before hunkering down and bracing as at least three of the surviving horsemen deluded themselves into thinking that they had a hope of breaking these formations.

‘Come on, wretches.’ Solin barred his teeth, shouted at the village as the last of the horsemen found themselves cut down. ‘I have more respect for orcs than I do for you swine! At least they try to fight those than can fight back!’

There was a sound that reverberated in the air at that moment, and then a loud crashing sound. Nearby, there were screams, at least a couple of warriors of the Chaos warhost had been caught in that artillery shot. Maybe three, though it was possible that it was only two with a third screaming in shock at a near miss.

A halberd carrying warrior charged forward. Solin caught the polearm with his blade, twisted and stepped forward, plunging the length of silversteel through the breastplate and into the breast of the warrior. His foot came up, kicked, the force of which had the corpse slide off the sword and tumble to the ground. A gurgle revealed that the body wasn’t quite dead yet, that was corrected with a quite swipe of the blade.

A hail of gunfire, more warriors dropped as the iron balls punctured through armour and the flesh beneath.

Meanwhile, on the northern flank of the village, a large number of Chaos warriors ran from the village. Whether they were intending to flee the battle or not, it didn’t matter. The skinks quickly paused their marching and lined their firearms with the warriors. The sergeant who had been deemed in charge of the entirety of that flanking force paused a moment, watched the warriors, then narrowed his eyes.

‘ First rank, fire. ’ He spoke in saurian, no need to let the foe know the command being given. Not that it would change their fate.

At his command, the skinks at the front of the line all pulled back on the triggers, pushed against the kick of their weapons as gunpowder was ignited by the slamming of hammers against flint. The charging warriors paused as a portion of their number stumbled and fell. The skinks who had just fired quickly dropped to one knee, practiced motions pulling out the sachets with their next bullet and the gunpowder needed to fire, while behind them, the next row of skinks lowered their guns into an at ready position, lining the barrel towards those warriors that still stood.

‘ Second rank, fire.’

And history repeated. A wave of thunder and fire, a storm of iron hail, more warriors dropping from the barrage. Regrettably, it wasn’t as many as the first volley had downed, the warriors had lifted their shields and now advanced at a slower pace but hunched behind their defensive screens.

‘ Bayonets at the ready! Saurus, step forward.’

The skinks braced themselves, the front row remaining on one knee, but even if they’d already managed to reload their musket, they adjusted the grips on their weapons, ready to thrust it forward at the first instance that a threat came within reach. Meanwhile, the saurus advanced, sabres held at the ready. They let out a rattling hiss, equal parts intimidation tactics as well as a breathing exercise. The warriors paused a moment at the sound that managed to vibrate the air such that they felt it within their bones.

Major Boney proved to have a sense of timing, there was a distant bark of a carronade, and then a large iron ball slammed into the ground in front of the warriors of Chaos and bounced up and bowled down those that were unfortunate enough to be in its path. The sergeant, after a moment of blinking in shock, not having expected the friendly artillery blast, recovered his wits in short time.

‘Charge!’

The saurus didn’t hesitate, the moment that single word was hissed out, they threw themselves forward at the still recovering warriors, blades dancing in practiced motion, cutting down the foe in quick bloody motions. Those who managed to avoid the initial rush found there to be no respite, for their options were to turn and run back the way they’d come, to continue forward through the gunlines. Back only meant that they would be run down by the angry reptilian warriors, forward meant much the same, but with the chance of killing what they saw to be the lesser threat. It turned out to be a poor choice in their part, bayonets gutted them and put them down like diseased vermin, the amount of damage done skewed in favour of the reptiles.

The sergeant adjusted his hat and eyed the bodies. A quick order was hissed out, an order make certain that there were no survivors. The colonel had ordered no quarter be given, and considering who they were fighting, that was an order that they had no qualms obeying.


*


When the fighting eventually died down, Boney found Solin in what was once the village square. The saurus was radiating a sense of fury, hissing out directions to the saurus around him. The major found himself agreeing with the anger projected by the larger lizardman, his eyes quickly locked onto what remained of the village’s population, nailed by the arms to the walls of what had once been their homes.

None had been spared, Boney noted. It wasn’t just those who could have feasibly put up a fight, he was staring at the macabre sight of children , pinned alongside their parents. Boney wouldn’t pretend to be versed enough to guess the ages of humans by sight, but the sight of a human, no taller than Boney’s knees, hanging by a metal spike driven through their wrists on the wall? He didn’t need to know the age to know that it was a child too young to have ever deserved to be put through such a fate.

And that hadn’t even gone into the heads, impaled upon wooden spikes jammed into the ground. Though why those particular humans had been given that fate as opposed to the way so many had been nailed upon the walls, Boney couldn’t work out.

Sergeant Coadmit suddenly appeared at Boney’s side, a hand quickly latching onto the major’s arm. Boney started in surprise, then looked at the sergeant, who gave a slight shake of the head.

‘Careful. The village has survivors.’

‘That’s a good thing though?’ Boney couldn’t help the questioning lilt that took his voice at the last word.

Coadmit hissed softly, a wordless moment of letting air out from his chest.

‘They aren’t going to look on us kindly.’ The sergeant warned after an extended silence. ‘Most of them dead. Grief blinds. And we don’t look...’ the skink trailed off and gave a vague gesture of concern. ‘Don’t go further in. Let the colonel and the older saurus handle this.’

Boney opened his mouth, though what he planned to say he wasn’t certain. He never got the chance to really find out, because a small group of humans rounded into the village square, led by a broad-shouldered human with what looked like tree-trunks for arms. Despite the blood-soaked linens wrapped around those thick arms, hiding what had no doubt been his own iron spikes pinning him to a wall, he didn’t seem overly bothered by pain. The human’s face was twisted into a mix of fury and bitterness and grief, a combination that suggested that he wasn’t looking to offer gratitude.

‘You! You daemon bastards!’

Solin didn’t seem to flinch at the verbal abuse that was sent his way, though he did pause in what he was doing, hand previously gripping the iron spike impaled into an arm now relaxing and falling to Solin’s side as he turned to face the group storming toward him.

‘Not daemons.’ Solin’s voice was controlled, not quite stern but also not meek, some in-between that suggested that he was trying to be understanding that grief was talking to him, not rational minds. Didn’t want to come across as unsympathetic, but also didn’t want to come across as somebody willing to take abuse that was undeserved.

‘You bastards killed everyone!’ The human didn’t appear to hear either the words, or the tone. He stalked toward Solin with clenched teeth and fists curled.

If the human was going to take a swing or not, Boney never had a chance to learn, a high-pitched scream pierced the air. The source was another human, this one a female, who had just rounded into the village square and was now staring with utter devastation at the body of the child still pinned to the wall.

‘Missus Henze,’ one of the men called out, turning away from Solin and moving toward the woman with arms raised but not quite spread, as if he was uncertain of what he should be doing next.

Solin hissed something indescribable and pushed past the postering human and turned his head, followed the woman’s eyes. Another wordless expletive was hissed out, and he grabbed another of the human men. ‘Help me get the body down!’

The human blinked dumbly, but followed the saurus, held the body while Solin carefully pulled the spikes from the arms, which allowed the corpse to be lowered carefully to the ground rather than left to just slump down gracelessly. Whether the woman truly appreciated that or not, Boney couldn’t say, but once the man adjusted the body now in his arms, the woman—Missus Henze according to the name shouted called out earlier—approached and encircled her arms around the corpse and pressed her head against the child’s forehead, all while weeping loudly.

The thuggish man, who had been shocked into silence at the event, seemed to regain his wit, or what passed for it when his next choice of action was to storm toward Solin and swing his fist. Coadmit, who’d been silently observing, called out a quick warning the moment it was clear what the human was planning. Thanks to that warning, Solin turned in time to grab the human by the forearm, holding the flying fist in place.

The human started gasping, panting in pain, and it became apparent to Boney that Solin’s grip had been deliberately positioned, was clamped down directly over where the man had previously had a spike impaled into his arm. Solin gave no outward reaction to the crimson staining that soaked through the linen wrappings and now coated his fingers.

The saurus held that position for a period of time, then leaned forward and hissed something, quietly enough that Boney had no way of hearing just what had been uttered. Moments after the words were given, Solin pushed the human back and wiped his hands against his breeches, eyes locked onto the stammering human who seemed to have lost any semblance of bravery.

‘Stop it!’ the woman screamed out, looking up from the body of what was presumably her child. ‘I’ve lost enough!’

‘But Inge!’ another man, one who had yet to actually do anything, spoke up while his eyes locked onto Solin. ‘We can’t trust these... these...’

‘I don’t care what they are!’ Missus Henze, Inge, whatever her name was, snapped tearfully. ‘They just killed the ones that killed my children! I’ll not lose my brother to his own stupidity!’

Solin tilted his head at her, then looked at the body of the child, now fully transferred to her arms. The man who had helped him free the body from the wall coughed into a fist and then mumbled softly. ‘That’s her daughter. Her son was the captain of the watch. His head is one of the ones on a spike just outside the village.’

Solin visibly winced at the explanation. But the angry human who was, despite everything, still clearly raring for a physical fight, but unable due to the pain now dominating his arms, spat on the ground.

‘Well, they didn’t kill them all, did they?’

‘We killed all in the village, none escaped.’ Solin tried to reassure them, but the woman, eyes damp with tears that refused to fall, shook her head.

However, it was the aggressive human that spoke out next, his voice bitter. ‘There were more of them, but they left shortly before you arrived, too late to save us, if that’s what you were really doing.’

‘At least they arrived,’ the woman snapped at him.

After a moment, Solin hissed out an instruction to the saurus around the village square, an order to continue pulling the bodies free of the walls, as well as to keep an eye on the still living humans, before he then started to stalk towards Boney and Coadmit. The oldblood gave Coadmit a slight nod of acknowledgement, then looked upon Boney and jerked his head in silent request to follow him. Without any reason not to, the skink major followed after the saurus.

Solin started speaking, words that Boney wasn’t sure were meant to be part of a conversation, or just a moment of venting, Boney couldn’t say. ‘We were beaten here by two hours . Two hours that these people were strung up as decoration.’

Boney swallowed, found that his eyes still saw the body of the child even as he no longer looked at the scene. ‘Why?’

Solin didn’t answer immediately, eyes glassed over in thought. ‘Petty cruelty? General maliciousness toward anybody and everybody that isn’t one of them? Your guess is as good as mine.’

Boney inhaled, breath shaking. He tried to fill himself with that bitter fury that Solin was clearly feeling. If there was a worthy recipient of such fury, it was this warhost.

‘How many?’ he asked, and at the questioning hum he elaborated. ‘How many alive compared to how many dead?’

There was a drawn-out pause. ‘Population was apparently in the range of one-hundred and twenty.’ Solin jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the huddled survivors, now surrounding the grieving mother. ‘Of which we have only found nineteen survivors. So far,’ he was quick to add on, but his tone didn’t suggest he had much faith in finding many more.

Boney hissed out an expletive in High Saurian. This quite possibly marked his first failure as a part of the Legion, even if it strictly speaking wasn’t his fault. It was... unsettling to see such cruelty in practice. Even with the undead he’d been confronted by what felt like so long ago, they only aimed to kill the people of Tallow Farm, they didn’t seem to act with this calculated maliciousness.

‘I suppose that’s why their god is called Malice,’ Boney mumbled. It wasn’t intended to be heard, but clearly Solin had because he let out a startled guffaw at the comment.

‘Nobody ever accused Chaos of subtlety,’ he remarked softly, once he’d made certain that nobody had heard and taken offence to his reaction. ‘Though even by Chaos standards, that name is a little on the snout.’

‘Is this the cruellest thing you’ve seen Chaos do?’ Boney wondered.

Solin visibly swallowed. ‘It’s not exactly something I try to rate. But it’s certainly up there with impalement, which you’ll see far more often.’

The words left a chill within Boney’s blood, even as a moment of confusion tickled at his mind. Wasn’t that what they were here? Impaled against the wall?

Two saurus nearby managed to get another child’s body down from the wall and held it closely, one checking to make certain that it was indeed a corpse. Finally, they turned to face Solin and one shook his head slowly. Solin audibly inhaled, breath coming out in staggered intervals. He motioned toward a space where the bodies of the dead were being carefully laid out. The two carefully carried the body away.

‘Centuries of fighting, it never gets any easier when you fail through no true fault of your own.’

Boney cast a look at Solin, who had his head bowed and was clearly becoming lost in thought. Eventually though, the oldblood looked again at Boney and gave him a smile that was meant to be reassuring. It came across as slightly hollow despite his best effort.

‘You did good today. Think you might have found your niche as an artillery commander. Once all this is over and done with, I’ll see about getting Ingwel to get more artillery placed under your command.’

There was something to Solin’s tone that Boney wasn’t quite able to pick out. After a moment, Solin’s expression was wiped clean, and he straightened his posture, projecting a sense of confident strength. The reason became evident when a skink sergeant approached with a new human. The human was another female, her forearms wrapped in linens that had stained with blood.

‘Are you the leader?’ the human asked with a weak voice.

‘Of this group, yes,’ Solin answered. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get here sooner.’

The human shook her head, tears welling up her eyes. ‘You came... when the Imperial army didn’t.’

Solin was quick to shake his head, bending his knees so that he wasn’t towering over the woman, but now instead roughly eye level with her. ‘These marauders have spread across the entire province, so everybody is stretched thin.’

Boney narrowed his eyes at Solin, recalled the words that Solin himself had told him about the Middenland army’s absence. But he didn’t say anything, the oldblood quietly moved his hand in wordless order and Boney held his tongue rather than go against the saurus.

The woman sniffed. If she caught the exchange, she gave no sign. Her posture straightened slightly though, a tenseness to her shoulder fading ever so slightly.

‘Before you arrived,’ she began, wiping at her eyes with the palm of one hand. ‘They got a command from a rider.’

Solin tilted his head. ‘Oh?’

The woman’s lips twisted into what could have passed as a smile, had it more strength to it. As it was, even though the corners of her lips curled ever so slightly upward, it made her look anything but happy. She managed a stuttered inhalation and yet again rubbed at her eyes. The way her head moved, the way her eyes remained fixed into a forward facing and were unnaturally still, Boney quickly realised that she was doing everything she could not to look in the direction of the bodies being laid out. It only really dawned on Boney then that she had probably lost somebody, same as that mother earlier, that there was somebody whose body had been carefully laid for the warmbloods to perform whatever rites they needed, but she wasn’t yet ready to see that truth with her own eyes. A moment of denial.

‘A giant of a man. One wearing a skull as a helmet. I heard their command.’ She finally admitted, and yet again rubbed at her eyes. ‘They were being called south and west.’

Solin’s brow ridge rose. The human might not have been able to see it, but Boney got the distinct impression that Solin recognised that description. ‘What settlements lie in that direction?’

Her rubbing motions lowered to just beneath her nose, and it started to look less like she was rubbing and more grasping and clenching at her jaw.

‘There are a few. Zifann, Karerach, the imperial dwarf town—I forget the name…’ She trailed off, eyes momentarily going glassy. But after a moment she let out a breath and shook her head. ‘We… I…’ Again, she trailed off and her hand waved in the vague direction that other survivors were huddled—watching the interaction closely, Boney noted when he looked to them. ‘Where will we go?’ She finally managed to voice the question, tone quiet and full of defeat.

Solin let out a sound that Boney couldn’t translate, and seemed to recognise what the woman’s next act was before Boney even realised that there was going to be a next action. She let out a sob at the same moment that Solin leaned forward and carefully wrapped his arms around her making quiet sounds of reassurance. Like a dam had broken, the tears she had so valiantly fought back finally burst free and she cried into Solin’s shoulder.

‘Hey, shh… shsh...’ The sounds held no meaning to Boney, not in High Saurian, not in Reikspiel. After roughly twenty seconds, Solin’s eyes met those of Boney. ‘Go get everybody not working here and tell them to get ready to start moving south-west.’

Boney nodded once then slowly retreated, not ready to get involved in an emotional warmblood. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel some sympathy for the woman and the rest of the survivors, but he was far from ready to get involved in that.

When Boney next saw Solin an hour later, the saurus still had a large damp patch on his shoulder but didn’t seem to care overmuch. His crimson eyes were affixed to a map, stick of charcoal in hand.

‘Bealivun.’ Solin spoke seemingly at random.

‘Erm…’ Boney paused in his walk, blinking rapidly at the random word. ‘Bless you?’

Solin’s eyes narrowed into a bemused scowl that he directed at the skink. ‘It’s the dwarf town that Missus Brahms mentioned.’

‘Whom?’ Boney asked, then looked again at the damp patch on Solin’s shoulder and verbally backtracked. ‘Oh, right. Her name is Missus Brahm?’

The scowl didn’t ease from Solin’s expression. ‘Hardly the important detail, Boney.’

‘Right… sorry. What’s important about this “Bealivun” then?’

‘It’s where Major Zak and his regiments were sent.’ Solin spoke lightly, returned his attention to the map. ‘And we’ve not seen any runners from him telling us where he planned to go next, which means he’s likely still there. And dug in enough that an exalted champion was telling another warband to go reinforce the attack.’

Boney’s brow ridges rose slightly. ‘You know that for certain?’

‘No, it’s an educated guess.’ Solin admitted easily, eyes narrowed into a grin. ‘Zak is second only to Mort in being a stubborn bull about not being forced to step away from wherever he plants his feet. But even if Zak isn’t there? A settlement built by dwarfs, even imperial dwarfs, still seems like a safe place to put our collection of refugees. It's that or one of the major towns or cities of Middenland, and based on experience, those places will be less inclined to open the gates for refugees.’

‘What, why?’

Solin huffed with a mild note of disapproval. ‘They’ll claim it a security thing. Or they’ll claim it a supplies thing. The sad fact of it is that the bigger and better protected settlements, the same ones that seem to be spared these marauders, tend to develop a fair amount of paranoia and a “us versus them” mentality when it comes to outsiders.’ He paused, then admitted with a rueful tone, ‘Not that smaller villages don’t also get a very isolationist mindset. Humans are... complicated at the best of times.'

‘Clearly.’ Boney mumbled with bemusement, then eyed the map. ‘So, we’re moving to Bealivun then?’

‘Almost.’ Solin tapped his lower jaw in thought. ‘ You are going straight to Bealivun, taking with you all the thundersaurs and half our warriors, and you are going to take the refugees there. Me? I’ll take the other half of the warriors, and I’m going to check the other villages and towns on the path, just to be certain.’

Boney let out a sound of startled surprise at the sudden responsibility being foisted upon him. Solin lightly patted the skink’s shoulder and gave a reassuring hum.

‘It’ll be fine. My group will be able to move faster without the thundersaurs or refugees, so we should arrive at Bealivun at near enough the same time. If there is a siege situation, then you won’t be forced to fight it alone. If Bealivun is not under siege, then you have nothing to worry about anyway.’

Boney shook his head in acknowledgement. ‘So, we’ll meet at Bealivun then?’

Solin handed the map to Boney and nodded. ‘We’ll meet there. I promise.’

And with that promise vocalised, the oldblood moved deeper into the camp, calling out the names of sergeants to accompany him.


*


The wall crumbled as the pick finally pierced it one last time. Skaros took a moment to stare through the newly revealed opening, unmoving. A full minute passed before finally the armoured champion of Malice showed any hint of life.

‘You five, remain here.’ He barked the order at his personal guard. The warriors didn’t make a sound, but stood silently, backs turned to the new passage, watching for anybody who might intrude. Skaros then tilted his head at Soulshriver in silent invitation, before he then moved through the crumbled wall and into the chamber beyond.

Soulshriver followed Skaros without a word, curious. The chamber they entered into wasn’t by itself anything of note, until one looked closer, realised that the walls that made up this vast cave were not naturally formed, for nature did not have rocks formed of perfect hexagons, creating a honeycomb grid, only disturbed by the hole that had been made to allow them entry.

Even to Soulshriver’s eyes, uneducated in the way of stonemasonry, this structure was too perfect, not even the Dawi were capable of such precise work, and to have withstood the tests of time older than written history yet still retain such perfection in their measurements? There was surely some other force at play in the creation of this chamber. As if to further emphasise the unnatural nature of the rocks, they seemed to emit a light, not a bright light that would dazzle the unwary, just bright enough to be able to see comfortably.

After his examination of the walls, Soulshriver finally dragged his gaze to the main point of interest within this chamber. Against the far wall opposite the entrance was a throne, made from a glossy black rock that almost shimmered with aethereal hues that could not be natural, there were no names for the colours that reflected off that rock. Either side of that throne were two figures, stood in a mimicry of the personal guards of a great lord. They stood, arms crossed over their chests, large inhuman creatures that towered over all with a height that would have had even Valnar craning his neck to meet the eyes of, had he been there. The faces of these creatures had a vaguely leonine shape to them, but with elongated fangs visibly poking out from their jaws, reminding Soulshriver of the sabretusks of the Mountains of Mourn.

Sat upon the throne was the mummified remains of whoever it had been that this tomb had been built for. Like the two petrified forms flanking it, it was a large and imposing figure, enough so that even while clearly dead, Soulshriver couldn’t help a shiver of fear running down the length of his spine. There were entities in the world powerful enough that even their bodies projected an aura of that power even in death. This was clearly one such figure. It was hard to say what of its shape was its body’s natural shape and what was supposed to be armour. It was vaguely humanoid, but no human or elf had inhabited this body in life.

His mind brought up the mural that had been smashed to reveal this tomb. The figure depicted had had tendrils of light projecting from its back. Were these ten masses the physical remains of such?

‘Why are we here?’ Soulshriver finally deigned to ask, eyes locked upon the mummified figure.

‘Because of what this thing holds.’ Skaros answered, marching forward without hesitation.

Malice’s champion stood, within arm’s reach of the body, and he thrust his hand into the chest, puncturing through the petrified remains. At the throne’s side, the two guardian figures twitched, and moved as if to intervene, but the one to the left was cut down by Soulshriver’s naginata, while the other had its head caught in the grasp of Skaros’s other hand, the one not plunged into the chest of a long dead entity, and he squeezed, shattering the skull of the creature with careless ease.

Only after that, did he remove his hand, and in its grasp was a fist sized stone, a muted red in colour, shimmering with a faint glow of its own. For a moment, Soulshriver fancied that it was the literal heart of the body.

‘There are no names for this,’ Skaros mused aloud. ‘This isn’t one of those ancient myths that constantly reemerges throughout history. It was buried and until now had never again seen the light of day.'

Soulshriver listened, felt a chill as he gazed on the stone. ‘What is it?’

Skaros rumbled out a low laugh and carefully held up the stone, admiring it as one would a ruby. ‘An artifact—a relic of the ancient entities that those lizards worship as gods.’ He lowered the stone and secreted it away somewhere about his person with impressive sleight of hand such that despite Soulshriver never taking his eyes from the stone, he had no idea where it disappeared to.

At that moment, the tomb shook, as if the stone’s removal from the mummy’s chest meant that the chamber no longer had any purpose and was now determined to bury those who had plundered it of its valuable bounty. With a grunted curse, Skaros moved, with Soulshriver following closely behind, lest they find themselves sharing this tomb with its previous occupant.

 

Shadows from the Forest​

—​

Five hundred and seventy years ago

—

He clawed at the ground, dragged his battered body, ignorant of the way he tracked his blood along the dirt, granules of sand and debris stinging as they were granted entry through his open wounds. It didn’t matter that his legs had shattered, the bones turned to soft putty while every jolt, every motion, gifted a pain akin to a hundred heated needles being stabbed into him.

The heat of the flames kissed at him, left their mark. Fine clothing had melted and fused with his flesh. He was a corpse, but reality had yet to catch up and realise that detail.

He let out a pained grunt, forcibly dragged his body another few inches down the sandstone road. Bit down on his tongue as his ruined legs were ground against sharp debris. A small part of his mind mused at how lucky it was that the destruction of the palatial building hadn’t left the rubble raining upon his beaten form. Small mercy, surely being crushed beneath a chunk of rock larger than he would have spared him the pain, but then again, he refused to surrender to the inevitable. He had not survived his entire lifetime just to roll over and die.

If only that interloper had just minded its own business. That filthy wretch! That foul abortion of nature…

His internal cursing cut itself short as he became aware of the shadow that blotted the Arabyan sun. His eyes lifted and his breath stuttered at the entity that leered down at his broken form. It wasn’t the one he held responsible for his ruination, even though it had been involved. Its involvement had simply been... incidental.

The Lord of Change had a narrowed gaze. Its violet orbs were burning with hatred and fury while vivid purple ichor leaked from the myriad of wounds that it sported; dripped to the ground, whereupon each drop would start to sizzle upon contact with the sun-baked sandstone. Its vibrant blue plumage looked mottled, sported patches where the feathers were torn completely free, leaving barren flesh that looked out of place. Dotting the entirety of its body were deep, gauging wounds that were clearly painful, such that upon a mortal man, there would be little doubt that the life of the injured party was forfeit. Its wings were drooping, as though the effort of holding them to a comfortable posture was beyond the daemon’s power to do.

All in all, the daemon only looked to be in better shape than the broken man because it could stand under its own power. But the longer it towered over him, the less steady it could keep itself. Clearly had to fight to keep itself upright.

The greater daemon rumbled a sound of disgust. It leaned forward, hand reaching for the broken man. In turn, the man whimpered in pain. His hand searched fruitlessly for a weapon that was no longer at his hip. Where the blade had gone, he couldn’t say. Had it fallen from the tower? Been buried beneath all that rubble that surrounded him? It wasn’t important where it was, so much as just the fact that it was not at hand to be used.

Even if in his current state he held no chance of defending himself from the greater daemon—even in its own state of brokenness and clearly on its last legs, it was better able to push through that state—surely going out fighting, defiant to the last, surely that was better than simply laying there and allowing this abomination to kill him?

The daemon’s hand stilled but an inch from the man’s head; he chanced a look up, turned his attention to the daemon’s beaked face. The daemon was no longer looking down upon him, but had instead turned its own gaze upward, eyes widened in momentary confusion.

The man followed its attention, and his own orbs widened in terrified revulsion. The blisteringly bright yellow sky was how dotted with dozens of eyes. As if sensing his attention, those eyes all turned and focused upon him, examined him with an intensity which formed a physical weight that pressed down on the man’s head, migraine spiking and threatening to split his mind into two fragments.

Bile forced its way up his throat. He barely managed to roll, expelled the former contents of his stomach to the ground, but was too weak to roll away, found himself falling into the foul-smelling puddle, felt what remained of his doublet soak up the liquid, staining both cloth and the flesh beneath.

The Lord of Change let out a trill, faint and barely heard. Its head tilted, turned its attention back to the broken man. Its gaze was still burning with raw hatred, but now there was something else, something that the man was incapable of deciphering.

The daemon’s hand came down and gave a mocking caress, one that spoke without words that the man was at the abomination’s mercy, that it would take only a twist to end his life.

‘For what you did, I would make even Slaanesh’s favoured look gentle in comparison.’ The avian-formed daemon spoke with an echoing voice, its tone barely veiling contempt. It leaned closer until it rested its beak but a hand-span from the broken man’s ear. ‘It seems that your role is not yet finished, oh-weaver. There is more yet to your role.’

The man tried to speak, to utter something, but the daemon’s mocking caress was swiftly turned to vice-like grip, its fingers encircled his head and gripped tight enough that the man fancied for a second that his skull would just shatter under the force.

‘Consider yourself lucky. The eyes of change watch you. That alone has spared you this day.’

The daemon released its grip and straightened its posture, head turned again to the eyes in the sky. There was a moment where the dozen eyes turned to gaze at the greater daemon before blinking and fading from existence. Once the last orb was gone, the man realised that the daemon had likewise vanished, the only evidence of its previously having stood there was the pile of moulted feathers which were briskly carried by a wind that should not have had the strength to scatter them.

The man’s head didn’t stop hurting. Even after his vision turned white and consciousness left his body, the pain remained. That pain would linger for the remainder of his days.


*


Present Day

—

Wind and snow buffeted at his face as he leaned against the balcony’s outer wall, eyes fixed down at not just street level, but at the courtyard of the Bokya Palace. From his balcony perch, he could watch the procession below. Yet despite the force of the flurry of snow impacting him, his eyes did not blink. He merely continued to watch as the Kislevite army formed up and stood at the ready. Tzarina Katarin took a position before the formations of the Tzar Guard alongside her personal ice guard, while streltsi stood nearby, though not quite as still as the troops of the two guard regiments.

This was an army that he watched. An army formed of the veterans and the elite. No doubt once the tzarina began her campaign, she would bolster her army’s numbers with kossars recruited from the towns and villages that she passed. It was the smart thing for her to do, add some quantity to her quality.

The watcher hummed in amusement, and his eyes shifted to take in the odd one out. Trailing behind the tzarina was an older fellow in modest robes, noteworthy only in that he was carrying a heavy tome. The watcher huffed, shook his head slightly as he recognised that tome and what it meant for the one carrying it. To his amusement, the old man had a slightly blue hue to his lips, as though he had recently been victim to a blizzard, though he certainly seemed to hide any shivers. No doubt he had run afoul of the tzarina’s increasingly shortening patience. Her patience was a casualty of the slander and dissatisfaction spread by the church of the Grand Orthodoxy. How easily the little person fell victim to the whims and desires of those in power, caught up in the storm of public opinion formed by the rantings of a fanatic.

And the various nations of the Old World wondered why it was so easy for Chaos to find supporters.

He continued to watch from his perch, head tilting as he assessed everything that he knew about what was happening. The old man had arrived not so long ago, had somehow secured an audience with the tzarina, and according to the watcher’s sources within the Ice Court, had spoken of Ursun being alive but captive.

A captive of Be’lakor.

The observer couldn’t help the slight sneer that tugged his lips downward at the thought of the First Prince. How fortunate that this man with his cursed tome had convinced the tzarina of the truth of his words.

At the observer’s side, a wiry framed man also watched, though he wasn’t so capable of ignoring the weather, constantly rubbed at his arms to fend off the Kislevite chill. Even by the standards of the past seven years, this was a cold summer’s day.

‘I imagine the tzarina will prioritize mustering a force and getting the Boyars and Atamans to support her before she does whatever it is that the old man claims she needs to do,’ the observer said, but it wasn’t with the expectation of an answer, just thinking aloud.

‘The old man actually advised that she do just that,’ the wiry man said after a pause. ‘Do you think they actually plan to go into the very realms of Chaos?’

The observer absently looked at the sky. While it was no longer visible, the Winds of Magic were still in a maelstrom from what he now knew to be the fatal wounding of an actual god. An impressive feat. It was just painful that it came from the machinations of the First Prince.

‘It’d be quite the achievement with the maelstrom,’ he mused idly. ‘Right now, I don’t think anything less than the direct intervention of one of the Four will allow passage.’

There was a lengthy pause, the two continued to watch the tzarina and her inspection of her army. After another minute of observation, the Observer turned and removed himself from the balcony, left behind the chill of the cold Kislevite summer, and into a cosy warmth of a fire-heated study. The wiry man followed and seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief at the warmth that now blanketed him.

‘What news do you have?’

‘Down south in the Empire, a Chaos warhost has apparently made an appearance.’ The wiry man reported this with a dull tone, as if the idea of a Chaos warhost appearing out of the blue was just a mundane weekly occurrence.

The observer blinked in surprise, because that was the sort of thing that he would usually have had some form of forewarning about. ‘A warhost?’ he eventually repeated with a questioning lilt to his voice, wanting to be absolutely certain he hadn’t just misheard. At the other man’s nod, the Observer blinked again. ‘What warhost?’

‘The Warhost of Malice.’

The observer felt a slight chill that had naught to do with the Kislev winds. After a moment of thought, he shook his head. ‘Concerning. Though it’s likely to be a short-lived issue, the Four are actively seeking their next Everchosen as we speak.’

This time it was the wiry man who blinked in surprise. ‘I had heard rumours, but...’

The observer shook his head. ‘They have a potential champion already, but time will tell. Anything else?’

The wiry man paused, then inhaled a soft breath, as if bracing himself. ‘I heard a rumour that a rat was researching a name that you have an interest in.’

The observer cast a side-eyed glance at the wiry man. ‘A rat is researching a name?’

‘Pugna Textrix.’

The observer stilled, then slowly turned to fully face the wiry man, who backpedalled at the piercing eyes fixed upon him.

‘And you say a skaven is looking into that name?’

The wiry man nodded once.

The observer stared at the wiry man. ‘Curious. And concerning.’

‘My lord... what is the significance behind that name?’

The observer hummed thoughtfully. ‘I’ve met the one who bears that name before. Closest I ever came to death and the first time I ever felt fear. I had hoped to never hear the name again...’ He turned, looked to the skies with unseeing eyes. ‘Interesting timing... I wonder...’

‘My lord?’

The observer shook his head and absently brushed his shoulder of the snow that had piled up and not yet melted away in the heat of the study. ‘I think I am due a trip to the Empire.’

He punctuated that declaration by grabbing a heavy cloak from where it had previously been draped across a nearby chair and threw it across his shoulders with a slight flourish.


*


The difference between Kislev and the Empire was apparent very quickly. While the transition from frigid winter weathers to the pleasant warmth of late summer/soon-to-be fall wasn’t so stark as to be different the moment one crossed the border, it became very apparent not even a day’s journey from the border and into the Empire that the curse which had taken the northern realm did not pass into the lands of the Empire of Man. Anten was able to shrug off the excess clothing and stow them away within his horse’s saddlebags, glad to free himself from the leather spats and the overly heavy hide cloak, back to his favoured and far more fashionable (in his modest opinion) black and purple cape. Ostland still had a chill compared to other Empire provinces, its proximity to Kislev meant even when the northern realm wasn’t in the throes of a multi-year winter, it still had a naturally colder climate, but at least now Anten was back into a climate that felt like the time of year that it was supposed to be.

Within a quaint little village within Ostland, Anten found a tavern that sold alcohol that actually tasted like it wasn’t watered down—a rarity for the thrifty Ostlanders, who were so renowned for getting the most out of the least, so watering alcohol to increase the amount consumable if at the expense of potency was not uncommon—though even then it was still a very cheap ale. He settled at a table in the corner, his brimmed hat pulled low to better hide his snout from wandering eyes, and he sipped at the tankard while considering his next move. He could have just sent a letter by messenger bird to the colonel, or the marshal. But with what he had learnt up north, he had a feeling that this was a report better made in person.

Just had to work out where the Legion was at the moment.

A voice from the other side of the tavern had the skink tilt his head, listening. The voice was slurred, and the owner was swaying gently on the spot, a wooden tankard of cheap ale in hand.

‘Oy, oy... ya’ll been hearing th’ rumours?’

‘What rumours are ye talking about, Heinz?’

‘Th’ trouble in Middenland roight now...’

‘Middenland? In trouble? That’s not a rumour, Middenland is always in trouble.’

Most of the tavern’s patrons guffawed. Anten took another sip of his ale and hummed with his own faint amusement. I see the Provinces still have their petty rivalries.

‘Right, right, right...’ the drank chanted out the word a few more times before pointing at the one who’d made that comment. Or at least, he tried to point at them, except he was actually pointing about a foot to the side of the individual in question, who grinned widely in amusement at the drunk’s failure. ‘But aaah’m talkin’ somethin’ dif’ent. Th’ rumours... th’ rumours... th’ rumours... right the rumours... ‘pparently Middenland has an infestation... Chaos.’

‘Chaos? In Middenland?’ one of the sober patrons repeated, face twisted in bemused exasperation. ‘That’s a laugh. They’d have to get past Nordland, and I ain’t heard nothing about Nordland being invaded by Chaos.’

‘Is true!’ the drunkard shouted out, obviously displeased at not being believed. ‘An’ get this: the Middenland army ain’t movin’. Old Todbringah, ‘e’s missing and ‘pparently none else can order the troops.’

‘If that was the case,’ another sober patron began, ‘then Middenland would already have burnt down, and this supposed warband would have made its way to us.’ He paused, then shrugged. ‘Or to Reikland.’

‘Wait, no hold on,’ somebody else said in a contemplative tone. ‘Even if there isn’t a Chaos warband in Middenland, there is something going on.’

‘What are yah talking about, Ritz?’

‘Well, the Knights of the White Wolf have been out in force. They were right up against the acknowledged border between Middenland and Ostland,’ Ritz explained. ‘The way they was moving, it’s like they was hunting something, but then the way they turned and went back into Middenland proper, they spread themselves, like they were hoping to net something.’

There was a moment of silence as everybody considered the words coming from somebody who was not drunk.

‘You think it has anything to do with the sky exploding weeks back?’

Anten stopped listening from that point, slowly finishing his cheap ale. Even if the rumours weren’t true in their entirety, it was clear that there was something going on. Unless it was a civil dispute, one being kept under wraps, it sounded like something that Marshal Ingwel would try to involve the Legion in, especially if the part about a Chaos warband was accurate.

Drink finished, he stood and made his way to the exit, careful to move in such a way as to minimise the odds of his tail being noticed despite his cape. When the barkeep looked his way, Anten paused just long enough to bring his fingers to the brim of his gaucho before continuing lest his features get noticed.

He managed to leave the tavern without incident and moved toward where he had hitched the horse he had “borrowed” from Kislev. Rounded the corner of the building and stared in baffled annoyance as a pair of humans—looked to be youths not even at their second decade—worked to free the stallion from the post it had been tethered to.

‘Excuse me, mi amigos,’ Anten called out, not even trying to prevent his preferred warmblood language from slipping into his words. ‘Might I inquire as to what you are doing with my horse?’

The youths started in shock, with eyes widened in startlement at being caught. Then they noted Anten, saw that he was by himself, and that wasn’t as large or as broad as most human males, and they seemed to reach the conclusion that this meant that he was somehow weaker for it. The pair pulled free daggers from their belts and pointed the short blades at him.

Anten exhaled softly through his nostrils. ‘Sólo una vez quiero pasar un día sin soportar una estupidez a sangre caliente.’

There was a pause. The two youths frowned as the unfamiliar language was uttered, so smooth and soft compared to the gruff and guttural sounds of Reikspiel. They didn’t pause for long. Once they got over their confusion, they started to advance. Whether they actually intended to harm him, or were simply trying to intimidate him, he didn’t know, nor did he care. Anten grabbed the end of the coiled length of braided leather at his hip and flicked his wrist. The whip cracked against the air with a thunderous sound, and it was enough to startle one youth badly enough to drop their dagger. The other didn’t scare so badly, but their bravado was no shield against a near lifetime of practice with the unusual weapon of choice. A second crack, this one aimed deliberately, had the youth scurry back in fear for his eyes.

Not that Anten would have gone that far. He was practiced enough with the unusual choice of weapon that he knew its reach and how to control the distance it would traverse.

The skink angled his head such that the two youths could see his reptilian features beneath his brim, and that was the final straw that had them retreat in fear, screaming about a daemon. Rude. He didn’t bother coiling the whip back up, simply unlooped the reins of his horse from the post and mounted up. Best not to overstay his welcome.

He was due for a visit to Middenland.


*


Witch-hunter General Matthius arrived at the latest village that looked to be in the direct path of one of the marauding Chaos savages. His horse gave a nervous whinny, something that he couldn’t begrudge the poor creature. It felt like he was moving nonstop, and if that was how he felt, he didn’t want to imagine what the horse was feeling.

Four villages had been reached, and a militia mustered up in time to buy time for reinforcements to arrive. And unlike that first instance, the fact he had arrived at each with time to spare meant that the hurriedly formed militias were given a chance to be given proper training and arms. Well, as properly armed as peasantry in a village in the middle of nowhere could be. It wasn’t for lack of desire, or even the apparent means.

Matthius wasn’t stupid. He could see the pattern forming by the second village. By the third, he was certain he had cause for suspicion, and not his usual method of suspecting everyone and everything of potential worship of Chaos and witchcraft. One village having no spare arms despite a smithy was unfortunate. Two was concerning. Four villages not even with a spare bow to use? That wasn’t just a pattern, that was sabotage.

No matter what nobility reigning over their little fiefdoms might believe, villages had a share of hunters. It was essential for their survival. They needed to hunt for wild game if they wanted to survive, especially after paying off their taxation. A village that didn’t have any spears or swords despite a smithy taking place of pride in the centre of the village? Worrying. Those same villages lacking even a single bow to use in their defence against marauders? Something was inherently wrong with that picture. Wrong enough that Matthius made an effort to tone down his usual persona and instead adopt a quieter attitude, put on a more caring face—time and place, as much as his enemies liked to claim he lacked empathy or the ability to care for the working class of the Empire, he did know when to pull back on the vigilant inquisitorial mindset and instead be a supportive authority figure, and it just so happened that this was the moment for such. Questioning the villagers had painted a picture that he was not liking one bit.

The question that he now had, which no number of questions to villagers would ever manage to produce an accurate answer to: was it deliberate or not?

The picture painted, which had warranted such a question to form in the witch-hunter’s mind: Middenland state troops had arrived at each of the villages and taken away all their means of protecting themselves. Apparently, it was a tithe to be paid to benefit the army. The same army that was still standing behind the walls of larger settlements and cities, waiting for the word from the graf, who was apparently still yet to return to Middenheim.

The graf’s absence itself could potentially be from sabotage efforts. By now, he surely should have gotten a message via falcon or courier and made haste back to his capital to take control of the situation. Emperor Franz would hardly begrudge Todbringer’s absence in light of a Chaos incursion in his province.

More concerning than the graf’s absence was the absence of anybody else with the authority to mobilise the state’s army in protection of the province. Where were all the generals? Todbringer was many things, but incompetence—especially to the point of taking every single general with authority to act on his behalf with him to meet with the Elector Counts—was not one of those traits he carried.

It was fortunate indeed that those running affairs in Middenheim had the brains to work around their limitations and task those who didn’t answer to the graf with the protection of the province’s minor villages and towns until the army could be mobilised. Even if it did mean those reptilian menaces, the mere thought of which had Matthius’s lips tugged downward in a grimace. The Knights Panther, the free companies, the Knights of the White Wolf; they were all tolerable, but the redcoat lizards? Matthius couldn’t help but dislike them. It had nothing to do with the still throbbing reminder of the fist he had taken to the jaw, and everything to do with the fact that they were creatures who did not walk in the light of Sigmar. Hoffman’s admonishment about the Colonial Marshal in Lustria rang through his mind, and Matthius made a mental note to investigate Wilderei Geirherz to verify for himself just how trustworthy his word should be considered.

There was a static feeling to the air as he entered the next village, a feeling of anger that saturated the very air within the village’s palisade. For but a moment, Matthius wondered if he had arrived too late, that a Chaos band had beaten him to the village. That thought was proven false quickly. He spotted villagers swiftly enough, though all had a look to them that suggested they weren’t happy. And this wasn’t the usual unhappiness that came from people realising that he was a witch-hunter. This was a different unhappiness.


*


Sergeant Walter Schiffer had started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Unlike a lot of his comrades, he had enlisted, chosen to join the Middenland army, with every intention of dedicating his life to protecting his home. He didn’t begrudge those who hadn’t chosen to enlist, those who had been conscripted, who ordinarily would have their own roles to play in the running of the province. Farmers, crafters, they all had a vital place in keeping the Empire of Man stable.

But his discomfort had arisen with the orders of his captain, another lifer who had enlisted long enough ago that Schiffer was likely still suckling at his mother’s breast. Captain Oddone Falck was...

Schiffer knew his place. He was not supposed to think ill of his superiors, especially those so old and experienced as Captain Falck was, because for a soldier of the Empire to reach such an age meant that they were survivors, they had experienced brutal warfare and come out alive. Their experience was a boon to any they commanded. Or it was supposed to be.

Schiffer couldn’t help but feel like his captain was only a survivor because he had people in front of him when the fighting began. He had a particular look about him, a perpetual upturn to his lips that didn’t make Schiffer feel he was looking at a self-confident and assured leader, but that the captain was constantly sneering at his subordinates. His eyes never brought comfort, quite the opposite. Schiffer hated it when Falck looked his way, felt like he was being weighed on some scale that determined his place in life.

But his latest source of discomfort came about from these past few weeks. Ever since the call had been made for all of Middenland to muster the troops and levies, and to standby at a state of defensive readiness, Schiffer had gotten an ill feeling, one that had naught to do with the rumours of a Chaos incursion within Middenland, and everything to do with Captain Falck and the way he was constantly chatting with the mayor of their home—who was himself a sleezy figure that nobody dared utter an ill word about for fear of his reaction. The way that Falck had spent the past weeks taking them to nearby villages, not to lend aid, not to protect, but to tax them of anything they could feasibly use to protect themselves. Supposedly, it was to better arm the troops, make up for shortages in equipment that came from the sudden influx of levied men.

It did not escape Schiffer’s notice that everybody that Captain Falck had taken with him, to form this regiment of glorified taxmen, were city boys, those with no connection to the villages they visited.

It might not have unsettled Schiffer so much, if it hadn’t been for the fact that they weren’t just depriving the villages of the surplus equipment their smithies had crafted but not yet been sold or tithed to the larger cities that housed a garrison of state troops. When Captain Falck ordered them to go through every home and take anything of use, including such items as the personal and well-used bows of the local hunters, that was what really itched at Schiffer’s mind and conscience. Surely, they were not supposed to outright steal personal effects? How were the villages supposed to protect themselves from the threat, be it the rumoured Chaos marauders or greenskins or whatever else dared to strike within Middenland?

This was the sixth village they had come to deprive of all means of defending themselves. And Schiffer was not yet feeling numb to the thought that they were indirectly killing these villagers. He felt cold, his nerves being scraped at with a woodcrafter’s chisel. All he could do was look at the angry and scared villagers with an apologetic look as the captain argued with the village’s mayor.

It was the same argument that it always amounted to. The moment any argument against them made logical sense, Captain Falck would shoot it down with a counterargument that amounted to “what do you plan to do about it, fight official state troops on official state business?” That was the sort of argument that only the suicidal would dare contest. None had been brave enough, or suicidal enough, to call Falck out on his bluff, which Schiffer wasn’t certain was a bluff. He gave a thanks to Ulric for that, at least. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to cut down villagers who were just scared and rightfully angry. He wasn’t sure he was brave enough to go against the orders of his superior. Being executed for treason didn’t appeal to Schiffer.

Schiffer shook his head in disgust as Captain Falck shoved the village’s mayor, an elder man, to the ground, screaming obscenities, spit flying from his mouth, and giving orders to the state troops to start ransacking the village for any weapons that can be used.

That was when something new and against the pattern happened. A new figure walked into the scene, a tall man with long stringy black hair coming down from a large wide-brimmed hat, the same shade of brown as his long flowing overcoat. A bandolier crossed this newcomer’s chest, four pistols carefully strapped to that bandolier, angled such that he could grab each one and fire it with a single motion if he so desired. And sheathed at his hip was a longsword. And then Schiffer saw the newcomer’s eyes as he angled his head enough that they could be seen from beneath the brim of his hat, and sergeant Schiffer felt his throat dry up at the cold hard look to those dark orbs.

Falck quickly noted the newcomer and the equipment that he carried, and the captain got a greedy look to his eye, blind to the aura of thinly restrained contempt.

‘Well now, who do we have here?’ Falck asked with a honeyed tone.

The newcomer’s eyes locked onto Falck, flicked up and down, took in everything about the captain, from his uniform, which was, to Falck’s credit, immaculate, to his hat and the three feathers pinned to it.

‘You are the captain of this company?’ the newcomer asked, ignoring the question directed at him.

Falck’s expression twisted into an annoyed grimace at his own question being ignored, but quickly smoothed his features and answered him regardless. ‘That’s right. Captain Falck, doing my duty for graf and province.’

The newcomer’s gaze shifted, took in the two large wagons and the stockpiles of weapons confiscated from other villages. The way that his gaze lingered on the wagons, Schiffer felt the air thicken as what restraint the newcomer had on his contempt was slowly eroded.

‘Your duty, you say?’ Despite the questioning lilt, there was a definite sarcastic note to the words uttered.

Falck somehow missed that sarcasm, despite the lack of any effort for it to be hidden.

‘That’s right. Taxing the villages for anything to better arm and equip the troops who will be protecting them. There’s a Chaos warband on the loose, don’t you know?’

The newcomer’s eyes finally pulled away from the wagons, started to assess the troops under Falck’s command. Schiffer tried to nonverbally communicate that he wasn’t happy with his actions, that he was following orders that he could not deny. The newcomer’s eyes dug into Schiffer’s soul, silently judged him. Then his gaze returned to Falck as the captain resumed speaking.

‘In fact, I believe you need to pay us the tithe. Those pistols and that sword. Give them to us, so we can put them to proper use.’

The newcomer’s eyes narrowed into an angry squint. ‘I don’t think so. You will remove all weapons that you have illegally procured and give them to the villagers here. Then you will help train up this village’s militia. If you do so, maybe you will be spared judgement.’

Falck’s attempt at acting like a reasonable figure was abandoned and his face twisted into a snarl. ‘Who the devil do you think you are?’

The newcomer matched the snarl with one of his own. ‘Witch-hunter General Matthius.’ He identified himself with a growl.

Schiffer swallowed and his eyes widened with some small terror at the realisation that he was in the direct path of the righteous fury of a witch-hunter templar. Worse still, this wasn’t a moment where anybody could rightfully say the harsh nature was being directed wrongfully. There was a stillness that overcame everybody in the area as that fact solidified within their minds.

A brief flicker of panic flashed across Falck’s face, but it was masked by an attempt at confidence. ‘We’re following our legally given orders to better protect the people. You have no right to order us otherw————’

Falck’s words were cut off when the witch-hunter, in a single fluid motion, pulled one of his pistols free of his bandolier and put a bullet in the captain’s head. The gunshot echoed loudly, but it could not cover up the startled shouts of everybody watching the scene. A few of the Middenland troops reached for their weapons but stilled as the witch-hunter cast a sharp look toward them, dropping the pistol he had just fired and resting his hand on the next one on his bandolier, while his other hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. His gaze silently dared them to give him just cause.

‘On charge of sabotaging efforts of Empire citizens to defend themselves against the Ruinous Forces, I charge you with death.’ The witch-hunter post-humorously judged the dead captain, before he then turned abruptly toward Schiffer. ‘You, sergeant, you are now in command of this company. And I am commandeering your services henceforth. You men and your wagons are now under my command.’

There was a moment of silence as Schiffer had to take in what had just happened. Eventually—after a pointed cough from the witch-hunter—the sergeant nodded frantically. ‘Yes, my lord. What would you have us do?’

The contemptuous glower didn’t ease up from the witch-hunter’s features, but his posture relaxed ever so slightly. ‘You will distribute the weapons you confiscated from the other villages you have sacked. You will then help train up a local militia and prepare them to defend their homes. And you'll be thankful that I managed to help those other villages defend themselves long enough for reinforcements from a number of free companies to reach them, else I would be charging all of you with their destruction.’

‘Free companies, not state troops?’ One of the other swordsmen mustered the courage to ask.

The witch-hunter glowered at the one to speak. ‘No. And that is something that I will be investigating… quite… thoroughly once the threat has passed. I’m certain the graf will be doing the same once he learns that his entire command staff has seemingly vanished the moment that he left Middenland on business. You are the first state troops I’ve seen outside of defensive garrisons of major towns and cities.’

‘That can’t be right...’ Schiffer blurted in surprise. ‘You’re saying that there isn’t a single regiment out protecting our land?’

‘No, there is not. Middenland is currently being protected only by sell-swords, free companies and the local chapters of the Knights Panther and the Knights of the White Wolf, none of whom follow the state army’s chain of command.’ There was a grimace to the witch-hunter as he admitted that, when he mentioned the sell-swords in particular. ‘And we can be thankful that we have even that much. Where is your garrison and who commanded you to sack our own villages?’

Schiffer quickly gave the witch-hunter the name of his home city, barely large enough to be classed as a city, but still enough that it could and did garrison state troops. He quickly followed up. ‘The mayor is the one who commanded us. We don’t have a general, we only have the captain.’ Schiffer glanced at the corpse of his now-deceased captain. ‘Had,’ he quickly amended.

The perpetual downward tug of the witch-hunter’s lips became more pronounced. ‘Sounds like some rot has taken root. A rot that I will be removing in the future.’

Schiffer shivered at the proclamation, and the realisation that his words had just invited a witch-hunter to his home city. He wouldn’t mourn the mayor if the bastard died as a result, but witch-hunters were not known for restraint. He only hoped that nobody else got caught in the inevitable purging.

‘Now, I believe I tasked you with preparing this village to defend itself,’ the witch-hunter none-too-subtly reminded Schiffer, who straightened and spun to the rest of the company, hurriedly bellowing orders.


*


It hadn’t taken Anten long for him to find confirmation of the rumours of trouble, though not necessarily the source of the trouble. There was little reason for a knightly chapter—Knights of the White Wolf if Anten wasn’t mistaken, the banners with the image of an angry white wolf brandishing a warhammer was quite the giveaway—to be combing the lands in such a way. He took to avoiding the knights, chose to take the path of caution and not try to introduce himself. He had wondered whether they had been simply seen doing training exercises while also flaunting their might at the Ostland natives when he had heard that they’d been seen near the border, but no, watching them from a distance, he could tell that there was none of the revelry that came from a training exercise, there was a grimness that said they were performing every act with a seriousness that meant they considered their actions important.

Half of the week passed by without incident. That changed when in the early hours of the morning he spotted a band of warriors who were obviously aligned with Chaos. For as much as the Ruinous Powers embodied Chaos, they certainly seemed to enjoy a uniform look to their warriors. What was unusual was the white colouring to the armour, which didn’t match up with any faction of Chaos that Anten was familiar with. Still, Anten mused as he watched the warband marching, he wasn’t about to question the colouring decisions of a faction serving a malignant force that called itself “Chaos”.

Worked out quickly which direction the warband was travelling, and managed to ride ahead of them, was faster by virtue of being alone, found their intended destination. An Empire village.

He had to debate with himself whether he should warn the villagers of the impending threat or not. He didn’t have a cohort at his back if his appearance was taken poorly, and it was harder to avoid notice when directly conferring with somebody. It was easy for things to go poorly for a single individual skink.

Further investigating the village in question revealed that there were Middenland soldiers within the palisade, and the distinctive figure of a witch-hunter barking orders. Seemed that they were aware of the approaching threat, the soldiers were teaching the villagers tactics to better fight off an attack. That was good, saved Anten time, he could go back to his search for the marshal.

The skink shivered, a chill brushing at his spine. He wouldn’t be looking back, there was something about the village that was unsettling to him. Like a shadow lingering over the streets, despite the sun not being hid behind a cloud. Maybe it was the villagers being scared from the looming threat of Chaos marauders.

Anten’s eyes locked onto a woman who was listening to one of the soldiers that was teaching them how to best defend themselves. Her expression was pinched, the look to her eyes was...

Anten tilted his head, tongue unconsciously flicking. Like many of his kin, he was quite adept in reading what the warmbloods considered to be subtle body language. Subtle for the warmbloods was an open book for the Children of the Gods. Which was why, outside of the openly pinched expression, he was rather taken aback to find himself unable to get a sense of what the woman was truly feeling. He expected fear, nervousness and desperation, maybe a little forced bravado as she learnt the best way to set up a barrier which would block the street but still allow her to thrust her spear at the threat.

But nothing. A void of emotion.

More unsettled than before, Anten slipped out over the palisade, left without any within the village aware that he had ever been there. He quickly darted to where he had left his horse, and then stopped when he caught sight of the stallion. Or what was left of it.

He had left it tethered not too far from the village. Close enough that had anybody looked in the right direction they could have spotted it. Anten had even made a point of keeping half an eye upon the animal, and yet in the span of minutes at most, something had found his horse, and torn it to shreds, and yet there had not been a sound. No panicked wails from the horse, no growling of wild animals, no sound at all.

The horse’s intestines were scattered around, the head was... Anten had to look around before finding the horse’s head impaled on a tree branch. One leg was nowhere, period. It seemed like a lot of effort to go to, mutilating a horse that had been tethered to a tree a small distance from the thick forest terrain that loomed menacingly over so much of the Empire.

Was there some other threat, lurking within this forest? The horse had not died by some wild animal. A hungry wolf would not have mutilated the horse in such a manner, and certainly not opted to impale the head like so. Orcs? Thuggish brutes though they may be, mutilation of a creature like a horse didn’t quite seem like their usual methods. Goblins? Maybe... they had the cruel streak that their larger cousins had traded away for thuggish brutality. But it still didn’t feel right. And could a goblin have managed to throw or carry the head up the tree for the sole purpose of stabbing it onto the branch of a tree?

Maybe, but while it was a cruel thing to do, what was the cunning aspect of it? What was the endgame? Deprive a traveller of his horse and mock him? Great, that traveller now must walk only a short distance to the village literally right over there.

Anten hummed, irritated. He’d started to get attached to that horse and now he had been deprived of his mount. His eyes drifted to the forest. If there was another threat in there, making moves while a Chaos band approached, it might be best to investigate, to make certain that they weren’t about to compromise the village’s ability to defend itself.

Decision on his next move made, Anten moved forward, clambered up the first tree that was within the forest itself, and then started moving from tree to tree, eyes open for any threats.


*


Matthius was used to being suspicious. It was a perpetual state of being for a witch-hunter. Nobody was above suspicion, though certain peoples were exempted from that suspicion being openly displayed toward them—it was considered bad taste to look upon any Elector Count and openly express suspicion, that was the sort that was best tempered and hidden behind a mask of civility. Even other witch-hunters were looked upon with a critical eye, all while they gave the critical eye back.

Corruption and sin could be found everywhere, even in the most unlikely of suspects. Matthius had long ago come to terms with that fact, and when he was not reflecting inwards to make certain that he hadn’t fallen for some subtle temptation, he was judging everybody and everything that he encountered. It didn’t endear him to many, and fewer still tolerated his presence any more than they were required to.

So, the apparent friendliness of the villagers was a red flag being waved in his face. The closest person he had to considering an actual friend was less friendly to him than these villagers were being. A small part of his mind was quick to rationalise that they were thankful and were seeing him as some saviour figure for intervening with the attempt to loot them of every usable weapon that they had to their name.

But this was too much. And after the first hour of it, he had gotten over the novelty of being treated like some famous travelling minstrel and reverted to his default mental state of examining and second guessing ever act and word that crossed his senses. Critical eyes would glower, take in every detail that could possibly be perceived. There was something missing though, a detail that was escaping his notice only through its absence. What was it? What was he missing?

It took him longer than he would care to admit before it finally registered. It was when he and the sergeant that he had given a battlefield promotion to were peering over the village palisade at the nearby sight of a mangled and brutalised horse, ripped apart by something, that his attention was drawn back into the village when one of the Middenland state-troopers had called out to one of the villagers.

‘Missus? Are you alright?’

Matthius had turned away from the outside of the village to observe as the soldier had approached a woman, the bulge of her stomach indicative of her pregnancy. She was very far along, far enough that Matthius would admit to not being surprised if her water were to break and she needed to give birth right that moment.

‘Oh, I am fine, ser.’

The soldier’s expression briefly twisted into amused surprise at being addressed such. No doubt he was no higher in social station than the woman herself, so being addressed as “ser” would have taken him by surprise.

‘Are you certain, missus. I am sure that we could have you taken to another village that is not in the path of the horde. If we use one of the wagons, we could get you and any children and the elderly safely to a garrisoned settlement until the danger passes.’

Matthius hummed as he heard the words, silently commended that one soldier for the thoughtful act—and quickly hushed that positive thought with suspicion that the soldier likely only suggested it with the hope that he’d be the one to take the wagon full of the vulnerable to said safe place—and had been about to return his attention to the mangled body outside the village when the words repeated themselves in his head and his eyes narrowed.

Where are the children? A village this size, there should be at least a handful of children. For that matter, I haven’t seen any villager older than their third decade, aside from the mayor. Again, village this size, even with the mortality rates of settlements like this one, there should be at least a couple of elders.

He ran his mind through every second of his time in the village, watched his memories like a hawk, but he had never seen any indication that there were any children or elders existing within this village. It was that detail that had been missing.

As the soldier and the woman continued conversing, he leaned forward, observing the woman. Her expression was... bemused, as she refused the soldier’s offer with a declaration that she would not be chased from her home. Bemused and irritated.

Matthius glanced at the body beyond the village, then drifted his gaze to the forest that all but surrounded the village, leaving only the beaten path and the village clear of the thick canopy. He then looked again to the woman.

‘A question,’ he called out to her, was bemused to watch her startle, expression twisted into an annoyed scowl until she recognised who it was that had started her so, in which case her face shifted into a friendly smile. ‘Have you had any troubles from within the surrounding forest?’

He was interested to note that her friendly mask faltered, morphed momentarily into concern, then suspicion, fear, and then controlled itself and reformed to a genial smile.

‘Oh no, ser. If there is anything within the forest, then they have always steered clear of the village.’

Matthius grunted softly. ‘Oh?’

The woman seemed to sense where some of his scepticism was coming from, she shook her head softly. ‘There have always been wolves within the forest, and while they’re opportunistic, they have never actually come close to the village.’

Sergeant Schiffer scoffed quietly. ‘Bullshit,’ he mumbled. ‘No wolf would waste that much meat.’

Matthius concurred with Schiffer. While they weren’t leaving the safety of the palisade to take a closer look, it was evident to him that the remains hadn’t been devoured from, and wolves weren’t in the habit of decapitating their prey. He wasn’t an expert, but he didn’t think the jaws of wolves were strong enough to snap bone in that way.

He wondered idly where the dead horse had come from. The strips of fabric and the ruined remains of a saddle made it evident this hadn’t been a wild horse. Somebody had been nearby. Close enough that they could have called out for attention, so what happened to them, while their horse was mutilated?

Matthius's suspicions regarding the villagers only grew when throughout the rest of the day, he would notice any that weren’t being trained up huddling together, exchanging hushed words that would then still when Matthius was noticed nearby. He had yet to get close enough before notice to catch wind of what was being said.

Couldn’t really exchange suspicions with the state troopers—due to their role in nearly looting the village of anything of use, they were treated with not-quite hostility largely held behind a show of civility. It was an attitude that was expected, but it also gave even the more suspicious minded of the soldiers an expected attitude that lowered their guard regarding deeper issues.

It galled at Matthius that if they hadn’t tried too hard at the show of thankfulness and acting like he was a saviour, if they had acted thankful but still reserved, then he himself might have lowered his guard.

That night, after everybody had checked the various hastily constructed barricades and the effort to reinforce the gates into the village, everybody had gathered at the communal fire in the centre of the village. Stew was made, a simple meal from a simple people, but with enough to spare that there would be none going hungry that night.

Matthius tasked Schiffer with assigning a watch rota, then carefully hopped over the palisade when nobody was looking.

The lack of children was not something he could easily investigate without potentially upsetting and making the villagers hostile. But the surrounding forest was something that he could investigate. That one woman had had the most interesting reaction to the question of whether anything in the forest might be given them trouble. That made Matthius feel an obligation to investigate. Maybe it was nothing, just local superstitions. Or maybe there was a corruption taking root.

Maybe it would have been wiser to investigate during the day. His night vision wasn’t terrible, but with some creatures that dwelt within thick wooded regions, there was no competition. But he would prefer that his investigations go unnoticed. At night, everybody would assume that he had simply retired for the night.

He resisted the urge to light a torch, chose to rely on his senses, chose not to advertise his position with a bright light declaring “somebody is right here”. There was a story he had once heard about another witch-hunter templar, who had been travelling with a band of adventurers, and in the middle of a night excursion into one of the Empire’s many forests, had encountered a group of cultists dedicated to Nurgle. The witch-hunter had opted to surround the cultists and then launch a surprise attack upon them, but then made the mistake of moving within the light of the cultists’ campfire. he suffered for his mistake, the illness that was inflicted upon him left him physically incapable of continuing the physical lifestyle of a witch-hunter, even after the disease had passed from his system, left him constantly short of breath and only able to perform clerical duties.

Even besides the anecdotes of his fellow witch-hunters, he had also long ago learnt that standing within a light source during the dark hours actually worsened his sight.

Two hours of searching, he was beginning to doubt he’d find anything. The problem with that thought was that he wasn’t finding anything. He hadn’t so much as heard a single sound that wasn’t his own soft breathing. Usually there was something, the sound of wild animals if nothing else, but the dead stillness was a clue that something was amiss, but also lacked compelling evidence as to what was amiss.

Matthius was going to turn and start making his way back to the village when he was abruptly grabbed from behind, pulled back and dragged against a tree whilst a roughly textured hand pressed itself against his mouth. He moved to struggle, to grab either a pistol or one of his knives, but stilled as a soft voice quietly made a hushing sound. Something about the way he was being hushed triggered his survival instincts, he quickly stilled, didn’t move, didn’t try to fight against the hand against his mouth.

Footsteps, light and barely heard, wouldn’t have been if Matthius wasn’t keeping so absolutely still. Even the ruffling of his garb from his slow pace would have been enough to mask those footfalls that he now heard.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The sounds paused, the silence was renewed, and almost suffocating. His eyes, long adapted to the darkness he was traversing made out a large form, but it was shadowed, little more than a silhouette. Whatever it was, it was not human—too large, too broad. Horned.

There was a long moment where Matthius wondered whether the form was staring at him and the one holding him. Then the form shifted and started to move, disappeared behind the blank shape that was a tree’s silhouette. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The individual that had grabbed Matthius didn’t move away, continued to keep a hand pressed against his mouth, even after the footfalls had long sense faded away with distance. Five minutes they remained like that before the hand was moved away and a soft exhale was heard.

‘It is gone.’ The voice that whispered was accented, sounded Estalian, but with a familiar tang of something else.

In the darkness, Matthius could only make out the shape of the individual, and not even that if he was honest. It was clear they were wearing a cloak or a cape, and it obscured their shape almost as much as the flat-brimmed hat warped the shape of the individual’s head.

The individual hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. ‘This forest is crawling with those things.’

Matthius regained his voice, reigned in his immediate suspicion. ‘What are they?’

‘That was a bullgor.’ He was answered. ‘But I’ve seen plenty of gor and even a few bestigor. This forest is home to beasts of Chaos.’

Matthius swallowed, wettened his suddenly dry throat. ‘You are sure?’

The figure hummed. ‘I’ve not so much experience with them as I do the Chaos dwarfs, but I would still recognise them.’

Matthius let out a breath, his mind racing, bringing up everything he had ever learnt of the beastmen. ‘Are they migrating, or is there a herdstone near?’

‘That, I have no idea.’ The Estalian accented voice sounded annoyed at their own failure to answer with a solid answer in one way or the other. ‘If it helps, I’ve seen no evidence that they are part of the One Eye’s brayherd. I’ve not seen any shaman either.’

It didn’t help, not seeing evidence didn’t mean the evidence didn’t exist. Just that it potentially hadn’t been found yet.

‘Why would they not raze the nearby village?’ he found himself asking, more to himself than this stranger.

The stranger answered regardless. ‘I’ve been wondering about that myself. And to think, I wouldn’t have thought to check this forest if my horse hadn’t been butchered.’

Matthius latched onto that comment. ‘It was your horse that we saw outside the village?’

There was an affirmative hum. ‘I had come to warn you of the marauders approaching, found that you had the situation in hand, went to leave, found my horse dead. Honestly? I was expecting goblins, not beastmen.’

That was a fair assumption. Matthius wouldn’t have been surprised to encounter a tribe of greenskins lurking in the woods, a small tribe of goblins, not big enough to have the courage to actually attack the nearby village, but still cruel enough to find other ways of harassing the residents within.

‘Do we go back to the village, amigo, or do we search for the herd’s nesting grounds?’

Matthius grunted at the question levied at him. Unfortunately, there was no real question about what his answer would be. If there was a brayherd in this forest, that was not a threat for a single individual to confront. Not even a witch-hunter dared to face off against an entire brayherd alone. He would need reinforcements, and unfortunately, the men he had commandeered didn’t number enough that he felt comfortable taking them into the forest to deal with the beastmen. Those little details he knew of the beasts said that within woodland terrain, they would have a terrible advantage against the men of the Empire. Even absolute faith in Sigmar was not giving him the courage for a suicidal task such as that.

The village has defensible... Wait, Sigmar damn it, the coming Chaos marauders. At this rate, the village was going to have to be written off as a loss. If the brayherd attacked, then they would be forced to defend from two attacking forces with limited numbers and limited resources. This was a rare instance where even the most devout had to concede that discretion was the better part of valour.

‘Back to the village, we need to get everybody ready to flee.’

The stranger hummed in acknowledgement without any judgement.


*


Sergeant Schiffer was startled from his watch when one of his subordinates came running, eyes wide. For a moment, Schiffer was afraid that the Chaos attack had come early, his grip on his spear tightened to the point that his knuckles were making cracking sounds. But considering the wide-eyed expression wasn’t terror but panic, and there were no screams of “they’re here!” then it had to be something other than the inevitable attack.

Becken halted beside Schiffer, eyes frantic. 'Sergeant, Missus Hartig is giving birth!'

Schiffer blinked, ran those words through his mind as if to make wholly certain that he had heard right, then blinked again. ‘Scheiße,’ he swore softly. ‘Of all the timing. Where is she?’

‘She’s in the inn,’ Becken said with a vague wave of his hand in the direction of the building that was what this village called an inn. It also passed as a public house, which would explain her reason for being there, maybe not for the drinks but to be socialising with the other village residents.

‘Just one more thing to worry about when the marauders reach us,’ Schiffer groused, leaning against the top edge of the palisade, absently looking at the surrounding scenery. ‘She was already going to be a burden defending this crap-hole. Now it’s going to be worse...’ he trailed off, lacking any real heat to his grumbling.

‘Have a heart, Schiffer,' Becken said in rebuke. ‘It’s not like she planned to be pregnant during a Chaos incursion.’

‘She could have taken up the offer to be escorted to a safer place,’ Schiffer snapped in return. ‘She chose to stay here out of some misguided sense of "ain’t nobody telling me to leave my hearth and home". Never mind that she has more than just her own life to worry about.’

Becken’s lips twisted into an amused sneer. ‘And if you were told your home was about to be attacked, you would absolutely leave.’

‘That’s different,’ Schiffer argued, pointing the end of his spear at Becken as though it would help drill the point into the other soldier’s thick skull. ‘I’m a trained soldier of the Midddenland state army—a sergeant. It’s my job to face threats to home, province and Empire. If I fled, that’d be called desertion, and I’d probably find myself taking a long walk off a short bridge if I dared try.’

Becken snorted and shrugged. ‘And if you weren’t?’

Schiffer’s eyes rolled and his head shook. ‘Doesn’t matter, I am a sergeant of Middenland, so it’s pointless thinking otherwise.’ He exhaled, then hopped down from the walkway that allowed him to see over the palisade. ‘You said she’s at the inn?’

At Becken’s confirming nod, Schiffer started to march to the inn. It didn’t occur to him that he was hardly going to be able to help, he had never witnessed a woman giving birth before, certainly had no experience with helping in the delivery of a newborn. But he elected to go see the event, he even promised he wouldn’t get smarmy at the new mother for the position she was putting the village’s defence in.

The inn was a flurry of organised chaos. Missus Hartig was laid upon one of the tables, head aimed toward the door, presumably to prevent anybody from getting an eyeful of her unmentionables as they walk into the inn. She was gasping loudly whilst at her legs, Missus Wessely had her head disappeared up Missus Hartig’s dress, her voice heard constantly preaching ‘Deep breaths dear, deep breaths. Relax. I said relax!’. The sight might have been comical under different circumstances, but Schiffer wasn’t amused, though the gasping Missus Hartig managing to sputter out the kind of vulgarity that would have even hardened veterans of the state troops impressed managed to have the sergeant raise an eyebrow.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Fick dich (du) Hurensohn,’ Missus Hartig screamed at him.

A man who shared a likeness with Missus Hartig guffawed at the vulgarity escaping her lips, while Schiffer found himself leaning back as if the verbal abuse were a physical force slamming into him. After a moment, the sergeant inhaled and gave a single nod.

‘I see you are doing remarkably well,’ he said in a dry tone as though she hadn’t just insulted him.

‘I’m going to kill him!’ Missus Hartig shouted. ‘That bastard put this thing in me, I’m going to make him feel every bit in pain as what he has put me through!’

Strangely, that declaration had the villagers fall into a hushed silence, looks exchanged, while the three soldiers—Schiffer included—could only feel a sense of confusion at the reaction. Was the father of her child—and Schiffer wondered if anybody had actually been told who the father was, there hadn’t been any physical indication as to who had fathered the soon-to-be-born child—somebody that garnered such respect that the cursing of a woman giving birth would still cause concern at potential offence?

‘Ostara, you do not mean that, surely?’ The man that shared her likeness asked, seemingly in gentle reproach but there was an underlining layer of iron in his voice.

‘Do not dare to tell me what I mean, brother!’ She yelled, before devolving into pained screaming as she had a contraction at that moment.

The man, her brother, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and moved so that he was partially hid behind Schiffer. Schiffer raised an eyebrow at him, to which he gave a wan and wholly unrepentant grin.

Long minutes later, Missus Hartig stopped screaming, and for a handful of seconds, there was silence. Then sound returned in the form of a baby’s wailing as it took its first breaths. The midwife pulled herself away from Missus Hartig’s unmentionables, cradling the baby close to her chest and looking down at the new life in her arms with an expression of awe and joy, so much so that one would think that she was under the belief that she were the mother instead.

‘Ostara, you have a beautiful baby boy,’ she finally announced.

Schiffer looked over, interested despite himself to see this newborn child. Missus Wessely tilted her arms to angle the babe within so that all that were present could see. Schiffer immediately felt disgust as the infant was revealed, as he took in the already open amber eyes and the horizontal slit-shaped pupils, took in the fine layer of fur, and noted the small nubs on its head that would one day grow into horns.

‘Mutant,’ Schiffer heard Hecke mutter in recognition.

No, worse, Schiffer thought to himself, beastman.

Movement from the edge of his vision. Turned his head just enough that he was able to see as one of the villagers lunged at Hecke, a knife in hand, and Hecke fell to the ground, blade punctured into his neck. Schiffer sensed movement behind him. He swung his elbow back, connecting with Missus Hartig's brother's nose. Felt no regret, actually felt panic as the other men of the village rounded on him. Couldn’t see Pilzer, but a villager was standing exactly where Pilzer had been previously, a cleaver in hand dripping with red liquid.

Schiffer dropped his spear and pulled his messer from its scabbard and backed away from the villagers, made certain to put the wall at his back. Eyes roved, left to right, took in the group of villagers, all staring at him with open hostility. Missus Hartig was still on her back, laid across the table—must still be weakened from giving birth, but her eyes were locked onto him with a dark hate—while Missus Wessely retreated to the back rooms, mutant child in her arms, no doubt looking to find somewhere safe.

Schiffer inhaled, shifted the blade in his hand toward the nearest villager when they took a step toward him. There were enough of them that despite their not being armoured or even armed with any real weapons, he would be overrun quickly if they moved on him as one.

He wondered, for a moment, whether this was delayed retribution for the attempt at taking away any arms that they could use to defend themselves. He dismissed that thought quickly, the reaction to the mutant child was the key. The midwife, Missus Wessely, she had called the baby “beautiful” even as she looked upon it and could see it for what it was. Coming from the mother, it could have been excused as wilfully ignoring the truth to have a moment of the happiness that should have been felt under normal circumstances, but no, it was the midwife who smiled and still moved to protect the mutant child. And none of the other villagers in the room had recoiled or grimaced or made any reaction other than acceptance.

Not even surprise.

Shit. They knew the child would be a beast!

Schiffer chose to act before the villagers had a chance to gather their thoughts and decide to rush him. He lunged at Missus Hartig’s brother, seeing him as the weak link with the way that one hand was more focused on trying to stem the bleeding from his broken nose. Schiffer’s messer cut through the man from shoulder to hip, cutting deeply enough that it was surely a fatal wound. But the sergeant didn’t stop his forward momentum with the cut of his blade into flesh, continued forward, shoulder-barged the fatally wounded man and dove, threw himself bodily through the window nearby.

Wood splintered as the shutters failed to withstand the force of a human in flight, fragments raining down upon Schiffer as he hurriedly rolled to his feet. Once upright, he drew in air and then bellowed as loudly as he could, warning everybody that the villagers had turned hostile. Hopefully he was heard.

There was a shout. Schiffer looked up, took note of the villager charging at him with a spear held out. He cursed, threw himself to the side to avoid the end of the spear, then grabbed the shaft, tugged then shoved, which had the man holding the spear fall backward at the abrupt reversal when he had braced himself to avoid being pulled forward. Schiffer quickly stepped forward, stabbing his messer into the prone villager, twisting the blade then pulling back out while scanning for any further threats.

Another spear was thrust out of the window he had exited moments prior. One of the villagers he had escaped sneered at him through the opening, already pulling back on the spear, but Schiffer had already moved, put enough distance between himself and the window that anybody within the inn would need to leave if they cared enough to try and run him through.

Really starting to regret spending the past day training them.

Another shout caught his attention, and he turned, took note of one of his comrades, though with them facing away from him he wasn’t able to identify who at that moment. But that was fine, at that moment there was sure to be strength in numbers.

‘Hey,’ he called out. The uniformed soldier turned, and now Schiffer was able to identify him as Becken, who was ashen faced as he stared at the body of a villager, his spear stabbed into the body’s chest.

‘Sergeant.’ Becken wrenched the spear free from the body. ‘What’s going on? He just charged at me with an axe.’

‘Missus Hartig, she gave birth to a beast.’ Schiffer started to explain, then had to pause as another villager made themselves known, stood on a roof with a bow in hand. The arrow was blocked by Becken’s shield, though both of them would admit that it had been a close call. Without a ranged method of retaliating, the pair hurriedly moved to take cover behind around the corner of the general store. While he scanned for any more sign of threats, Schiffer continued speaking. ‘None of them were shocked at the mutant child, they knew.’

Becken cursed softly. ‘Really? There is a witch-hunter here, isn’t it his job to notice this kind of thing?!’

Schiffer privately agreed, but also got the sense that the witch-hunter was distracted. A roving band of Chaos marauders in Middenland was a slightly more pressing concern than checking for smaller threats from the Empire’s own peoples.

‘Where is the witch-hunter general anyway?’ Becken asked, leaning out from the corner, shield raised.

‘He went to check out the forest.’

Becken jerked back, an arrow flashing through the space his head had but moments prior been inhabiting, but he didn’t seem to care about that, his attention was fixated upon Schiffer.

‘What in Ulric’s name is he doing in the forest at night?’

‘Investigating,’ Schiffer snapped waspishly. ‘Where’s everybody else?’

Becken opened his mouth to answer, but any response he could make was cut off by a shout from nearby. This time it was not a hostile villager, it was another of their brothers in arms, standing on the walkway on the inside of the palisade, arrow notched and then loosed. A scream was heard, and when Schiffer peered around the corner, he spotted the archer that had previously shot at him and Becken fall from their rooftop perch.

No longer pinned down, Schiffer moved toward the friendly archer, Becken close behind him. ‘Hey,’ he called out.

The archer, who had turned to lean over the top of the palisade, angled his head so that he could see Schiffer, then seemed to do a doubletake.

‘We have a problem,’ he called back to Schiffer.

‘Yeah, it’s called the villagers have gone rogue,’ Becken shouted back.

‘There are beastmen in the village,’ the archer continued as though Becken hadn’t spoken.

‘Oh...’ Becken uttered, quietly, while turning to try and spot the beastman that the archer had noticed. ‘That would be a problem.’

The archer grabbed an arrow from the rack placed against the wall and placed it against the string of his bow, eyes narrowed as he waited for the moment to pull back and loose the projectile.

Schiffer watched as the archer released his arrow, he watched as the arrow flew, and he watched as it neared its target only to stop mid-flight, the beastman that had been targeted turning its head abruptly to stare at the now stationary arrow. It then slowly turned its attention to where the arrow had been shot from. A hand was lifted, the gnarled staff it held gestured toward where Schiffer stood with his tow comrades. There was a pause as nothing seemed to happen, and then the air filled with the screeching of feral birds that appeared from seemingly nowhere. Schiffer leapt, unintentionally dove from the walkway and hit the ground with a loud crash. Next to him, Becken also landed, albeit with far more grace than Schiffer had managed.

The third of their number wasn’t so fortunate. Whether it was because he had moved too slowly, or he had been the intended target, the result was the same. His screams were audible over the cackling screeches of the crows that tore and pecked and ripped his flesh to ribbons. Ten seconds the screaming continued, before fading away with a wet gargle.

Schiffer swallowed his suddenly dry throat at the reminder of why he feared magic. Sanctioned wizards included. What hope did mere mortals such as he have in protecting themselves from powers that defied logic and sense? And there was certainly never going to be any accusation that a beastman shaman was a sanctioned magic user.


*


The stranger had Matthius stop a short distance from the edge of the forest. Matthius was prepared to spew out an irritated tirade at their delay, but the way the stranger twisted their head and tensed, something about it stilled his tongue. There was a moment where the stranger was silent, then...

‘Mierda.’

Matthius recognised the Estalian word as a curse, and he frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

There was a hushing sound from the stranger, then another softer curse. ‘Beastmen are moving toward the village.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’ Matthius asked with open suspicion, but was answered when, despite neither of them moving, a branch being stepped on and snapping punctured the air.

‘I can hear them,’ the stranger answered regardless, tone hushed. ‘At least four of them, we need to move, now.’

Matthius wasn’t about to argue a good idea, especially not when he wasn’t certain what that “at least four” meant. Four gors? Besitgors? Bullgors? Something else? Best to not chance it.

The pair sprinted, no longer caring for stealth. The beasts must have heard, for they also started to move rapidly, the sounds of footfalls now heavy and audible to Matthius, branches were pushed aside, leaves rustled and disturbed. Matthius chose not to think on that, focused exclusively on moving. They reached the edge of the forest and left its confines, adjusted their path so that they were running toward the village, which was still alight with the night’s firelit braziers.

Behind them there was a snarling sound and the stranger’s silhouette disappeared from the edge of Matthius’s vision. Moments later, there was a cracking sound, not a gunshot, but something different. There was an inhuman screech of pain following that thunderous crack, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

Matthius did not dwell on that. He continued to sprint toward the gate that would allow him passage through the palisade while calling out ‘Open the gate, let us in’. Visible over the palisade, one of the Middenland soldiers started in shock, stared out at Matthius, and then at whatever was behind him. He then vanished, hopefully to do as commanded and open the gate. Then something flew over the palisade, hit the ground and rolled toward Matthius, who’s eyes automatically lowered to identify what had just been thrown. He found himself staring at the head of what had previously been a Middenland soldier.

Matthius’s sprint faltered for a moment as shock briefly overtook his mind, before then his training and discipline regained dominance and shunted the surprise to a distant corner of his mind where it would not interfere with his ability to think.

‘The village is compromised,’ he declared.

He heard the stranger huff out something in Estalian, and Matthius turned toward him, reaching for one of his pistols, seeing no recourse but to fend off the beasts behind them until a plan was made regarding the village which was no doubt not about to open the gates to them. He faltered with his second shock in a short span of time when he looked upon the stranger in the dim light cast by the village.

‘You are a lizardman?’

‘Si,’ the lizardman answered. ‘Anten of the Outland Legion’s Irregulars, at your service.’

As the lizardman, Anten, spoke, he cracked the whip he held in one hand, the tip of which caught a charging bestigor in the face, caused the creature to flinch back in pain at the parted flesh where the leather had kissed it. That flinch was opening enough for Anten to lunge forward with the rapier held in the opposite hand, stabbed the needle-esque blade through the beast’s throat.

‘How many pistols do you have?’ Anten asked, stepping back and staring into the darkness, tongue flicking.

‘Four.’ Matthius answered through grit teeth. ‘And enough powder and bullets to fire each three times.’ The problem was actually loading those extra shots, which he didn’t mention.

Anten hummed. ‘Well, if we don’t get past the walls, you’re going to need every last shot.’

Matthius ground his teeth together. ‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Ah... two score of gors. A dozen besitgors. And I see three bullgors.’

Matthius was reluctantly impressed that the lizardman was actually able to see the threat approaching, his own ability to see in the dark was nowhere near so capable. He slid his silver longsword from its scabbard and carefully controlled his breathing. This wasn’t his usual fare; his duty was rooting out corruption and putting it to the torch. Aside the instance when he had taken part in the campaign against the Dread King, he never truly interacted with the inhuman threats that plagued the Empire, there were others better suited for such threats. He had only forced his inclusion upon those fighting the Dread King to ensure that they kept to the line, adhered to the standards of the Empire that paid for their services. He was suited for finding those who had sold themselves to the Ruinous Powers, for finding the hedge-wizards and witches who believed themselves to be above the Empire’s laws, to tracking down and revealing those who would sully the Empire with schemes and plots and conspiracy.

The beasts of Chaos were a threat that was outside of his strengths. They cared not for the reputation that his office gave him, were not intimidated by the knowledge of a sanctioned witch-hunter on the job. They were savages that, even if they understood the words, cared not for the station of those that they butchered. If they did know anything of the witch-hunters, they would simply see killing him to be a bonus in much the same way that the Old One-Eye seemed to see Boris Todbringer as a personal challenge.

Still, despite this knowledge, Matthius controlled his breathing, steeled his nerves with a quiet prayer to Sigmar, a practiced routine to help quell any doubt. He would not be found wanting.

At the edge of the light afforded by the torches, the lizardman adjusted his gaucho—an interesting choice of headwear, seemed that the accent wasn’t the only Estalian influence—and then lifted his rapier into a classic fencer’s stance, but didn’t seem to overtly react as the large hulking form of what Matthius recognised by description to be a bestigor advanced, stepped into the dim lighting with an axe held in each hand. Matthius aimed his pistol at the beast, was prepared to pull the trigger, but the lizard acted first.

There was a crack that echoed through the air, the whip held in the lizardman’s offhand sailed the air like a serpent lunging. The beast recoiled as the exotic weapon kissed upon its flesh, dropped the axes to cradle its face, wailing as blood dribbled past its meaty fingers. The lizardman flicked its wrist in a motion which had the end of the whip return back to him. Mid-flight, something seemed to detach form the whip and fell, momentum and gravity pulling it down and toward Matthius. It landed with a wet sound, and rolled closer still, allowing Matthius to see it. He stared for a long moment at the amber orb with his brow raised, reluctantly impressed.

The lizard cracked his whip again, this time at something in the darkness beyond Matthius’s vision. There was a bleat of pain, and then the lizard yanked back on its whip, very visibly put some force into the tug. Another bestigor stumbled forward, dragged by the whip encircling its neck, and right into a thrusted rapier that punctured up from beneath its ribs and through its breast. The lizard let out a hissing sound, rhythmic, its eyes half-lidded as it turned, freeing its whip with a slight gesture, and then lazily swung its rapier to slice open the neck of the beast still wailing over the loss of its eye.

‘Human, do you trust me?’ the lizardman asked, even as he chose that moment to repeatedly crack his whip in a flurry. Matthius had no idea if the whip was striking anything, or if the bafflingly loud snapping sound that accompanied each swing of the weapon was keeping the beasts back through intimidation.

There was a light scoff from the witch-hunter once the question actually registered to him. ‘No,’ he spoke bluntly, then paused and added on an amendment. ‘But right now, I trust that you—and your Legion—are no friends to Chaos.’

The lizard hummed an affirmation. ‘In that case, leave this rabble to me. You go meet up with your men.’

‘And how do you propose I do that while the gate is shut, reptile?’ Matthius asked irritably.

‘Oh, I’ll get you in. I just need you to not stab me while I do so.’

Matthius frowned, and any trace of his nerves were momentary washed away by the confusion he now felt in their place. ‘What?’

The lizard sheathed his rapier in a practiced motion and turned, faced Matthius and sprinted forward. His instinct, instincts that he was ill-inclined to argue against, was to lift his longsword and fend off the apparent attack coming at him. The reptile ducked the panicked swing, latched the arm previously holding a blade around Matthius’s waist and in-spite of the smaller stature, lifted Matthius bodily and hoisted him over one shoulder while still running. There was a loud crack as the lizard swung its whip at some target unseen to Matthius and then suddenly the witch-hunter realised that the ground was falling further and further from him. Craning his neck, he realised that the small lizardman was running up and across the palisade. Once the momentum seemed about to come to a standstill, the lizard seemed to jump and twist its body around and he threw Matthius over the top of the palisade and to the other side.

Matthius landed upon the elevated walkway on the inside of the barrier with a started grunt. Clambering back to his feet, he was in time to watch the lizard land back down on the ground outside of the village, flicking its wrist to recall the length of its whip from where it had previously looped itself about the sharpened pointed top of the set of three logs that stood taller that the three logs either side of them to form crude battlements atop the he wall that encircled this village. When the lizard noticed that Matthius was staring down at it, it pulled its already unsheathed up into a salute.

‘You go sort out what is happening inside the village, I’ll keep these beasts occupied for a time,’ the lizard called up to the witch-hunter.

Matthius opened his mouth, paused, then stepped back from the wall. What care had he regarding the well-being of the reptile? If it wanted to throw itself into such a battle, that was entirely its prerogative. Meanwhile, Matthius would be better served rooting out the issues within the walls.

His estimate that the village was compromised was accurate, but not in the way he had anticipated. He had assumed that an advance force of the beasts had managed to breach the palisade from a different angle and were now within trying to slaughter all men and women of the Empire they could get their filthy hands upon. What he saw instead were villagers attacking the Middenland troops, who were trying to fend off the aggressive strikes while confused as to what was going on and why they were suddenly being attacked by the same people they were tasked with protecting. That was concerning, very much so.

It gulled at Matthius that he had missed something within the village. He didn’t yet know what, but there was clearly a rot within the village to escape him, some corruption that had eluded his perception. It would be easy to blame the late Captain Falck, for his corruption had clearly—and unintentionally—shrouded and obscured the far more insidious rot that had been victim to the captain’s own. But while it would be easy to blame Falck, that would be denying that Matthius had let his guard down. That he had taken everything at face value and didn’t think to delve deeper to find the inevitable rot that always existed within these isolated communities. Chaos warhosts and corrupt members of the Middenland army were no excuse and Matthius would take this as a lesson to remember, even corruption could be victim to that of another’s, and that he mustn't dismiss the victims as innocent without cause.

Spotting a villager holding one of the spears that had been given out to help with their defence. The villager was charging toward a Middenland trooper who was facing away from them, unaware of the coming attack, attention tied up with the two villagers in front of him instead. Matthius aimed the pistol in his hand and fired. The charging villager stumbled and fell as a chunk of their chest was blasted away from the rest of their body. Even from a distance, the wet gargling that the downed villager gave off was heard, indication that the shot hadn’t been instantly fatal, but without the aid of a sanctioned wizard trained in the Lore of Life, it was still fatal. Matthius felt no sympathy for the villager who was now doomed to die slowly and painfully.

He would never spare sympathy for those who fell to corruption.

‘Trooper,’ he called out, advancing and swinging his silver longsword in an arc that left one of the two villagers still trying to attack the soldier shorter by a head. ‘What happened here?’

‘I don’t know,’ the trooper said, pausing just long enough to manage to jab his spear into the chest of the remaining villager. ‘I was just making the rounds when they all turned hostile at the same time. If there was a signal, I didn’t hear or see nothin’.’

Matthius sniffed in irritation. Then, his eyes narrowed, and he took another sniff at the air. ‘Magic.’

‘Wha’?’

Matthius, in a moment of uncharacteristic patience, cast a side-eyed glance at the confused soldier and answered. ‘There is a scent to the air when the Winds of Magic have been touched upon. It’s subtle, and not always reliable, to the point that no witch-hunter would ever cast their judgement based only upon that scent. But considering the beastmen outside the village right now, the possibility of a shaman makes it more likely that I’m right.’

The soldier looked upon the corpses. ‘You think they’re being controlled?’ he asked, expression turning ashen at the idea that he had killed innocents who were acting against their own will.

‘No,’ Matthius snapped. ‘There is no record of mind control on a large scale, and what instances I have read of individuals controlled against their will has been exclusive to the Deceiver.’

He paused for a few seconds where he took the time to double check their surroundings, then started to stomp forward, expecting the soldier to fall in and follow him despite the lack of a command. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘No, what is happening here...’ Matthius began, mind recalling recorded details of his fellow witch-hunters works. ‘I understand. I have heard of villages to fall to such depravities in the past, but never thought I’d encounter such.’ He absently swapped out his pistol for one that was still loaded before he continued. ‘Villages that are isolated and somehow manage to form a vile relationship with beastmen, consorting with them.’

The trooper visibly swallowed back the bile that naturally rose at such a notion. ‘Why would they do such a thing?’ He didn’t specify which he meant, the villagers for consorting with the beasts, or the beasts for going along with it when they were well documented in their utter hatred for man.

‘Supposed security and continued safety for the villagers. For the beasts? That I have no idea.’

The pair were forced to halt, another villager made an appearance, screaming like some wailing harpy. The trooper stepped forward and met the strike with his shield, which then opened the villager to a sword to the gut from Matthius. He hummed in satisfaction, then looked at the trooper, his eyes pointedly drifting to the horn hanging at the trooper’s hip.

‘Go, get to the wagons. Assuming that they haven’t killed the horses, prepare to leave this den of sin and depravity. Even should the horses be dead, the stable is at least a workable rallying point.’

The soldier absently patted the horn. ‘What about you, witch-hunter general?’

The witch-hunter grunted, and his grip on his longsword tightened such that the leather gloves he wore creaked and groaned under the pressure. ‘Normally, I’d put this village to the torch, but right now? There are Chaos marauders coming, and I doubt they are aware of this relationship or that they’d care. I say let them have this village, let them do us the favour of burning it to the ground.’ He paused, huffing out a breath of air. ‘I shall open the gate on the east side. Once the gate is open, with or without the waggons, we are leaving.’

The trooper gave a stuttered acknowledgement then sprinted off in the direction of the stable where the regiment’s wagons and the horses to pull them had been housed away. Matthius watched him go, then twisted and changed his direction so that he was moving more toward the eastern edge of the village. As he moved, he kept his eyes open for any more Middenlandese soldiers to direct toward the stable. In the chaos, it wouldn’t surprise him if some missed the sound of the horn once it was blown.

Another villager was cut down as they announced their presence, and their intentions, with a scream of fury. Rounded a corner, found the eastern gate within sight, and picked up his pace, didn’t run or even jog, but his walk took on a brisk pace. His brow creased as he noted two figures.

One was a woman, one of the villagers clearly, carrying what appeared to be a bundle of cloth. She was standing before a large figure covered in matted fur and with large, curved horns. A beastman was in the actual village itself. It carried a large, gnarled staff with what appeared to be the skull of a ram affixed to the end.

Ah, that would be the source of the scent of magic in the air then.

Matthius swallowed down his nerves at seeing what could only be a bray-shaman. This wasn’t some mere witch or hedge-wizard, this was a creature that knew how to use the power of the winds, did so with intent to harm the Empire and all the civilised races. A treacherous part of his mind reminded him that a single bray-shaman was likely as dangerous as the numerous mundane—if such a word were ever applicable to beastmen—beasts outside the village being fended off by that lone lizardman. He drowned out his doubt with a growl and a mental recital of a passage of the Testaments of Sigmar, replaced that doubt with religious fervour, but tempered with the cold and grim nature of his sworn duties.

He slowed his pace, levelling his pistol but also watching, trying to discern a reason for this woman to be standing before a bray-shaman with no fear but instead a look of reverence. It was proof of his earlier conclusion that the village was consorting with the beasts, but something urged him to try and determine what the beasts would be getting out of such an arrangement.

The woman lifted the bundle of cloth in her arms in a gesture of offering. The shaman leaned closer, mouth flapping, but Matthius was too far to make out any words, assuming that they were being uttered in Reikspiel, more likely than not, the words to leave that abomination’s mouth were in the black tongue of Chaos. The shaman lifted one arm, clearly prepared to take the cloth bundle for its own.

Matthius pulled the trigger.

The woman screamed, staring at the cloth bundle in horrified shock, staggering back face pale as death. The shaman bellowed a furious roar of rage and hatred, nearly frothing at the mouth. All the while, Matthius cursed the fact that his shot had missed, lost the chance to kill the shaman without issue.

Then the shaman’s attention turned, its amber eyes gleaming with the kind of seething fury that promised a slow and agonising demise for the recipient. Matthius observed this enraged creature, acknowledged that he was now the object of that wrath, and still fuelled by duty and strength of his devotion to Sigmar as he was, he glared back and answered its furious roar with one of his own.

‘Come, you vile abortion of nature! I am a templar witch-hunter of the Order of Sigmar, and I do not fear you or your ilk. I am sworn to root out and destroy the servants of Chaos, and those who use corrupt magic, wherever they may hide. I see you, creature, and I will see you burn!’

The shaman gave another scream and hefted its staff, but Matthius was quicker, dropped his spent pistol and yanked the next loaded one from his bandolier and fired it in a single motion, before dropping that one also. The skull atop the shaman’s staff exploded into a show of bone fragments as the bullet fired slammed into it, and the force startled the shaman, almost yanked the staff from its hand. It straightened itself, but the fourth and final pistol that Matthius carried about his person was already in hand, this one more carefully aimed and fired.

The shaman stumbled, a large chunk of its shoulder ripped away, the staff dropped as it lost control of the arm that had previously carried it. It screamed another hate filled bellow, straightened itself and started to charge Matthius.

Despite the loss of its staff, Matthius didn’t for a moment dare to presume that the shaman was no longer capable of manipulating the Winds of Magic. The loss of a focus did not mean the loss of ability. And more than that, even without magic, even injured, there was no doubt that from a strictly physical standpoint, the shaman was still more dangerous than Matthius. But Matthius was a human with the ability to think through his righteous fury and desire to burn the beast and spit on its corpse, and it would be that ability to think clearly that would determine who was truly the more dangerous between the two of them in this moment.

Matthius met the beastman’s charge with a charge of his own, dropping that last pistol so that he could two-hand his longsword.

His estimation that the shaman wasn’t incapable of magic despite the loss of its staff was proven true when the shaman uttered words in its vile tongue and a murder of crows seemed to manifest seemingly from nowhere and flew toward Matthius with loud caws that almost sounded like declarations of "kill, kill” more than any natural sound from such birds should.

Matthius thought quickly and let his legs fall out from beneath him, dropped his body to the ground. The act didn’t cut his momentum short though, and he found himself sliding against the rough ground, going under the flight of the murder of crows, missing them by the narrowest of margins. He was quick to get back to his feet, didn’t spare a glance behind him, as much as he wasn’t wholly certain about whether the crows would turn and try to track him down following their close miss. Wasn’t overly familiar with the spell used against him, only aware of it in the vaguest sense.

The shaman hadn’t been forced to slow, and by the time Matthius had returned to his feet, the beast was upon him, screaming a bleating sound that was vile to his ears. The silver sword Matthius wielded was swung in a wide arc, more a deterrence than an actual effort to cut down the beast. It worked though, as where moments before the shaman had been about to strike Matthius down with its good arm, it abruptly jerked backward to avoid that same arm being forcibly removed from the rest of its body.

That moment was all that the witch-hunter needed to adjust his stance and angled his blade, eyes fixed upon the ugly features of the beastman, silently dared it to try and make a move against him.

The beast eyed the silver blade, eyes narrowed in a disgusted glower, its mouth curling into a hateful sneer, then lifted its attention to Matthius himself and tilted its head, as if to silently challenge Matthius, taunting him with a wordless “what, can’t fight me without your weapon in hand?”. Matthius didn’t fall prey to the taunt, suicidal stupidity was not a fault of his.

A scream, this one far more human. It came from Matthius’s left, and in a moment of weakness, his attention left the shaman to track the source of the scream. He found himself looking at the woman, now coated in blood and a rabid look to her eyes, lunging at him with fingers curled into claws. At the same moment, the beast also darted forward, had seen the moment of distraction and made to capitalise on it.

Matthius cursed softly, staggered back and wildly swung at the beast with the sword, while also lifting his boot to intercept the feral woman’s pounce. The woman’s gut met his foot, and she doubled over. Had that been it then Matthius would have been fine, but in the same instance, the shaman, seeing the sword swinging at it, pivoted its body so that the sword bit into its already ruined arm. It still quite obviously felt the pain of the sword’s touch, it bleated out another sound, this one more croaked than the ones to come previous, but it fought through the pain, didn’t care for the harm being done to the arm that was already mangled and lame from the earlier gunshot, and managed to strike Matthius’s own shoulder. It wasn’t a heavy blow, its maneuverer to only take harm to the already injured part of its body cut its momentum down, but coupled with his being on one foot, the woman slamming into his other, still elevated, foot, it was enough to send Matthius sprawling.

Even floored though, Matthius was not about to stop making himself a danger to the enemies of man. He swung his sword horizontally to the ground and felt a surge of satisfaction as the deranged woman was crippled, the sword cutting through her knee and removing the limb from her person. She collapsed with a wail, which a second swing ended, along with her life.

Now to worry about the beastman, which had backpedalled to avoid that first swing, and took the opportunity afforded from the swing being more of a chopping motion to get close, cloven foot lifted and ready to stamp down...

The beastman gave a startled wail that almost matched that of the woman’s, when a blurred figure slammed into it. Schiffer growled, stepping back and readying his shield, though Matthius noted that he seemed to be absent any actual weapon at that moment.

‘Come on, you mangey bastard,’ Schiffer growled. ‘Try it, I dare you.’

The beast glowered at Schiffer and took a threatening step forward, clearly showed that it was not intimidated. The ruse was at that moment revealed, for the shaman had fallen for the same mistake that Matthius had, it had stopped paying attention to its surroundings. Another Middenland trooper appeared behind the beastman, spear in hand. The sharp tip of the spear punctured through the shaman’s back.

The shaman bellowed a furious cry and thrashed about. Its writhing caused the spear to snap, leaving the head still lodged in its flesh, and it made to move at the one who had stabbed it, only to find Schiffer swinging his shield and slamming it into the beast’s face, resulting in it staggering back, bleeding but still thrashing.

By that time, Matthius had returned to his feet. The beast faced him, and he could tell that whatever semblance of rational thought that the beastman might have had before that moment was now gone, they were looking upon a pathetic wretch that was acting like a feral creature, incapable of thinking through its pain.

He felt no sympathy.

The beast charged. Matthius managed to sidestep the bullrush and swung his blade in a circular cut. The beastman’s head fell from its shoulders before the body fell like a stringless puppet.

The three humans stared at the carcass. It was almost as though they were expecting the creature to pick itself up and continue to fight them despite the loss of its head, but no, it remained on the ground, a slowly largening pool of its life liquid spreading from beneath it. After heaving a sigh, Matthius turned to Schiffer.

‘Sergeant, where are your weapons?’

‘Dropped my sword when I had a close call with a murder of crows. Figured the sword was replaceable, lives are not, so I chose not to waste time and instead moved to assist you once we noticed you facing the shaman.’ Schiffer did not sound like he regretted his decision in the slightest.

Matthius scowled, but then shrugged, looking around. ‘Where are the rest of your regiment?’

‘Rallying at the stables.’

‘And you are not, because...?’

Schiffer glared at Matthius, lips tugging downward. ‘We were on our way when we heard your fight and chose to assist.’

Matthius nodded absently, accepting that answer. He blinked, felt a wave of fatigue hit him. Strange, he hadn’t been pushing himself that much, had he? Maybe it was a combination of the physical activity and the late hour. Still, he quickly willed away the exhaustion, and faced the two troopers. ‘Let us leave this place. I’ll not mourn them when they burn.’ He lifted his arm and waved at the gate that would allow them to exit the village walls, while his gaze dropped to Schiffer’s brass horn. ‘Since you are here, you might as well accompany me. Spare me the effort of working out how to signal your subordinates.’

Schiffer’s fellow mumbled something unflattering, which Matthius generously elected to pretend that he hadn’t heard. Honestly, at least the stress of the situation made such an attitude understandable, and the trooper had the decency to make an effort to not let himself be heard saying such words; Matthius had far too much experience with somebody being deliberately obstinate even in moments where one couldn’t excuse such an attitude. After months of enduring such, he was willing to allow a pass.

For now.

Regrettably, it turned out that the shaman wasn’t the only beastman within the village’s palisade. Fortunately, the three beasts that Matthius encountered were simply gors, no more shaman, and not the bigger and far more menacing bestigors.

Alas, these creatures thought to block Matthius from the gate out of the village. They and the quartet of villagers, including one with a bloodied nose who glared at Schiffer in particular. With a grunt, Matthius held out his blade, wished for a moment he had taken the time to reload the pistols, but accepted that he’d made a judgement call based on wanted to depart the village post-haste.

The first gor reached him in a charge. Matthius bit his tongue to keep from a startled shout at just how fast the beast had moved in reaching him. He managed to avoid disembowelment via a rusty and chipped axe and brought his sword around in answer, carving a bloody score along the gor’s stomach, passed that fate on to the beastman who had tried to deliver it to him. The gor fell, hands grasping at its gut in a futile effort to keep its insides that way.

The next gor to reach them charged instead at the two Middenland troopers. Neither had a spear, the splintered and cracked remains left alongside the body of the shaman. But they did both still have their shields, which were hurriedly braced against. Gor versus man, the gor had the strength to push the two back, stagger them with the force of its impact. But it was still an instance of one versus two, and while it focused its attention to the one that actually had a sword to defend himself with, Schiffer was quick to save his comrade by using his shield as a bludgeoning weapon, slamming the edge of the shield into the back of the gor’s neck as it made to cut down the other trooper while he was still stunned from being body-checked.

There was a sickening crack as the narrow steel connected. Matthius didn’t know whether Schiffer had managed to break the beast’s neck with the blow or not, and he would never get the chance to really work out whether such had been the case or not. Schiffer hadn’t been content with the one blow, he pulled his arm back and then slammed it down, again and again. It was almost as though he were trying to use the shield to eventually remove the head from the beast’s shoulders. He was forced to cease his efforts when the rogue villagers charged at him with screams of utter rage, their weapons, the same weapons that Matthius had ordered they be given, brandished with clear intent.

Matthius wasn’t able to intervene against the villagers, the last gor clearly had more wit about it, didn’t mindless charge, it advanced slowly, eyes boring into Matthius with a cruel intellect. It swung its axe as it got within reach of Matthius, but it was a wide, almost lazy effort, more like it was trying to test the witch-hunter than committing to a haymaker. Matthius backpedalled from the axe’s arc regardless, the swing might have been a lazy no-effort act from the beast, but the beast was still physically stronger than most humans, that lack of effort didn’t make the blow any less devastating if Matthius didn’t choose to evade.

The gor’s next swing was an upward strike, followed by a quick left-to-right as it anticipated Matthius side-stepping the first. Matthius ducked the blow, though his hat was caught and thrown aside by the crescent edge’s path. Unimportant though, Matthius slammed a fist into the gor’s knee, then lunged forward, rammed his shoulder into its gut, before stepping back, putting enough distance between them that he could angle his sword properly, and drove its point into the gor’s flesh at its armpit, and Matthius did not stop pushing his sword onward until the hilt itself was blocking any further progress.

The gor gargled, blood dribbling from its misshapen mouth, those hideous amber orbs stared at Matthius with a clouded look.

With a snarl of disgust, Matthius wrenched his blade free and watched the gor’s body hit the ground. He barely registered a villager charging at him with reckless abandon, just held his blade up and pointed it at the reckless fool, who it turned out was unable to cease his movement in time to avoid running himself upon the silver blade.

‘Fools and heretics, lacking the brains the gods bestowed upon us,’ Matthius uttered in disdain.

More villagers seemed to be appearing out of the woodwork, determined to run down Matthius and the two troopers. No time to dawdle though. The witch-hunter moved to the gate that would allow them exit from the village and pushed at the drawbar, forcing it up and out from the cradles that allowed it to block the gates from being opened. Once that was done, he grabbed the heavy iron ring built onto the inside of the gate and pulled, forcing the gate open.

‘Schiffer,’ he called out. ‘Let the rest of your company know we can leave now.’

As he gave the order, he peered out of the open gate, eyes squinted in an effort to try and make out any of the beasts that lay outside the village’s palisade. Either they weren’t there, or his eyes simply did not have the ability to pierce the velvet darkness of the night, but he saw no sign of any beasts, nor of the reptile who had remained outside.

Schiffer pulled himself back from one of the villagers, a newly procured spear—taken from the body of one of the now deceased villagers—held parallel to the ground and ready to be thrust at the next villager to make a move against him. His offhand grabbed at the brass horn hanging at his hip and pressed it to his lips. The sound it made was a low droning sound that vibrated the skulls of everybody nearby. It certainly wouldn’t be missed by any but those hard of hearing. He then hurriedly dropped the horn so that he could move that arm, and the shield strapped to it, to cover his face as a hatchet sailed the air. The thrown weapon bounced off the shield, leaving the sergeant none the wiser.

‘Now we just wait for everybody else to arrive,’ Matthius said as calmly as he could, absently scooping his hat from the ground and replacing it atop his head. His sword was pointed at the crowd of unruly villagers, and he raised his voice. ‘Best make way for us to leave. You get a stay of execution this time.’

The villagers didn’t seem to appreciate his generosity. There was a rumbling of discontent. Matthius shook his head and braced himself next to the two troopers. They wouldn’t have to wait long.


*


Anten had fought off the increasing numbers of beastmen for a period, but more kept emerging from the trees. Sensing that he was about to get overwhelmed and surrounded, repositioned himself. The cloven feet of the beasts made for one particular disadvantage within their favoured terrain. To date, Anten had never seen a beastman climb those very trees that they preferred to roam amongst. Meanwhile, Anten was a Child of the Gods, and as such was used to the branches of trees merely being another road for him to traverse. He clambered up a tree, and unless the beasts threw their weapons, he was safe. He hissed out a mocking cackle. Hid the fact that now the ground crawling with mutant bovine was simply too dangerous for him to act on, made it sound like he was still confident. Hid the fact that he was starting to take deeper gulps of air.

There was a blasted hoot from an Empire horn. It distracted the lumbering beasts, allowed Anten a moment to move across the tree’s branches while attention was pulled away from his profile. To the beastmen, when they turned their attention back to him, it was as though he had vanished, faded into the blackness of the night. If that moment had been during the day’s hours, then they would have easily spotted him again, but without knowing where to look, he was gone. There was an angry bellow, but Anten didn’t pay them any attention, had repositioned himself back at the edge of the woods to see the village again.

One of the gates was open. Was that a part of the witch-hunter's plan? Anten wondered. Surely opening the gate makes it harder to keep the rabble out...

He was given an answer to his ponderings when a pair of wagons came speeding out from the open gate, each pulled by a pair of horses.

Ah, a withdrawal. I suppose the situation in the village is... unsalvageable.

Anten watched the wagons, traced their path, and grinned to himself when he noted how close they’d get to the edge of the woods. With a quick intake of breath, he moved quickly. It couldn’t quite be called sprinting, not when using the branches as a path, with the amount of hopping across gaps and open spaces that was required, but it was as close as sprinting as one could get when using the trees as a road. He leapt, swinging his arm. His whip ensnared a distant branch, allowed him to swing, then released at the trained twisting of Anten’s wrist. He sailed the air and landed.

The humans on the wagon started in surprise at the sudden presence landing on the wagon with them. A few yelps of shock, hands reaching for weapons.

‘Hola, humans,’ Anten said genially. ‘I need a ride. The locals here are most... bothersome.’

‘Stand down,’ the voice of the witch-hunter spoke up, tone weary. ‘It's an ally.’

‘Ah, witch-hunter.’ Anten turned his attention to the only human silhouette with a wide-brimmed hat. ‘I see that the village was considered a lost cause?’

There was a mumbled grumbling from the human in question, heard even over the confused murmurs of the other humans on the wagon with them.

‘My lord?’ another human spoke up with a questioning lilt to their voice.

The witch-hunter's silhouette waved a hand, sighing. ‘It’s a member of one of the mercenary companies helping to protect Middenland.’ The silhouette then turned, and Anten could just make out the distrustful eyes boring into him. ‘We will drop you off at the next settlement, from there, you make your own way.’

Anten removed his hat and held it against his breast. ‘Gracias, you are a sterling example of Empire manners. That shall be more than fine with me.’

The witch-hunter's eyes narrowed, likely looking for some hidden insult. But unless he took the skink’s words as sarcasm, there was no hidden double meaning in his choice of words. He either failed to find cause for insult or found some perceived slight but elected to ignore it. Could be either, if the tales of his profession were accurate.

The witch-hunter turned to the one with the horses’ reins. ‘Keep us moving for an hour, put distance between us and those beasts, then find us a space we can make camp for the remainder of the night.’

‘Yes m’lord.’

‘What’s the next nearest settlement?’ he then asked, turning to another of the humans in the wagon.

The human in question hummed. ‘After we were done there, Captain Falck was set to take us to...’ There was a pause as he thought about the answer. ‘Can’t recall the name. Some town built by Imperial Dwarfs.’

The was a harumph from the witch-hunter. ‘That would have ended well for you and the late captain,’ he said in an ironic tone. ‘Very well, that shall be our next destination.’

Ah, Imperial Dawi. After decades of the Chaos variety, it’ll be strange seeing the normal types. Anten supressed the chuckle at the thought while he made himself comfortable, replacing his hat atop his head, though angled such that the brim covered his eyes.

 

Siege of Bealivun – When The Crack Forms...
—​

Middenheim

—

Returning to Middenheim should have been a moment of calm and content. Graf Boris Todbringer considered his home to be a place he could let his guard down, if only slightly. But the reason for his return, despite unfinished business, tainted the moment. By that time, he should have been in Altdorf, at the meeting of Elector Counts to discuss, among other things, the sky exploding.

Imagine his embarrassment to arrive at Altdorf, after having made remarkably good time, only for the Prince of Reikland to express confusion as to why the Graf of Middenheim had chosen to ignore a threat within Middenland, a threat the likes of which would have excused his absence from this meeting. By some fluke of a chance, or through machinations of outside powers, Todbringer had missed messenger birds and couriers sent to catch up to him. Fortunately, whoever had arranged for the graf to be informed had also decided to make certain that word was spread and sent messenger birds to Altdorf, likely it was supposed to be an explanation for the graf not showing, but it had served the purpose of getting word to Boris despite somehow being missed by every other messenger sent his way. So, it had been left to Karl Franz to inform him that it turned out that where Boris had left his province under the impression that the issues were being dealt with by the strange mercenaries his courtier had hired, the problem had instead escalated to what his council were claiming to be a full-fledged Chaos Warhost within his province.

There was something wrong though. A wrongness that chaffed at Todbringer’s awareness. It was the kind of wrongness that was borne of being subconsciously aware that there was something missing, but not being able to identify what was missing. That awareness hit him as he entered into the palace of Middenheim, his eye scanning for any sign of his courtiers.

What wasn’t missing but probably should have been considering the circumstances, were the state troops. Why are there so many still in the city if there is a Chaos force in the province?

It took a small search to find one of his courtiers. He almost walked straight into Elric Rauscher, the blonde man had been walking with his nose buried in some parchment, frown-lines marring the man’s features. It admittedly took Todbringer a few seconds to place Rauscher, the man wasn’t one of his personal advisors, and the members of his court could sometimes blur into the background when they weren’t doing something vitally important at a given moment. It wasn’t lack of caring, but simply because there were a lot of people, too many for him to remember every face and every name attached to those faces. Fortunately for Rauscher, Todbringer was quick to recognise him due to his part in liaising with the mercenaries sent to deal of the Count of Efror.

‘Rauscher,’ he snapped, watching as the blonde stumbled in surprise at being called, looking up and then straightening his posture on recognising who had addressed him.

‘My graf,’ he answered, tone deferent. ‘You have returned.’

‘Yes. Imagine my shock when the prince of Aldorf himself learnt of a Chaos incursion in Middenland before its own graf did.’ Boris kept his tone dry, wasn’t about to fling accusations where none were warranted.‘

Rauscher’s expression twisted, puckered up like he was biting into a lemon. ‘All of our messengers failed to catch up to you?’ He had a tone of displeasure and a small amount of fremdschämen. ‘Damnit...’

Todbringer’s eyebrow arched at the muttered curse that was likely not meant to be heard by his ears. ‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘Too many,’ Rauscher said, lips curling in displeasure aimed at some unseen target. ‘You not getting word is but one part; none of your personal advisors have been around to be heard either. Including the three Midden Marshals.’

That could explain the number of troops still within the city walls. Hell of a time for a disappearing act.

‘And what of Middenland’s other generals?’

Rauscher’s lips puckered inward, into an expression of displeasure mixed with concern with equal measures of barely contained panic.

‘Likewise unable to be communicated with. With the way our messengers never got to you, I’m starting to wonder whether we are being sabotaged.’

Boris’s teeth began to grind together. ‘Every general has failed to respond to any communique sent by Middenland?’

Rauscher tilted his head to one side and made a sound of consideration. ‘We did get word from General Hasenclever, but he is loath to abandon the Drakwald Patrols, with fair reason given what I’m being told is happening there.’

Todbringer closed his eye, considered all the kinds of issues that could fester within that expansive forest. Rauscher paused a moment then answered the unspoken question.

‘About the only good news on that front is that the One Eye hasn’t gotten involved. But last word I got was that the undead haven’t gone away, they are... recruiting.’

Todbringer inhaled deeply, considered the notion of a swarm of undead, and what recruiting would entail. A part of his mind hoped that the undead wiped out the beastmen infestation, then reconsidered that, for he wasn’t certain if he could stomach the notion of undead beastmen replacing the normal problems he had with the mutants.

‘So General Hasenclever is trying to... intervene?’

‘I don’t know the particulars, my graf, the one liaising with him has been Chancellor Sparsam. I only know what I do because the chancellor hasn’t been shy in expressing his displeasure at being told no when told to return to Middenheim to take command of the army.’

Despite himself, there was a small measure of amusement at the notion that the chancellor had been the recipient of the word “No” for a change. A nice moment of role reversal that wouldn’t last, for already the humour was fading. He quickly raked through his mind for anything that his council and court might have missed.

‘What about General Rödl?’ he asked.

Rigoberto Rödl was an older general, a veteran of many battles. Ideally, the man should be enjoying retirement, a rare luxury for such a storied soldier. The man’s home was here in Middenheim, so he shouldn’t be difficult to get a hold of. Despite his retirement, the man had been a true patriot of the Empire, so he would surely take up arms once again to defend his home?

Rauscher paused, tilted his head again, then sighed and shook it. ‘I wouldn't know. I’m the wrong person to be asking about every effort made to organise things in your absence. My role has been to liaise with the Outland Legion, the Knights Panther and the Knights of the White Wolf. You would best be served seeking Chancellor Sparsam or Ser Thugenheim.’

Graf Boris conceded that point. There was a spark of confusion at the idea that this otherwise low to middling-level courtier was liaising with the Knights Panther when Thugenheim was a senior commander of the knightly chapter, but presumably the knight was focused on trying to help keep the city and province afloat, while, from the sounds of it, every person with the authority to actually command the state military was missing.

With a glower, Graf Boris Todbringer stalked toward his council chamber, where hopefully he would find either his chancellor or military advisor. He was back, and if need be, he was going to personally lead the troops of Middenheim in stomping out this Chaos infestation that had decided to emerge.


*


Korild cursed angrily, watching as yet more of his underlings were incapable of advancing on the pathetic village. It should not have been so difficult—this was not some major city of the southern men. What should have been a simple affair had gone on long enough that it was had gone on a little over two weeks now, and all that he had to show for his efforts was the dead littering the grounds surrounding the village. It wouldn’t be so bad, except those dead were those under his command, not those of the defenders.

‘Wretches and weaklings,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I have command of naught but the dredges, I’ve been set to fail.’

Those weaklings within their walls, they must be laughing at him. Korild Ogreshadow hated the idea that he was being laughed at. His eyes affixed themselves to those walls that seemed to be constantly out of reach. Those walls mocked him with their ability to fend off his men.

The explosion of black powder vibrated the air. Just as had happened nearly every other time such a thunderous noise was heard, the sky rained heavy iron balls down upon the warriors that had tried to charge to the walls of the village. On hitting the ground, those iron balls exploded, and even those not caught in the initial fiery eruption were likely cut down as the fragments of the iron ball were propelled at speed by that same detonation, cutting through any flesh not protected by the hell-forged armour worn, typically those weaknesses in the joints.

The problem that he had learnt perhaps a little too late, was that the longer he failed to breach their defences, the tougher those same defences became. They must have had quite the stockpile of resources within those walls, because as time passed, not only were wooden towers assembled with sharpshooters now better able to see and take shots at any threats that approached—also worked well as a means of noticing the approach earlier than they might have otherwise been noticed—but an increasing number of guns were appearing. Big guns—mortars and cannons.

After that terrible first day and night, he had swallowed down his pride and requested assistance from another band, requested a hellcannon of Chaos Dwarf make. If these cowards wanted to play with guns, then Korild would indulge them and bring in the superior models made by the sons of Hashut. Except the fates conspired against him, or Tzeentch had taken notice and found a perverted joy in meddling as the senile old bird was prone to doing. The first band he had requested assistance from had been found decimated and their hellcannon destroyed, hit by some band of southman knights, according to the few survivors. And then he sent a runner further out, except it seemed that a special effort was being made by those blasted inferior knights to run down and ambush any warband that had artillery within their ranks.

Knights wearing yellow furs that were speckled with spots. Korild would remember this insult, incurred by some inferior would-be knightly order. Once he was done here, he would dedicate his efforts to finding those pretender knights and he would show them the real meaning of being a knight.

There was a small part of his mind, a traitorous sliver of awareness, that pondered whether it was worth continuing here. By that point, even if they secured a victory and burnt every last building to the ground, and then ground down the walls into naught but gravel, it would still be a pyrrhic victory at best. Such thoughts didn’t tend to last long, however, because then he would look upon the surrounding fields, see the mangled and bloodied and scattered dead, and he would grind his teeth with such force that his gums bled, and he would swear to make those within the village feel such pain for daring to bloody his forces.

He could hear the whispers, those who were doubting in his ability to lead them. He needed to do this, he needed to crush the life from each-and-every person that dwelt behind those walls, to grind their skulls into powder after plucking their eyes and feeding them to the daemons to snack on.

They dared to resist him. He would punish them for that.


*


Mayor Makauc Strongwall of the Imperial Dwarf village of Bealivun was tired, not that he would show it to anybody, outside of maybe his brother. He was running mostly on fumes, willpower and stubbornness—yes, those two were in fact separate traits, because he said so. So long as his village was under siege, he was not comfortable resting, there was always something he could be doing, even if it was just making an appearance so that the umgi of the village were reassured, seeing their leader standing proud and strong, not showing any sign of weakness, and therefore lent that strength to the village’s people.

But more than two weeks with minimal sleep was catching up to him, even with his Dawi constitution carrying him. Even the repki were getting more sleep than he was, and they were biologically predisposed to needing less sleep than Dawi and umgi. Though, some of the details about the reptilian people that their leader had dropped, Makauc wondered whether they were falsehoods told to him to reassure him that their “creature comfort” sacrifices weren’t so bad as they actually were. Were they truly able to last six months without food? Or was that an exaggeration? Though none had looked like they were any hungrier than usual after the fortnight mark, there was still a distinct difference between two weeks and two months. Never mind six months.

At that moment, Makauc probably should have been sleeping. He had been up all night, overseeing the construction of yet another tower from which a small group of dawi sharpshooters could set up a nest, and then discussed with his brother whether that particular tower would be an ideal place to lift up a mortar or a cannon. Nobody would have questioned if he had chosen to spend the morning hours catching up on lost sleep, but his mind was still buzzing and his thoughts unable to still, so he had spent his morning not asleep, but at his desk, a sheet a parchment before him and a stick of charcoal in a gentle grip between his fingers, working on how to better improve his village. He had an idea on how best to expand in future...

Now if he could just get that idea to work without replicating the shape of a particular eight-pointed star, he would be happy. Well, patience and constant revision was a normal part of the Dawi design process, he hadn’t expected to come up with a perfect design in a single morning, and even if he had, he would still spend another month or two looking for ways to refine and improve the design, even if it was still only on parchment.

After crumpling the parchment after realising the similarity to the symbol of the Ruinous Forces, and tossing it into the currently unlit fireplace, Makauc pulled himself away from the desk. Morning had passed, he was still wide awake despite his lack of any rest, so he elected he go make the rounds. Morale was low, after over two weeks of being besieged, on half rations to preserve the food stores, every other day fending off yet another attempt by the horde outside the village, it was understandable that despite the constant string of successes in fending them off that the village’s morale would be slowly chipped away. Despite all efforts, the food stores were looking rather bare at that point, they would be running out soon.

Thus why as mayor of Bealivun, he made his rounds, tried to help bolster spirits. It wasn’t just the umgi, even fellow Dawi were feeling the drain. So he went, he spoke to the people, he listened to their concerns and their worries, and he didn’t judge them, he did what he could to ease their minds. It was difficult for him. As a Dawi, he wasn’t used to soft comforting gestures, he was used to riling up and helping to drown worries with more volatile emotions. Better to feel righteous indignation than fear in the face of the enemy. But one couldn’t stir up those volatile emotions when there was nothing to channel them toward. What use was getting angry at the Chaos horde—not that he wasn’t, he was, he absolutely was, as was everybody else—when they couldn’t act on it?

At this rate, he realised, he was going to have to talk to the repki leader and discuss sallying out and fighting the unwinnable fight. He would sooner die with axe in hand, swinging and cutting down his foe than to starve to death. He was certain that most of his village’s kin felt the same way.

His rounds eventually took him to go see how the workshops and smithies were faring. As he arrived, he was quickly hit by how still and quiet everything was. The workshops hadn’t opened that day. He felt a stirring of concern in his breast, a momentary flash of fear that somehow they’d been sabotaged, that through some means the enemy at the gates had managed to sneak an insidious agent into his walls. His fears were put to rest when he spotted a lone figure within one of the workshops, standing and observing the furnaces.

Dekac—Makauc’s younger brother—had taken one look at the tower and declared it ideal for the next cannon that his workshop finished on. Like Makauc, Dekac had been working overtime and at the expense of sleep to rally the village’s workshops and smithies, supervising and managing them into the manufacture of artillery with which they could better fend off the attacking Chaos wazzocks. So-what if they didn’t have the extensive foundries of Nuln? They were Dawi, and they were humans being supervised by Dawi.

The only reason that Dekac wasn’t operating on a little sleep as Makauc was—and on this there was no doubt in Makauc’s mind—was because Dekac wasn’t about to risk the safety of the crafters, or the quality of the artillery, by having those charged with making them over-worked and under-rested. Another of those Dawi standards at play, this was one of those few moments where Dawi stubbornness never won out, not when the price would be poor quality of work.

Makauc got the sense that his brother had been offended by the repki’s carronades, because for being emergency rush-jobs, the fifteen-pounder cannons that he had the workshops produce were impressive. It wasn’t the Dawi way to cut corners, even in emergencies where speed was of importance. It was a matter of pride: Dawi made things properly or they didn’t make them at all. That just meant that in those instances where speed of production was a priority, simplified and smaller but still long-perfected designs were used instead. Somehow, Dekac had managed to have the workshops produce the larger designs in the same span of time it would have taken to make those smaller designs. Dekac hadn’t hesitated to show off his cannons to the repki, smug in the knowledge that he had produced something so superior to those carronades that the lizards had.

Dekac noticed Makauc quickly, always sensitive to anything out of place within his personal domain. The younger brother visibly sighed and made a small motion toward the older, a silent request to come closer. The mayor raised an eyebrow and approached, absently alighting his smoking pipe as he moved.

‘Ey, we have a problem,’ Dekac said, his voice gravelly even by Dawi standards.

Makauc tilted his head and took a long drag from his pipe. ‘Ok?’ He motioned the silent workshop. ‘Does it have anything to do with...?’

The village’s head metalsmith let out another sigh. ‘We’re running short on black powder. We haven’t enough to make any more shells for the artillery, we have enough to use what we have.’

Makauc’s brows were lifted. Normally, there would be more than enough of a stockpile of black powder, but this was another instance of bad timing, much had already been used shortly before the siege, when those who had left to join the levies and free companies had taken with them a large portion of the powder to load the weapons that they'd taken. And the village hadn’t had yet the chance to purchase a fresh supply, nor the components to make more themselves.

‘What we have is only enough to fend off one, maybe two, more attacks,’ Makauc said, though he was speaking more to himself than to his brother.

It explained the silence of the workshops. If they couldn’t even make more ammo, there was little sense in building artillery to use that ammo.

Dekac grunted softly. ‘I’ve sent everybody with any experience in woodcraft over to the woodshops, they can help with making crossbows and bolts to give the umgi who aren’t part of the militia.’ His lips twitched. ‘I considered asking them to make bolt throwers to make up for the lack of cannons going forward, but... they’ll take too long.’

It was one of the cruel ironies of older siege artillery like bolt throwers or grudge throwers, the ones made from wood. Despite being less advanced, the construction was still more time-consuming compared to cannons and mortars, which were made using a mold, cutting contruciton time down significantly compared to cutting and sanding and filing the wood into shape. The ammo for a bolt thrower would have been easy, even compared to cannon balls, they were long bolts of wood, there was little thought behind them, so long as there was wood, there was ammo. No need for combustible powders. Just pure kinetic force was needed to fire those bolts.

The mayor gave a singular nod to showcase his understanding. After taking a very long drag from his pipe, his thoughts about this development mixed, he turned and left the workshop district. His previous notion of doing the rounds was lost, buried beneath the other thoughts now racing along his mind.

One more instance of fending off the horde at the gates, and then he would be very seriously considering going through with his previous thought of talking the repki into sallying out. He meant it, he would sooner die fighting as Grimnir had intended for the Dawi, than slowly wither away.


*


Korild stared at the village, he huffed, he snorted, he puffed. He could hear the murmurs behind him, the jokes that he was trying to crack the walls, bring them down with the power of his heavy breathing. Normally, he wouldn’t let such an insult stand, he would not be mocked by his underlings.

But at that moment, he was trying to think of some method of getting his forces close enough to the wall that the guns would no longer be useful. The groves had long since been flattened by the artillery barrages of the village, they had quickly caught on to the cover they’d provided the Chaos warriors trying to approach and scorched the earth rather than let those trees remain. Now, no matter which direction they approached from, they were visible, they were exposed. They were targets for the cowards with their cowardly weapons.

His teeth continued to grind against each other. He needed to do this soon, before...

‘What has been the delay, Korild?’

Korild straightened his posture, eyes widened, and breath stilled in his lungs in a flare of panicked terror. Warmaster Skaros let Korild get away with his attitude and his ego, his refusal to bend the knee to him, because Skaros cared first and foremost about results. So long as Korild produced results, then Skaros let Korild get away with minor disrespects.

The voice that addressed Korild at that moment, he was not the type to let any such attitude go unpunished. Korild was not ashamed to admit fear where this man was concerned. To not fear this one? That was the height of foolishness, a show of being tired of living. Only the suicidal did not fear Valnar the Everwrath. Only the suicidal, and the other exalted champions of Malice.

Korild inhaled deeply and turned to face the Everwrath, privately cursing that he had taken so long in bringing down this village that the exalted champion had deigned to come and personally oversee the situation. This was what he had hoped to avoid. If he could avoid the attention of any of the four lieutenants of the Warmaster, he would have been content—all four were terrible to be under the attentions of, though for very different reasons.

The Everwrath towered over Korild, the dragon-ogre skull he wore staring deeply into Korild’s eyes. The eye sockets of the skull, despite their size, let no light pass, so to all appearances, the Everwrath stared not with eyes but with inky black voids that sucked in the light.

There were a large number of rumours circulating about the Everwrath. That the skull-clad man was the human guise of an exiled daemon of Khorne, or that he was Asavar Kul, disgraced from his defeat at the gates of Kislev and turned to Malice in hopes of avenging himself against the Four for abandoning him, that he was destined to be the next Overchosen before failing a test set by the Four. Every rumour that Korild had heard was circulating within his mind at that moment.

‘Lord Everwrath.’ Korild hurriedly genuflected, eyes drawn to the twin greataxes held by the larger man. ‘This village has proven surprisingly resilient.’

The Everwrath stared at Korild for four seconds, then shifted his gaze to the village. For a whole minute, the barbarian champion continued to peer at the village, silent and unmoving.

‘You will tell me of every effort you have made to breach the walls, and I will then correct you,’ the Everwrath said.

‘C-correct me?’

‘Tell you where you made your mistake,’ the Everwrath defined his previous comment. ‘You will then do as I tell you that you should have done to begin with, and if you should still fail then clearly the fault lies with you.’

Korild swallowed, gulped down the bile that wanted to rise his gullet. He quickly gestured toward his tent, preferred to keep the conversation out of the sight of his underlings’ prying eyes. They could likely smell the blood in the water, were already starting to look upon Korild with eyes shadowed with dark intent. It was time to begin doing some damage control before one of them got notions into their head. First, make certain that any remaining sharp words from the Everwrath were kept private, second, make sure that those who witnessed the display thus far were sent at the front of the next wave to remove them and the poisonous thoughts that were no doubt festering even at that moment.

Once inside the privacy of his tent, Korild explained everything that had occurred thus far, from the initial shock defence of his first charge, to the attempt by Rutgar to launch an attack during the night, the failure to acquire any hellcannons to even the field, all the way up to that moment.

The Everwrath didn’t move, didn’t twitch, didn’t make a sound. He simply listened. After Korild had finished, he still stood there, didn’t move a muscle, just kept those dark bottomless chasms that were the eye holes of his skull fixed on the Chaos knight.

‘The problem as I see it,’ the Everwrath said, speaking slowly, ‘is that you are too busy trying to emulate the Deceiver and are over-thinking. I cannot tell if that is mere cowardice on your part, a fear to charge their guns. Or if you are just naturally aligned to acting like you have a bigger mind than you truly do.’

Korild’s teeth ground together at the insult levied at him, the insinuation of an idea that he was craven. ‘I just felt that a pyrrhic victory from charging gunlines that would cut us down would weaken us far more than is acceptable. Thus, why I wanted the hellcannons, to remove the one advantage they had. Bring down the walls, limit the number of their guns they can use at a time, and the range at which they can use those same guns.’

There was a rumbling sound from the Everwrath. ‘The moment you knew that you weren’t going to be able to get those hellcannons, that was the moment you should have stopped trying to emulate a Tzeentch worshipper. The only thinking that should have gone through your mind at that point should have been: “what is the weakest point to apply pressure?”.’

‘Enlighten me then, my lord,’ Korild said, struggling to keep his tone even and respectful. ‘What is that weakest point to apply pressure? The defenders of that village have spread their defences quite evenly, no matter which direction we approach, they have guns and artillery aimed and ready for us.’

‘Exactly,’ the Everwrath snapped. ‘So, your response should have been the simple solution: pick three angles to attack from and dedicate your entire force to an all or nothing assault. That leaves them having to relocate their defences from the directions not under attack, which takes time. And that is assuming that they bother, which they could opt not to do under the mistaken idea that another wave will be coming from the angle that they have covered, and they do not want to leave an approach open for such.’

The exalted champion leaned forward, towering over Korild. Korild fought against his unconscious desire to lean back, to try and keep some measure of distance between the two of them.

‘Sometimes, Korild Ogreshadow, the smartest option is the brute force option,’ the Everwrath said with a growl. ‘But because you delayed for so long, you have made the smart option costlier than it should have been. You could have smashed through their walls by now if you had just kept your nerve and not tried to be more clever than you are.’

Korild tasted blood, realised that he had bitten down on his tongue to keep himself from arguing against the Everwrath and his “critique”. He would remember the insults to his intelligence, he would find a way to enact justice for the insult. It might well take him a while, but it would happen.

‘This Rutgar had the right idea. He attacked during the night, while they were still weak and unprepared. Why did you not have the rest of your band rush to assist while he had them unable to ward you off?’ the Everwrath finally asked.

‘We...’ Korild faltered, hadn’t expected the change in subject. ‘At the time I was still taking stock of my losses from the previous attempt. The rest of the men were tired and needed time to recover.’

The Everwrath shook his head, slowly. ‘This village is becoming an embarrassment. Every other settlement, defeat or victory, it has been swift. Either the band reached and burnt the settlement, or they were fended off, and either crushed utterly or moved on to find less defended settlements to sack, which was serving our purpose of keeping the people of this land unable to properly consolidate. But you, you, for whatever reason decided to take this village as a personal insult and have dedicated yourself to wasting time and resources in trying to level it. You should have just moved on. Instead, I found three villages nearby that were not just still standing, but hadn’t even been struck yet, because you lingered here. Maybe I should have you replaced with Rutgar.’

Korild’s temper finally snapped. ‘That scheming son of a whore! How dare...? He wants to take my place, the conniving Ho-gain piss-tar.’

‘Silence yourself.’

‘Yavj boovoo saa...’

Anything further that Korild might have had to say was cut short when the Everwrath lunged forward, clamping one hand around Korild’s neck and squeezing, while also lifting upward, so that the Chaos knight was left dangling a foot from the ground, gagging and wheezing in an attempt to breath despite the viced gripe constricting his throat. The Everwrath’s eyes might not be visible, but the glare was felt regardless.

‘I have killed people for lesser reasons than you are giving me. Here is what will happen now: You are going to do as I instructed, and launch an attack from whichever direction you desire, using every able-bodied warrior under your command, including those that I brought with me to bolster your numbers. You will be personally leading the assault, to show me that you are not a coward hiding behind big words. Impress me, and you get to keep your place as the leader of this warband. Whatever remains of it after your delay allowed this village to bolster itself with artillery.’

‘Bas...rd...’

Amazingly, the Everwrath chuckled lowly and relaxed his grip, allowed Korild to fall to the ground, gasping in wide oxygen starved breaths.

‘Maybe you do have some bravery to you after all. Do not disappoint me, Ogreshadow. I am not nearly so forgiving as others in my position can be.’ He leaned down, loomed over Korild, so all that the knight could see was the large skull worn as a brutal mask or trophy. And still, Korild was not able to see any hint of the eyes within those empty sockets. ‘If you fail, you won’t just have your loss of position to worry about. I can promise you that.’

And with his ominous declaration, the Everwrath twisted around and stalked from the tent, left Korild to continue coughing and gasping as his abused throat continued to pull in air with the greedy gulps of a man who had been deprived.

Minutes later, Korild exited the tent, hand rubbing absently at his bruised throat. Around the war-camp, a few of the warriors who held loyalty to Korild looked away from him, made it very clear that they were aware of what had happened, the leather canvas of the tent having not done a lick of good in keeping the entire affair private. Korild ground his teeth, felt a well of humiliation pooling up within his gut with such force as to make him feel nauseous.

He heaved in a breath, an attempt to calm his nerves, though not his fury. No, not his rage at the injustice dealt to him, that he allowed to fester, such that it would fuel him. The trick was to not let that rage burn out of control, he had to keep a tight rein upon it, keep it harnessed and under strict dominance, in much the same way fire was harnessed. Let the flames grow without supervision and one would burn.

He grabbed the shoulder of the nearest warrior that he knew to be one loyal to him, waited for the warrior to turn to face him, actually muster the bravery to meet his eye.

‘Start organising everybody. Gather all the ladders and the battering rams. We’re going to attack come sundown. Everyone will go.’ He breathed in another deep breath, struggling to maintain his calm, repressed the urge to take out his frustrations on the warrior and everybody in the camp. This was not the time. turned his attention to the distant form of those who had arrived under the Everwrath’s direction. ‘Everyone.’

The warrior gave a low sound of assent, made to go, to obey the command given, but Korild didn’t let up his grip upon the warrior’s shoulder. ‘Is there more?’

Korild took a moment to gather his thoughts, to maintain that calmness, to keep his fury tempered.

‘Keep an eye out for Rutgar. I have no doubt that he is hoping to be granted my place should I fail. It would not shock me if he plans to sabotage me. I would see to it that he never gets the opportunity. If you see him, tell me.’

‘As you command.’

Finally, Korild released his grip, allowed the warrior to go.


*


While they didn’t need to sleep as often as the humans and Dawi that lived in the village, Zak had made certain to assign a shift rota that allowed everyone under his command time to rest, preferably through sleep. With them forgoing eating so that the warmbloods could last longer, Zak was quick to rationalise that they needed to preserve their energy as best they could. Sleep was the best way to do so. If they weren’t on their shifts, watching for the next inevitable attack, then they would be either sleeping, or as close to it as could be.

Zak didn’t exclude himself from that general order. Any moment that he was not overlooking and contemplating the defences, he was nestling himself in some street corner, eyes shut and dead to the world. An hour here, an hour there. It was all that he afforded himself, his position didn’t allow for a full six-to-eight hours of slumber. So, he took what he could where he could.

It was for that reason that he found himself blinking blearily, his cape sliding off his frame alongside something heavier—a quick look down showed that somebody had draped their coat over him during his nap—and yawning what he had been told was an eye-wateringly wide yawn, before checking his surroundings, as though concerned that he had been relocated in his sleep.

Nope, he was still near the village square, a small spot with a nearby well. The owner of the coat, a saurus, was at the well at that moment, absently using the water pulled up to scrub at his face. Propped against a nearby wall was one of the Legion’s battle standards, the fabric adorned with the tri-flames of Madrigal gently swayed in the—Zak quickly eyed the sky, took note of the sun’s position—slight breeze of the afternoon.

Zak clambered to his feet, twirling his cape around and affixing it to the back of his cuirass with an automatic motion, then picked up the saurus’s coat and lightly brushed the wool of any dirt that might have gotten on it form the brief seconds it had been on the floor. The saurus clearly heard his motion, angled his head so that he could see Zak from the corner of one blue eye, then finished his scrubbing at the scales on his brow before finally cupping his hands, bringing up a small amount of water to his maw and took sipped of the nectar of gods.

‘Major,’ the saurus finally spoke up.

‘Afternoon,’ Zak greeted in turn. He didn’t yet hand the saurus back his coat, gave the larger lizard a chance to rebutton his shirt and waistcoat. ‘Anything new to report?’

The saurus paused in threading a button through the stitched hole opposite. ‘More Chaos warriors arrived.’

Zak narrowed his in concern. ‘How many?’

The saurus resumed buttoning his shirt. ‘The camp doubled in size.’ He shook his head. ‘Being honest, if they attack now, and if they commit, we won’t win.’

‘That bad?’ Zak asked without really expecting an answer. Just based on numbers, if the Chaos camp had indeed doubled in size, then they were going win through sheer attrition. On the other hand, the leader of this band of Chaos marauders had shown himself to be fairly flaky, constantly pulling back after taking a certain number of casualties. It was as if the leader of the warband was constantly getting utterly unnerved by the combination of artillery and musket-fire, and without a way to get past the gunlines was afraid to commit.

So, the problem as Zak was seeing it, Chaos would win through attrition if they committed. If they didn’t? Well, the attack following that, the defenders would probably not manage to inflict enough damage to the horde before they reached the walls. Ammo was running short, and yesterday, Zak had been given the news that the village’s stockpile of gunpowder had run dry. They had ammo enough for one attack, the attack after that was going to be within the village itself, and then the loss through attrition would truly come to pass, because as confident as Zak was in those under him to hold any line he declared, they would tire, and one lucky strike felling a member of the Legion would become two, would become three, and they would start to add up.

If they won, it would be costly.

‘Still no sign of reinforcements?’ Zak asked.

On one hand, stupid question. The hilly terrain and the fact that they were trapped in this village meant that they couldn’t see any approaching reinforcements and they couldn’t go out to track down any friendlies for word on what was happening. On the other hand, there was always a chance.

The saurus shook his head as he threaded the final button into the correct hole. ‘Not that I’ve heard.’ With the saurus finally finished buttoning up, he accepted the red coat offered to him and slid it on.

'Something needs to change, and soon.’ Zak mumbled more to himself than anything else, his crest-fin lowering until it seemed to compress against his skull. ‘Where did these extra Chaos warriors even come from?’

That particular question sent his thoughts down a momentarily dark path. What if they were other bands that had been victorious against the Legion? What if Zak now had command over the last vestiges of the Legion? He scoffed and dismissed those thoughts away, the warhost had sent out so many splinter fragments that even with the Legion split up as it was, there was no way that all of them were being caught and run down. No doubt these reinforcements were from those that had managed to not get caught into a conflict with the Legion’s other divisions.

Zak inhaled and grabbed his helmet from where he had rested it while he slept and pressed it firmly atop his head.


*


Eventually, Makauc found himself in at the western edge of his village, standing on the roof of one of the buildings which doubled as the outer wall. A couple of dozen of the smaller repki, the ones called skinks, shared the roof with him, though he was interested to note that only two of them were keeping an eye out at the surrounding terrain, and the main war-camp of the Chaos marauders. Naturally there were other camps around the village, it would hardly be an effective siege on their part if they only focused their numbers on one side and allowed the defenders free reign to come and go through the opposite side as they pleased.

What was especially annoying to Makauc was that the camp was positioned such that while the cannons could feasibly start blasting away, they were at enough of a distance that accuracy was shot to hell and back. There was a reason that range and effective range were two very separate distances. And especially with the critical shortage of ammo for the artillery, bombing them at ranges beyond effective range was just asking to waste what they couldn’t afford to waste.

But back to the skinks, only two were being watchful, the other twenty-two looked almost like they were lounging, basking in the afternoon sun. From where Makauc stood, he could see that the other rooftops that held skink musketeers were in similar setups, two watchers while the others basked. He decided he couldn’t really fault them, two sets of eyes were just as effective as twenty-four, had less crowding where it wasn’t needed, and allowed the others to be rested on the advent that an attack came, all they had to do was stand up, shoulder their handguns and wait for that opportune moment to pull the trigger.

He chuckled softly to himself, pictured how effective this Legion would be if instead of muskets that were clearly based on earlier Empire handgun designs—though the Dawi artisan in him could see elements where the Legion had over time come up with their own innovations, little details that spoke of how they had their own culture and way of thinking, didn’t just copy the designs that they’d been given at some point in the past—but if they were instead equipped with the rifled design used by Karaz Ankor’s thunderers.

How angry would the Engineers Guild be if I mention rifling to them? That thought had another chuckle escape his lips. But as amusing as the thought was, he decided to refrain from following through with such an idea, if for no other reason than because he was not interested in making an enemy of the Engineers Guild, whether he was a part of Karaz Ankor or not.

Sometimes Makauc regretted leaving the Karaz Ankor, but as much as he had pride in the Dawi and their crafts, he had also felt a restriction, a rigidity that he and his brother had chaffed at. The Empire in comparison had felt freeing. And with the Empire being the frontline for most Chaos incursions—well, almost, Kislev definitely deserves the title of front line—meant that he and his brother had been in a place where they could better contribute towards the greatest threat. Not that the Empire hadn’t had its own limitations, which was why he had eventually settled for Middenland rather than Nordland or Ostland as the place to build his village.

One of the basking skinks cracked open an eye and gave him a curious look at his chuckling. Makauc simply took a long drag from his pipe and smiled at the skink in question. ‘Don’t mind me, just picturing impossible things.’

The skink shrugged and returned to enjoying the afternoon sun, hands never leaving the handgun cradled across his chest. In the street below, the larger lizards—saurus, he reminded himself—were stationed ready to be a wall for any threat that might breach the gate which had been erected after that first night. Like the majority of the skinks on the roofs, it was a lot of doing nothing, just being in position for the instance that an attack came. As such, it didn’t surprise Makauc that the musicians within such groups had taken to playing tunes. Help stave off any boredom that came from hours of standing in place, but also had the benefit of helping to keep morale up for the umgi, and even the Dawi, who were feeling the stress of being trapped in their own homes, living of half rations.

At that moment, the musician was a sea-green scaled saurus with a strange instrument. At its core, it appeared to be a weathered bag made from tanned hide, the edges adorned with meticulous stitching. Meanwhile, jutting out from the bag were a number of pipes of polished wood. The end of one of those pipes was rested within the mouth of the saurus holding it, the end of the pipe very clearly designed to account for the fact that the repki didn't have lips, or if they did, didn't have the dexterity to use them as to create a seal around the instrument. But the flared end of the pipe clearly did that job for them.

The sound produced by this strange bag of pipes was unique. That was honestly the only word that the dwarf was able to bring up to describe it, for it didn’t bare any resemblance to the sounds of any other instrument that he had ever listened to. It was a sound that could have easily not been music, could have easily been dismissed as just being some bothersome noise. Instead, the saurus was able to manipulate that unique sound and shape it into a low but upbeat tune that had a couple of his companions tapping their feet in time to the music.

It was just another example of the culture that these lizardmen carried with them. Were he a more academically minded individual, he was sure that interviewing these reptilian mercenaries would make for a fascinating case-study. As it stood, he wasn’t, so these little details largely got the single thought of “huh, interesting” after which they were shunted to a corner of his mind and largely forgotten.

One thought that didn’t get discarded was a small measure of disappointment. It was disappointing that he had first encountered these lizardmen during such circumstances. He fancied that he would have enjoyed meeting them under better conditions. As it stood, while he didn’t regret their presence, it was just a shame that they would all be dying together. Unless something changed. And soon.

The sun was starting to dip from the sky. Food stores were at a critical low, only enough gunpowder to fend off one last attack unless the Chaos wazzocks pulled something new out of their rears. Despite the efforts of those musicians, Mayor Makauc Strongwall was at a deficit for morale.


*


Korild was impatient. The night had fast approached. Surprisingly fast. It appeared that the summer season was starting to make way for the fall. He took a brief moment to mentally work out what month it was upon the calendar of these Imperials. They were halfway through Nachgeheim, if he had worked out the differences properly. Next month on their calendar was the month that they dedicated to harvesting their year’s labours.

That last part had the knight snort in disgust. This was the time of year when the weaklings of the Empire would have the least amount of food stored away, used up over the course of the year. He needn’t be throwing his men against the guns of these weaklings when he could resign them to starving to death. He quickly dismissed that thought, because as much as he enjoyed the idea of those that he despised so slowly withering and wasting away, it wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted to personally inflict pain, a long and drawn-out suffering to recompense them for every one of Korild’s underlings they had spilt the blood of.

In that regard, Korild agreed with the Everwrath’s desire for a swift capture of this village. Starving them just felt so impersonal. He was a knight under Malice, Hierarch of Terror and Anarchy, not the God of Distant and Aloof Ploys. While the realisation that they were starving would play into the terror of Malice’s domain, it didn’t feel right, it wouldn’t be terror directed in the right direction.

Just as Khorne desired only the skulls of worthy combatants, Malice desired his enemies to direct their terror at the architect of their demise.

One of his underlines, Vorlag, approached, helmet tucked under his arm.

‘Word has been sent to the other camps. We’re ready to attack.’ The report was given quickly, tone low and reverent, no doubt Vorlag was afraid of Korild’s volatile temper, a temper that had been fuelled by the Everwrath’s mistreatment.

‘Midnight can’t come soon enough,’ Korild said, more to himself than to Vorlag. He then turned to the other knight with brows lowered so that he was glaring intently at Vorlag. ‘What of Rutgar? Where is he?’

‘He is at one of the other camps, he was chosen to lead their attack personally.’

‘Coward is hiding from me,’ Korild growled, his fist clenching with such force that his knuckles were popping, bones creaking from the strain he was putting them through.

‘Actually no.’ Vorlag quickly looked abashed at his contradicting Korild’s statement, but he quickly swallowed and met the glare directed upon him. ‘The Everwrath directed him there. Witnesses say that the Everwrath made it clear that Rutgar was to lead the attack.’

Korild didn’t stop growling, but he refrained from taking out his anger on an actually loyal subordinate. ‘Bastard is trying to replace me with Rutgar.’

‘Maybe you’ll not have to worry about him, he might get killed in his front of the attack.’

Korild barked out a harsh laugh. ‘Rutgar is a survivor, first and foremost. He’ll survive. The trick will be finding him afterwards and killing him ourselves. Can’t trust the weaklings of these lands to anything right. Just got to make sure that the Everwrath doesn’t suspect our hand in the deed.’

Vorlag didn’t comment, stepped back and instead gazed up at the rising moons. ‘Morrslieb has been especially bright of late.’

Korild allowed the shift of subject and turned his eyes up to the sickly green moon. ‘Maybe it has something to do with what happened a while back. The sky...’

He trailed off, couldn’t begin to fathom how to describe what had happened, the maelstrom that had appeared and, from what he understood from overheard snippets of conversations between those with an understanding of the Winds of Magic, was still ongoing, just no longer visible to those not gifted with witch-sight.

Vorlag shook his head. ‘Maybe.’ He paused, visibly chewed on his lip, eyes never leaving the moon. ‘It’s making a night attack far more noticeable that I would prefer.’

Korild’s growl returned, his throat vibrating from the sound. ‘What choice do we have? If we march during the day, then we will be noticed the moment we start moving. At least at night we might cross some distance before they take notice start shooting at us with their craven weapons.’

Vorlag lifted his hand, the one not holding onto his helmet, made a gesture of peace toward Korild. Korild inhaled deeply, reminded himself to temper his anger and hatred, to not let it burn out of control. When he exhaled, he was as calm as he was going to get.

He sucked in another breath. ‘Prepare the men. The witching hour nears. I want the battering ram to take down that gate, I want the ladders up, I want us in that village before the hour is up.’

He barely registered Vorlag’s departure. He glared at the village that had mocked him these past weeks. It would burn by the morrow, he swore it. His oath declared, even if only in the confines of his mind, he moved to where he had left his mount. He had a battle to conduct. None would dare accuse him of not being a leader.


*


Zak remembered that first night of the siege. Remembered the attack at the dead of night. How could he not? It was because of that attack that he preferred his own waking hours be during the evening through to the early hours, while he entrusted the dawn through to dusk shifts to Captain Yuata.

He made his rounds, circling the village’s edge, eyes locked to the plains between the settlement and those warcamps just far enough away to be safe from being bombarded, but close enough to still be a siege. He had started his round from the gate that was closest to the biggest camp, the one that clearly held the bulk of the Chaos forces—the one that had seemingly doubled if not tripled in size the previous day—and from there he would go around until he finished back at that same gate. An hour after he finished, he would repeat the exercise. It would continue that way all through the night.

He had just finished the first such cycle and moved himself to the roof to the side of the gate. Had to consider the conversation he’d had with the mayor, shortly before the dwarf had retreated to his abode to, in theory, go sleep for the night. It was only in theory, because Zak could see the bags forming under the Dawi’s eyes. That was a dwarf who was not getting nearly enough sleep.

That clear display of insomnia would have made it easy to dismiss the conversation they’d had, to brush it aside as the words of somebody unable to think straight through the lack of sleep ailing him. But in truth, it wasn’t a conversation he could dismiss in such a way.

Should they sally out? Food store being what it was, gunpowder supply being what it was, morale being what it was... sallying out was death: the numbers were against them, and while that wasn’t in and of itself cause to believe it a fight they couldn’t win—Zak himself had been part of more than enough battles where his side was outnumbered and yet they still came out the victors, numbers weren’t everything—the terrain if they left the village was against them. Numbers weren’t everything: the battlefield and knowledge on how best to use the terrain made for a potent force multiplier, made smaller numbers capable of matching foes thrice their size. But when the terrain itself favoured the side with the larger numbers? No, Zak wasn’t optimistic about the chances of victory.

But a very valid point had been made. Better to die on one’s feet, weapon in hand, fighting the enemy than to slowly starve.

Zak exhaled softly. Come tomorrow, there would have to be a meeting to discuss whether that was an action that would be agreed upon unanimously by the citizens of this village. It wasn’t a choice Zak would make for them, but then, when Zak and his subordinates could last months longer despite lack of food, he was rather biased in his desire to stay within the village walls.

He blinked, something at the very edge of his awareness pulling him from his thoughts. He looked toward the plains beyond the village’s edge, eyes narrowed. In the pale green light of Morrslieb, he thought he could see something. Movement. Possibly.

‘Ready the rocket,’ Zak ordered with a hushed tone, his attention briefly locking onto the skink closest to the rocket that was used to signal an attack. ‘We might be under attack.’

The skink scurried over to the rocket, pulling a brick of flint from one of his satchels. He held the flint close to the wick and used his other hand to position his musket’s bayonet close, ready to strike at the brick with but a moment’s notice.

Zak turned his attention back to the plain, focusing inward, pulling in some of the ambient Winds and shaping them for his purpose. After but a moment, he held out a hand and released the Winds in the form of a light which blanketed the battered and cratered grounds beyond the village. And in the vivid light, the Chaos army realised they had been seen and did away with any attempt at stealth and started to charge.

Zak cursed loudly. ‘Light the fuse!’ he called out, then started gesturing at all the other skinks sharing the roof with him while raising his voice to higher volumes. ‘Muskets, form up and ready arms.’

There was no hesitation. Every skink on a roof within earshot was on their feet in the span off time it would take to blink. In the street below, the saurus started to form up their own formations, ready to block the road even should the gate be breached. The clicking of musket hammers being pulled back was like music to Zak, a reassuring chorus to the tune of warfare.

The rocket’s fuse was lit, the spark trailed the oiled wick, after which the tube-like object was propelled into the air with a high-pitched whine, reached a height of some seventy-five feet in the air and then exploded with a boom that would awaken anybody who had thought to sleep the night away, accompanied by a burst of light in the sky.

And then the explosion was echoed. Twice.

Zak twisted around. His eyes easily found the lingering sparks of each firework to have detonated in the sky. His eyes widened as he realised that this wasn’t a moment of watchers slightly further down the length of the village’s perimeter had noticed the same threat he had and reacted at the same moment. All three of the rockets which had been launched skyward had detonated at very different points of the village’s edge.

Ah... a multi-front attack. On the one hand, he had somewhat seen such an event happening, it was common sense after all to not put all your effort into a single front because that meant that the enemy could focus their entirety on that same single front. On the other, he’d almost gotten complacent with the leader of this band of marauders being reluctant to commit in true force because of the absence of any real means of countering the gunfire sent their way.

Captain Yuata would have to go direct the defence at one of the other points of attack, and the third would probably get the head of Bealivun’s militia, or the mayor himself. The reserves were going to be split in three, and unfortunately, there was no way of knowing what the ideal ratio of splitting that reserve would be, not without first having reached one of the points of attack. For all that Zak knew, two of the attacks could be genuine, while the third was a diversion deliberately sent to make it look like there was a third point of attack when in actuality there were only two.

Damned Chaos and their fondness for attacking at night.

‘Sergeants,’ Zak called out to the skink musket lines, even while he returned his attention to the threat that he could see, mentally tracking their position and speed. ‘You have discretion on when to fire. Six volleys, then fire at will.’

The major then turned his gaze toward one of the defence towers. The Dawi handgunners, alerted by the fireworks, were already in the process of positioning their weapons, bracing the long-barrelled firearms against the edge of the tower’s wall, while the cannon teams started to shove a solid iron ball down the barrel.

‘Fire at your discretion. Prioritise any ranking warriors you make out.’ Zak called up to them.

‘Ye got it, repki,’ one of the auburn bearded dwarfs yelled back to him.

‘First rank,’ one of the skink sergeants projected his voice, ‘fire!’

The sound of thunder, not dissimilar to the fireworks but with a reverberation that came from multiple instances of the same sound projecting at the same moment. Smoke wafted from the barrels of the first rank of skinks, those same skinks quickly dropped to one knee, began the process of reloading while giving the second rank a clear view of the oncoming horde, clear shots to take once the sergeant gave the order.

Zak’s flare of light had started to die down by that point, hadn’t been intended for long-time coverage, had only ever been planned to get a better look at the field. But now that the Chaos horde were not trying to be subtle about their advance, there was little need for it. In the pale green light, the movement of the warriors of Chaos made the ground writhe, let all know that the danger was there.

The cannon atop the tower fired. The fifteen-pound ball of solid iron slammed down into the writhing mass of armoured warriors. There were screams, curses and vulgar yells that all drowned each other out at the distance that they still had to traverse. Zak felt not a single pang of sympathy for them.

‘Second rank, fire!’ the sergeant shouted. It was a call that was echoed from other rooftops.

More thick and scented smoke wafted up, the second rank started the process of reloading their weapons, didn’t need to take to the knee as there was no third rank, instead the first rank returned to their feet, shouldering the muskets and awaiting the order to pull the triggers.

A distant “thoomp” was heard, and from above came another shot from an artillery, except this time it wasn’t a solid iron ball fired from a cannon, this was a mortar shell, and those had been crafted with the intention of exploding. Maybe the use of explosive shells had cut into the stores of gunpowder, used that resource more rapidly than it otherwise would have. But Zak was not about to argue results, when falling from above, the explosive shot was far more effective, and infinitely more devastating than a solid shot would have been.

The shot landed amid the oncoming warriors, and exploded with fiery effect, the force grabbing those warriors closest to the scene and tossing them aside as though they were wooden figures tossed aside by a child having a tantrum. There was a second benefit to the explosion, which Zak quickly appreciated. For a brief window of time, the scene was lit anew, and in this moment, he was able to spot something he hadn’t during the initial reveal.

‘They’re bringing ladders,’ he said in warning.

The sergeant sharing the roof with him briefly turning his head, met Zak’s eyes as if to confirm the truthfulness of the warning, then gave a single nod.

‘Make sure your bayonets are properly affixed,’ the sergeant called out. ‘If I catch any of your bayonets coming lose, I will be personally inviting you to explain to the major why you felt that a wobbly bayonet would be more effective at skewering a Chaos warrior than a solid one.’

‘Wobbly bayonet for the wobbly morality of the slaves of Chaos?’ one skink blurted out.

There was a moment where the entire line guffawed. It wasn’t even that good of a joke, but Zak wasn't going to deny them their source of humour, not if it helped keep their spirits up.

‘First rank, fire!’ Sergeant Cobaal called out, the only one who hadn’t chuckled and had kept his attention squarely on the mass of warriors.

Even while they still sniggered at a bad joke, the skinks fired and then dropped to one knee, allowed the freshly reloaded second ranks to shoulder their muskets and take aim down at the mass.

Another cannon shot from the tower, more screams and insults bellowed. Closer now, almost able to make out actual words. They were approaching faster than Zak had anticipated, must have been desperate to cross that distance and get into melee. A sensible desire really, being shot at by muskets, brothers-in-arms dropping dead from a hail of lead, their armour not even a guaranteed protection from the sheer power of the ranged weapon. Shields helped, but for each shot that those shields saved the bearer, its own integrity would be slowly chipped away, each time less likely to save the life of its owner.

‘Second rank, fire!’

Another mortar shell came down. The explosion once again allowed a brief glimpse of the coming threat. For as many as were being killed, it was very clear it wasn’t enough, there wasn’t going to be a rout as it dawned on the Chaos warriors that they were losing men too rapidly to sustain themselves for the fight to come.

‘Where did they all come from?’ Zak asked, angry.

‘Major, battering ram!’ One of the musket troops called out in alarm.

Zak twisted his head to follow the trooper’s attention, but the light from the explosion, all too brief as it was destined to be, had already faded. With a curse, Zak breathed in the Winds again, reshaped them. He shaped the Winds differently this time, and when he motioned at the writhing mass of shadows charging towards the village, he felt a surge of satisfaction as the explosion of shimmering Hysh-infused light was created. The spell was a brilliant, dazzling to the point of blinding light, but that brightness did not affect those he didn’t wish to suffer the effect.

There were screams of hatred and pain from the charging warriors, and their pace halved as they were forced to march with shields raised to cover their eyes, or if they lacked any shields, to hide their eyes behind lifted arms. It would buy time, but the nature of that spell meant that it wouldn’t last long, and he wasn’t going to be able to constantly toss that spell out, that would exhaust the ambient Winds too quickly and leave him helpless to cast anything more potent if any daemons made an appearance. If this was an all-out assault, which it had every appearance of being, then there was no reason to suspect that the Chaos marauders wouldn’t be bringing any daemons to the assault.

With the light now illuminating the enemy charge with perfect clarity, Zak was able to make out the battering ram. It wasn’t just a heavy log carried by a dozen warriors, this was a battering ram built specifically for this purpose, a heavy log suspended on chains, wheeled forward inside a protective structure which also kept those who were pushing it forward safe from ranged fire.

And there were three of them. Apparently, they weren’t taking any chances, even if artillery fire destroyed one of them, there was still a chance one of the other two might yet reach the gate.

‘Cannon team,’ Zak shouted up to the Dawi, ‘we need to focus on those battering rams!’

Cobaal hissed in irritation, eyes momentarily locking onto the battering rams, no doubt annoyed that the Chaos marauders had done the intelligent thing and built a house around the ram so that they could push it forward while covered from the defensive gunfire. ‘I’d prefer that they be forced to climb ladders than get an easy pass through the gate,’ he said, before calling out another ‘Fire!’

Zak watched a line of the marching warriors fall to the hail of lead that followed the order. The next rooftop over, a second volley was fired, dropping even more of the armoured warriors, but they weren’t falling fast enough that Zak could see them breaking before reaching the outer walls.

From behind and above, the cannon in the tower fired. The iron ball that was launched forward slammed down near the closest battering ram, then bounced from the ground and managed to tear its way through the ram house, punching through the wooden structure, tearing through those within that housing who had the misfortune to be in the path of the cannon shell, smashed out the other side. That didn’t mark the end of the cannonball’s flight, a good dozen warriors were bowled down or sent stumbling when those in the path of the destructive shot frantically dove aside in fear for their lives. After that, the flight of the cannonball was no longer a concern, reaching over the heads of even the tallest of warriors and still rising. Zak stopped paying attention after that point, though he privately hoped that the balls trajectory resulted in it coming down upon the encampment.

The battering ram’s enclosure collapsed in on itself with one of the sides almost completely shorn away by the passing of the artillery shot.

'That’s one battering ram down,’ Cobaal mused aloud, his eyes narrowed.

‘Still another two that I can see,’ Zak answered.

The sergeant grunted, then shouted out another order to fire. Unfortunately, the mass of armoured warriors had now gotten close enough that it wasn’t worth firing in volleys.

‘Fire at will,’ Cobaal hissed out. ‘If you see anybody carrying any ladders, aim for them. Do not give them an easy time.

It wasn’t as devasting as a volleyed barrage, the sound of individual gunshots not nearly so impactful, and with only a singular body falling at a time. But it did have the benefit of there now being a constant flow of gunfire being directed at the advancing threat instead of regular volleys. That didn’t mean that there wasn’t a constant noise to the air, constant and loud enough to drown out even one’s own thoughts. If anything, it was worse than during the volleyed gunfire, because at least during the volleys there were pauses where it was quiet, small moments where thoughts could be heard.

There was a small moment of amusement that caught Zak’s attention. One of the ladders that was being carried, held in the grips of two warriors, was dropped when the warrior carrying the front end fell from a lucky gunshot. When another warrior picked up the dropped front-end, he met a similar fate, leaving the warrior carrying the back end shaking a fist and gesturing wildly. Despite the thick plate armour, the warrior’s body language conveyed perfectly just how utterly infuriated he was that he was being forced to carry the ladder alone when after the third time a warrior came to help, they quickly suffered a similar fate to the others.

The cannon fired again, accompanied by a more distant boom that indicated that the mortar pointed that way had also fired. The cannon’s shot missed the second battering ram, though as a small constellation prize, at least it managed to cut down another swath of the warriors. The mortar didn’t have much luck either, though the fiery detonation of the shell slamming into the ground amidst the horde did have the satisfying result of sending a number of warriors flying asunder.


*


Korild swore loudly as a cannonball carved a line through the warriors marching ahead of him, then bounced and came uncomfortably close to his formation. One of the knights to his side shifted uncomfortably, but true to the discipline of any who dared to call themselves a knight of Chaos, he didn’t break, he showed less concern than his mount, the horse had been understandably spooked.

‘Give them time,’ Korild muttered, more to himself than any of his retinue.

‘My lord, at this rate we’re not going to have any battering rams left.’

Korild let out a harsh breath, which came out almost sounding as though he were giving a bestial growl which his helmet caused to have a metallic echo. The knight who had spoken flinched back, but because they were in a strict formation and the punishment that Korild would deliver upon any who dared to break from formation was more of a certainty than the general fury that Korild was projecting, didn't do any more than flinch.

Korild let the knight spend a few seconds stewing in fear, after which he scowled up at the top of the outer buildings of this blasted settlement. The agonising light conjured over their heads had long since faded so it no longer hurt his eyes to try and look upon those wretched mutants and their abominable guns. As he looked, the air vibrated with what he had long memorised as the firing of one of the arching shots, the ones with the shots that exploded on impact, be it impact with the ground or impact with an unfortunate warrior ill-faded enough to be directly beneath such a weapon. True to his prediction, an explosion briefly lit the fields in an orange glow that faded mere moments after being birthed.

‘You overestimate them,’ Korild finally said, snarling out the words. ‘Or maybe you underestimate me.’

He lifted a hand away from the reins of his deamonic horse to motion to a marching column of foot warriors. They were marching at a slower pace than the majority of the horde. They had angled their shields in such a way as to protect themselves from the gunfire, but it also had the benefit of hiding what they carried amongst them. True, it would be preferable for one of the wheeled battering ram frames to reach the gate, but despite what the Everwrath had claimed about Korild’s intellect, he was not stupid, he knew better than to put all of his trust in success on the chance that the mutants and the dwarfs failed to be intelligent enough to understand the threat represented by those battering rams.

The knight made a sound of confusion. So, it turned out that this member of Korild’s retinue was burdened with a lack of observational skills. Maybe this battle would do Korild the favour of purging the fool. Korild turned away from the embarrassment of a knight and started to shout encouragement at the infantry marching forward.

‘Move faster, you maggots!’ he shouted. ‘The longer it takes you to get to the wall, the more times they’ll shoot at you! So, you either move, or you do me a favour and rid me of your stupidity!’

As if answering his shouts, another of those explosive shots landed, swept aside a number of warriors, most of whom didn’t climb back to their feet. One warrior, one that hadn’t been anywhere near the detonation, lost his nerve and started to back away, before then turning and starting to run. Fortunately, none followed his example of cowardice.

‘We’re getting cut down,’ the craven cried.

He neared Korild’s retinue, and then made the mistake of trying to cut between Korild and the knight to his left. Korild’s foot lashed out, sabaton crashing into the warrior’s helmet with a clang and force enough to fell the warrior.

‘Fool,’ Korild screamed at the pitiful excuse for a warrior of Malice. ‘Get back in your formation and march! Or I will cut you down myself.’

To emphasise his threat, Korild hefted his halberd and jabbed it at the floored warrior. The warrior scrambled to his feet and frantically backed away from the polearm, though it didn’t help him much, Korild’s mount, sensing weakness, inched forward, maintained the distance between them so no matter how much the warrior backed away, he was never getting any further from the threat to his person. It took a full seven seconds before the warrior turned and hurriedly rejoined his unit’s formation. Only then did Korild lower his halberd, snorting in disgust.

Another cannon blast from the village resulted in the second battering ram frame becoming nothing more than a shower of splinters and sawdust, incapable of withstanding the destructive power of the heavy gun’s deliverance. Even if Korild hadn’t been planning on those being his key to victory, it still galled him to see the siege engines being smashed before they could be put to use. That was time that he had had his men spend building the drat things that amounted to nothing.

Well, not nothing. They’re still serving a purpose.

Korild took note when one of the ladders being carried was dropped to the ground as a volley of gunfire cut down both the warriors carrying it. It was quickly noticed and grabbed by another pair of armoured warriors in one-armed grips, whilst they held their shields over their heads in their attempt to protect themselves from meeting a similar fate as the previous carriers. Unfortunately, for one of them, it was not enough, as a bullet managed to puncture his leg and left him falling to the ground, leg useless and lame. He was swiftly replaced, nobody moved to help him as he dragged himself across the mud and blood-soaked ground in his attempt to avoid being trampled over by those who had been marching behind him.

None of the other warriors showed an ounce of sympathy, and if he was in their path, he was to become their path.

Korild silently sneered at the mutants and their defence. They wouldn’t be able to prevent the ladders from reaching the walls. Too many warriors were marching, too many willing to pick up the ladders if dropped. Unless they got incredibly lucky and their artillery managed to destroy each and every one of them, it was inevitable.

It still absolutely infuriated Korild that it was coming at the cost of so many of his warriors. So many dying before they could bring blade to combat, dead through the tools of cowards.

Malice-damn that bastard for wasting my men.

What was worse though, was that the Everwrath was being proven correct, through attrition alone, they would reach the village, get past that outer layer of defence, and once they were in, that was it, victory would be theirs. A costly victory. But what else could Korild do? Every request for a band with access to a hellcannon had met failure, and without ranged weapons of their own, they had no way of mitigating the advantage the mutants held.

Though this entire venture had taught Korild one thing—in future, he was going to be looking into getting at least one sorcerer to join his war-band going forward. Even a singular sorcerer could have helped even that playing field. Imagine the horror that would have resulted amongst those weaklings if daemons were summoned in their midst whilst they cowered behind their guns.

Speaking of daemons... Korild turned and bellowed out an order. There was a chittering, a click that had nothing to do with somebody snapping their fingers. And then the lesser daemons of Malice began to sprint forward.

At that same time, the first ladder reached the walls.


*


Sergeant Cobaal cursed softly as he pumped his ramrod down the barrel of his musket.

‘They’re getting closer,’ Cobaal said in warning, though his voice was almost snuffed out by the constant noise of musket-fire.

‘We can fight them, and we’ll outlast them,’ Zak spoke resolutely. ‘We are the Children of the Gods, holding back the tide of Chaos is what we were made for, and I’ll not be found wanting in my duties.’

Another mortar shell came down, scattered a sum of warriors. For a moment, Cobaal felt a glimmer of confusion, for the shot had come sooner than he had anticipated. Not that it was a bad thing, but not having expected it at that moment just threw him for a handful of seconds.

One of the cannon towers fired. Cobaal didn’t pay too much attention to the cannonball’s path of destruction, he was busy aligning his musket with the barely visible form of a warrior carrying a ladder by his lonesome. Pulled the trigger and felt a slither of satisfaction when the warrior in question stumbled and fell.

Another mortar shell landed, followed by a cannon firing. Whether by fluke or because the Dawi manning the cannon had remembered the position of it, there was a crashing sound as the last battering ram was destroyed. Cobaal felt a small weight lift from his shoulders, let out a soft breath. That was the biggest threat that they potentially had to worry about no longer a factor.

The sound of feet slapping against the ground behind them had Cobaal turn his head after spitting the latest bullet down the barrel of his musket, then watched whilst he pumped the ramrod. He noted that Zak had fully turned with one hand rested on the pommel of his sword. A human youth, maybe sixteen summers, ran across the wooden boards which had been placed so that they could better traverse the rooftops. The youth reached Zak and stopped, panting for breath.

‘Major Zak?’ the youth asked.

‘Yes?’

‘Message from your Captain Yuata.’ The youth paused for a moment to stare wide-eyed and anxious at the mass of warriors barely visible to his unadjusted eyes, but he was clearly aware of what lay out there, knew what the only rational source of such movement could be. He inhaled deeply and turned back to Zak. ‘The reserves have all been sent to the other two fronts.’

‘All of them?’ Zak asked, irritated.

Cobaal swallowed down a curse. For the number of warriors marching, even if limited exclusively to climbing the ladders, were such that there was no realistic way that they would be able to hold this point. The warriors of Chaos would overrun and crush them beneath the weight of their numeric superiority.

The boy visibly swallowed but nodded once. ‘He said to say to you that the reserves can’t be broken into three, but the mayor, he’s sent word so all the mortars that can reach outside your wall to keep firing until they run out of ammo.’

That explains the extra mortar fire. It was a mixed blessing, the mortars would certainly devastate their share of the warriors, but they would only be useful so long as the warriors were on the outside, which wasn’t going to be the case for much longer, no matter how optimistic Cobaal wanted to be regarding the situation. The sheer numbers that were still marching on them, the fact that they could no longer slow them down by aiming explicitly for those carrying ladders... they were going to ascend the outer walls and be sharing the rooftop with the gunners soon. Unlike the cannons, the mortars were firing blindly, the cannons could at least continue to support them until they were out of ammunition.

The youth then reached forward and grabbed the front of Zak’s cuirass, eyes wide with a terror that was ill kept at bay. ‘Why would he be worried about running out of ammo?’

Zak carefully pushed the youth back. ‘We’ll be fine. Go back to the centre of village and wait out the rest of the night. Let us handle this.’

The youth’s look of fear didn’t fade. If there was anything he intended to say in answer to the admittedly lacking attempt at reassurance—it didn’t answer the question asked, or even address it, made it clear that there wasn’t a satisfactory answer—then such a reply was cut short when at the outer edge of the roof, a ladder connected with a clattering sound. The youth screamed in fear, a horrible sound that had Cobaal cringe.

From the ground below, a warrior of Chaos made an appearance, having scaled the ladder rapidly for one covered in heavy plate armour. Cobaal swore angrily, a self-directed anger for allowing himself to be distracted. The moment a helmeted head emerged, Cobaal made up for his momentary lapse, lunged forward and slammed the butt of his weapon into the warrior’s face. Even should the impact itself do little to harm the warrior through his helmet, the force was still enough that the warrior fell back, dazed. He lost his grip on the ladder entirely after a second impact made a connection.

Once the warrior was gone from sight, Cobaal leaned forward and fired his musket at whoever had the misfortune of being at the base of the ladder ready to be the next to clamber up its length. Meanwhile, Zak darted forward and slammed his foot into the ladder, which was enough to cause the rickety looking construction tilt back and fell to the ground. It was only a temporary reprieve, for it would hardly take much effort for the Chaos warriors to re-align the ladder and prop it once again against the wall. But even a temporary reprieve was better than nothing at that moment.

A quick glance back showed that the youth had run. Wise choice.

‘What’s our ammo stores looking like?’ Zak asked aloud.

‘I’ve only got a handful of powder cartridges left.’ That first answer was followed by a number of similar replies.

Cobaal reached into the leather bag slung at his right hip, rooted about sightlessly. His fingers didn’t find anything. Concerned, he fully opened his ammo bag and actually looked within its confines. He hadn’t just gotten unlucky with his blind attempt at grabbing the next paper cartridge: it was empty.

‘I’m out,’ he called out in warning.

As if mocking him, the ladder was realigned, and a warrior was already scurrying up. The Chaos warrior dropped back just as quickly as he had ascended, Cobaal took out his frustration on having run out of bullets by thrusting his bayonet, managed to slip the blade in the helmet’s narrow visor. Zak repeated his earlier motion of kicking the ladder down.

‘Here, sergeant,’ one of the other skinks, Vren, called out and carefully tossed a paper cartridge toward the sergeant. Cobaal didn’t hesitate to snatch it from the air and rip the top off with his teeth, poured the gunpowder into the barrel with long practiced ease and then spat the bullet and paper wad down after.

Further along the village’s perimeter more ladders were making contact, and Chaos warriors were clambering up with all the speed they could manage. This was now a losing battle. It was only going to get worse as more ladders were raised up, which would be quicker now that the number of bullets that could be contributed to the defence were running short, and even if they weren’t, every time a ladder was propped against the wall or a warrior climbed such a ladder, that was time taken away from firing down at the horde below.

‘Quetzl give us strength,’ Zak was barely heard uttering, his blade now truly unsheathed and ready. He then straightened his posture, including his head, so as to better project his voice. ‘We continue to hold for a moment longer. But be ready to pull back on my word!’

From the other rooftops, the sergeants for the other handgunner cohorts called out their acknowledgements.

That infernal ladder made yet another reappearance. This time Cobaal didn’t even allow the warrior climbing up the chance to see the top, he was already close enough to kick his foot against it, let it tip back. He couldn’t even find satisfaction in the startled yell from the warrior who had reached halfway up its length. The sergeant shouldered his musket and lined the sights, ready to fire...

The appearance of an insectoid monstrosity with hooked and barbed appendages had Cobaal stumbled back in started shock. The daemon chittered, finished climbing the wall without any need of a ladder, the skull-like face focused on Cobaal. How unfortunate for the daemon however, that it hadn’t waited for the skink to fire his musket. As it stood, it interrupted him and then made an appearance, only for Cobaal to realign his musket and pull the trigger on the new threat.

The skull shattered like a glass hit by a rock. The daemon’s body fell over the edge of the building, landed below and inconvenienced more of the human warriors if the startled oaths were any clue.

‘Out again,’ Cobaal reported.

‘Damnit, they’re bringing the daemons,’ Zak cursed aloud, his eyes trailing to the next roof over, where the skink musketeers had just disposed of their own daemonic threat. The major then peered back and up, to the tower with the cannon. ‘What is your ammo looking like?’

‘We’re on our last shot,’ the Dawi manning the cannon called back.

The Dawi handgunners weren’t quite so spent for their ammo, but their own reports weren’t painting a good picture. Zak barred his teeth in irritation, his eyes turned to glare out at the field beyond the village limits, glared hatefully at the Chaos horde, then turned back to the Dawi in the tower.

‘Handgunners, pull back to inner gate. Cannon gunner, fire your last shot, make it count, then follow them. We’ll hold them back for a while then----’

The “then” was interrupted as both a ladder and another of the lesser daemons made an appearance at the same time. The daemon was quick enough to clamber up the wall and positioned such that there was no simple kicking of the ladder this time. The daemon chittered, hooked appendages waving in a threatening challenge. A challenge that Zak met with a hiss.

Distantly, Cobaal realised that he had just heard the final shot of the Dawi cannon in the tower. No more artillery support slowing down the advance. The mortars further back might still have some shots left, but they were strictly limited to firing at the field beyond the village limits, explosive artillery shots within one’s own settlement counter-intuitive to keeping that settlement standing.

Meanwhile, the first Chaos warrior to climb the ladder appeared, shield-first in an effort to prevent the fate of the previous two that had reached that far. Cobaal tensed, adjusting his grip on the musket and watched, waited for an opening. A gunshot from one of the Dawi in the tower, yet to climb down and follow his kin, had the Chaos warrior flinch and re-angle his shield as he finished his ascent. Cobaal lunged, thrust his musket with deliberate aim. The bayonet found its mark, punctured into the gap in the armour at the warrior’s knee, pierced into flesh and nailed through the bone beneath. The warrior screamed out obscenities, but despite the crippling injury, didn’t fall, and swung his baleful axe at Cobaal in attempted retribution.

Cobaal skipped back, avoided evisceration, though it was close. So close that he felt the axe’s jagged edge catch on his sleeve and tear at the wool of his coat. One of Cobaal’s cohort lunged in next, aimed the bayonet instead for the elbow of the arm holding the axe that had nearly ended Cobaal’s life. Wasn’t quite as successful as Cobaal’s thrust had been, the blade had instead caught on the plate armour, and slid along the metal with a metallic screech. The warrior’s reaction was to use his shield to bludgeon the skink that had tried to harm him so. The impact had the skink sprawled out on the ground, eyes dazed and staring up at the night sky, and unable to react in time as the axe came down for a follow-up blow.

Cobaal felt the death of his subordinate keenly. Hissing out expletives, he threw himself forward, musket held instead by the barrel, and swung the weapon as one would a club. The heavy wooden stock met the back of the warrior’s neck. It wasn’t enough to break the bone beneath the armour, but the heavy blow did have the armoured human stumble, unable to fend off the second such blow, which met his head. Then a third blow, and a fourth. He would have continued to rain heavy bludgeoning blows upon the agent of the Ruinous Powers, but the fifth strike had the warrior stumble and lose his footing. The last that Cobaal saw of him was as he tipped over the edge of the building, fell to ground below, head-first.

But there was no time to rest, another warrior of Chaos was already finishing his ascent up the ladder. And a second ladder was now adjacent to the first, a helmeted head just beginning to emerge from below. Behind Cobaal, Zak let out a grunt, pulling his sword from the carcass of the daemon.

‘We can’t hold this position any longer,’ he said, then raised his voice. ‘Muskets, fall back to the first point!’

On the adjacent buildings, the skink musketeers began to pull back in as orderly a manner as was possible when Chaos warriors and daemons kept making appearance at their backs. The wooden boards that had been carefully placed as bridges that allowed passage between the buildings at the outer edge of the village, those that formed the surrounding wall, with the next buildings inward of the settlement were put to use. The skink musket infantry filed across with an ease that came from practice during the days they’d been under siege, because as much as Zak prided himself on being a wall that couldn’t be passed, he knew to be realistic, knew that this had been a possibility, so he’d had the skink handgunners drilled in crossing those planks quickly without breaking them.

Cobaal waited before crossing, as sergeant, he would be one of—if not the—last to cross over. Until that moment, he would be protecting the flanks of his subordinates whilst they fell back. He had just managed to kick down one of the ladders following a shoulder barge to the warrior that had climbed it, when he became aware of a loud thudding noise, like somebody slamming their fist against a wooden door demanding entry, but louder, and more rhythmic. Cobaal shared a look with Zak, and both chanced a moment to lean over the edge of the building to look upon the outside of the gate into the village. What they saw was almost an imitation of the bastiladon formation favoured by Mort and his regiments, shields held and linked together to form a protective shell. But it wasn’t enough to hide that within that shell, warriors were holding a large wooden log with a brass weight on one end.

‘Oh...’ Cobaal couldn’t help but let out a sigh. ‘They had a handheld battering ram.’

Zak hissed in annoyance, but he didn’t seem to dwell on it. Cobaal assumed that it was because, in the grand scheme of events, with their falling back the gate was going to be lost regardless. Instead, after kicking down the ladder being replaced yet again, he leaned over a different edge of the building, and peered down at the saurus in the street below, all formed up to block the passage down that street.

‘Sergeant Hual,’ Zak called down to the alpha in charge of the cohort. Our muskets are running low on ammo, and the marauders have gotten their ladders up and a battering ram to the gate. We’re falling back to the junction. Relocate all your saurus behind the barricades and get ready.’

‘Understood!’ Hual called back. ‘Saurus, you heard the major. Move back to the junction and reform behind the barricades.’

The saurus warriors all obeyed without a moment of delay, their trusted polearms lifted skyward and their turned on the spot and marched at a brisk pace down the street, fast enough that it wasn’t a walk, slow enough to not be called a run. The only ones to not turn, and instead backpedalled with their weapons still lowered at the ready were those saurus who had been at the front rank, their attention focused on any potential threat that might try to attack their flanks as they fell back.

With the saurus now relocating, Zak motioned for Cobaal to take his turn crossing the wooden planks between buildings. Cobaal did so, was closely followed behind by the major. Once both had joined the rest of Cobaal’s cohort, Cobaal and one of his subordinates grabbed the wooden boards and pulled them back, denied the warriors their use as a bridge with which to follow them. Once that was done, the major looked at each skink in the cohort, eyes locked onto each one. Cobaal met his eyes, promised with a look alone that he was ready to continue.

In that time, the skinks from the other buildings on their side of the gate rallied up with them. Made for a crowded space, but now the company wasn’t quite so stretched thin. It was somewhat reassuring, Cobaal found, safety in numbers. Granted, that safety was a fickle thing, and easily discarded when matched against a competent foe. But having the entirety of the musket company coming back together, sans any losses, felt soothing, a bolstering to morale that he hadn’t even properly registered was fraying.

‘We’re moving to the junction. As we march, any of you who has more than a single cartridge left, share out with those who don’t have any. Everybody gets at least one shot.' Zak paused, glanced back the way they came, and sneered as a warrior of Chaos clambered to the recently vacated roof and then realised that he had no way of following the skinks. The warrior shook his axe in a display of impotent rage, to which Zak raised his middle two fingers upon his left hand and waved them at the warrior, then turned back to the cohort. ‘If we don’t have enough ammo for everybody, those who go without are to keep pulling back to the inner gate, grab any remaining ammo in the stores, and ready a final line. Am I understood?’

There was a unanimous sound of acknowledge. Cobaal accepted a paper cartridge from Vren as they began to hurriedly jog along the length of the terraced buildings. Even as he walked, he loaded the bullet and gunpowder into his musket.


*


‘The walls have fallen,’ Korild noted with a sliver of satisfaction. ‘Took long enough.’

And it had only cost the lives of numerous warriors, all fighting for the same cause that Korild himself fought for. Was their sacrifice worth it? There was always a cost to any battle, but was this an instance where he could have paid a cheaper toll? Or was this a moment where the Everwrath had been accurate in that this was the only course that could have been taken if this stupid little village was to burn?

To the east, there was a sliver of light beginning to crest the horizon. Korild huffed, it didn’t feel like it had taken hours, but he supposed a large amount of that time had been spent in the slow advance towards the wall, his one effort to try and cut down on casualties to his minions. The closer that they could get before the defenders became aware of them, the less time that those same defenders could dedicate to shooting at them.

An explosive shell landed, scattered a couple of dozen warriors in multiple directions. Those who were lucky, they got have their corpse remain as singular whole. Those who had been caught in the very heart of the explosion? Maybe they'd left some part of them that could be used to recognise them later. Assuming the dead weren’t left to rot in the fields.

They probably would be. Nurgle would no doubt take advantage and start to cultivate a new garden here, but by that time, none of the sons of Malice would be around to suffer the fruits of the Fly Lord's labours.

The battering ram, smaller and held by hand, slammed against the gates. It would take a while, no doubt the other side of that gate had been bolstered by whatever means the village had at their disposal, and effort to reinforce the integrity of the massive wooden construction that was already destined to be far more durable than it had any right to be, thanks to those overly hairy runts living in within those walls.

But time was on their side now. Now they had their foothold, warriors were scrambling up the ladders, more and more being propped against those walls, and the lesser daemons of Malice, what handful yet remained were following. The crack had formed, now all that Korild needed to do was keep applying the pressure, and that crack would grow until the foundations shattered.


*


Vorin was a warrior who had long ago dedicated himself to fighting the Ruinous Forces. Malice had found him, had uplifted him and granted him a renewed sense of purpose, a realisation that the cause he had dedicated himself to was not as hopeless as it often appeared. A god of Chaos that would see those four wretched gods suffer? He had not regretted his pledge to the Lord of Anarchy.

Sometimes however, he wondered how his actions were in any way contributing to bringing down the Four. This venture into the lands south of the Sea of Claws for example, what use was there in coming to this land of the weak? How did striking against the enemies of the Four help weaken them? But he had faith. Lord Skaros was an exalted champion, but more than that, he was a man of vision. He had never let the warhost down in the past, always had some long-term goal that wasn’t always apparent.

Besides which, just because these men of the south were enemies of his enemies, that did not make them deserving of their lives. To live with such weakness, such arrogance as to claim themselves a strong nation when that nation was born from a weak god and his weak followers. No, they didn’t deserve to live. They weren’t allies. And so, they must die.

Vorin spent a minute contemplating if there was any way to cross the gap between this building—what a queer design choice, what had appeared to be a wall was the outer edges of normal buildings reinforced to act as a wall—and the next. He could see, as if left to mock him and his fellows, the wooden boards that these strange mutants had used to cross that same gap, but then pulled away and deprived any other of their use.

To be expected really. These mutants had proven themselves to be cowards, hiding behind their walls, unorthodox as those walls were, and fighting only at range if not forced into a proper fight. It made sense that they would flee once they realised that they no longer could hide behind ranged weapons and their walls.

With a snarl of annoyance at the cowardice making his work harder than it needed be, Vorin leapt down from the roof to the street below. The gate rattled and visibly bulged where the battering ram on the other side made impact, but it was clear that the gate wasn’t yet about to break.

‘Warriors,’ he shouted out, ‘form up on me. The cowards have retreated. It means nothing, it is only delaying their deaths. Form up on me, and we will show these mutants what real warriors fight like. For the Lord of Anarchy!’

‘For the Lord of Anarchy!’ the other warriors chanted while leaping down and forming up a formation with Vorin at the head, a solid block of armoured warriors, all hefting their axes and shields. Now that they had passed the walls, they were going to gut every last weakling in this pitiful excuse of a village. None shall be given the mercy of a quick death. Whatever Korild had originally planned, this village had expired any potential that they might have been given such a kindness. Vorin would repeat the acts performed at that village north-east from here. He would personally nail every man, woman and child to the walls of their homes.

He marched, felt the power of having a full regiment of warriors at his side and his back. The street was a straight road that seemed to lead inward toward the village’s centre. But he quickly found himself sneering in anger and confusion when they came to a large wooden platform that stretched from one side of the street to the next, three or four feet in height, and just as long from Vorin’s side to the opposite, where a matching formation of the mutants—but different, larger and broader—stood with spears at the ready.

Vorin felt an eyebrow hitch up as he noticed that the spearheads were not simple designs typically found among the men of the Empire, there was a rounded hooked protrusion half a foot down from the tip of the spear, while a handspan lower than that and on the opposite side of the spear from the hook was an extra spike jutting out. Vorin wondered at the design, what purpose could such additions add to a simple spear?

Discarding any further thought on the eccentric weapon designs of these mutants, he instead focused on this peculiar platform. If it was supposed to block passage down the street, it failed. It wasn’t so high as to be unclimbable.

With a laugh, one that those who heard him shared, Vorin pointed at the wooden construction. ‘The Sons of Malice will not be deterred by such a pathetic barrier.’

One of the large mutants at the front of the formation on the opposite side of the barrier tilted his head, eyes narrowed. Vorin saw it for what it was, a mocking challenge. He let out a dark chuckle.

‘Advance. Cut them down.’

As one, the warriors of Malice continued to advance, reached the platform, and begun to climb it. And Vorin finally realised its purpose. So long as they were busy climbing the drat thing, the reach of those strange spears was allowed free reign to be thrust at them. Instantly there was blood soaking that wooden platform as the first warriors to try and climb it were skewered, the armour punctured by the polearm and the natural strength of these mutants. Vorin hesitated for a moment at this revelation, then sneered.

‘Fools, we have shields,’ he said with a mocking cackle, began to climb the platform himself with the arm carrying his shield angled to protect him from any effect to run him through.

Unfortunately, that was when he learnt of the utility behind the hook on the spears. He could only watch as a spear was thrust such that it went to the side of his shield, then twisted around so that the curved hook latched onto its side, and was then pulled back, pulling his shield away from him and exposing him to another spear that was thrust toward him. He managed to avoid being killed on the spot, threw himself sideward so the polearm only punctured the shoulder of his axe-arm. But at least he was alive.

And then, on the rooftops of the buildings on either side of the street, those handgunners made another appearance. With attention focused on the obstruction and the threat in front, the block of warriors hadn’t a chance to react to the handgunners flanking them on both sides. It was a massacre, warriors shot down by the cowardly tactics, unable to protect themselves, hadn’t even had time to be aware that they needed to.

A second spear thrust toward Vorin met its intended target, punctured through his cuirass and into his breast. He knew the moment he felt the sharp pain that it was a lethal blow. He collapsed, fell to the ground, his injured arm no longer able to support his weight. He had never even managed to get atop the platform.

His death was hastened when none of the other warriors cared to mind their steps as they surged forward in their attempt to get over the platform. He was crushed to death long before he suffocated from the blood filling his lung.


*


Korild watched the sun’s slow rise. Until the gate was smashed open, it was all he and the other cavalry riders could really do. His horse, daemonic or not, was not going to climb any ladders. Until the gate was open, they could only stand there waiting for their time.

As the leader, Korild could have dismounted and followed his warriors, but Korild was a knight, he was born and bred to ride. And ride he would, until he had run down every insignificant spec that had dared to insult him. They had dared to contest his might. He would kill them all.

The sun continued to rise, seemingly ignorant or perhaps just uncaring of the blood being spilt. The gate was slammed into yet again by the ram. Again. And again. He could see it weakening. Soon, his time would come.

He called out for the warriors who hadn’t yet scrambled up the ladders, halted them. Better they be allowed to go through the gate, could remain in a formation. Who knew what these cowards and mutants had planned. Korild was not interested in underestimating the full extent that they would go do delay the inevitable. No doubt they had planned traps and ambushes.

Better to preserve strength in unity.

With a final crash, the gate was forced open.

Korild laughed. Finally. Finally, it is time!

The distant booms of artillery firing caught his attention, not because it existed, but because there was something off about the sound. That hadn’t sounded like it had come from within the village...

The explosion was different this time, it wasn’t a flash of fire that immediately extinguished itself, but instead the fire lingered and spread from the force of the detonation and covered those that were unfortunate enough to be caught within its grasp. It was like a burning liquid of viscous flame that coated and stuck to those poor souls. And they screamed, burning under the blanket of liquid fire that warmed them with no mercy, just the cruel touch of one of the most primal forces of the natural world.

What was worse, it wasn’t a singular shot that landed, but multiple blasts, and all had hit with an unerring accuracy, the kind of accuracy that suggested line of sight and not vague guesswork.

This was... new. What new cowardice was this...?

‘My lord, up there!’ A member of his retinue pointed, gestured frantically toward one of the hills to their west.

Korild looked up and gaped in shock at the distant form of those large creatures. The ones that carried the artillery on their shelled backs. Eight of them, staring down the hill, screened by a line of the handgunner equipped mutants.

‘What in the hells? How did they get around us?’

There was no real answer for the question.


*


He looked down the hill at the mass of white armoured figures, at the presence of larger daemons, at the mounted cavalry. For a moment, just a moment, he felt fear. But that fear was swallowed down and pushed back. He was an agent of the Great Plan—this was what he had spawned for. This was the Great Enemy, the Ruinous Powers at work, and they were attacking this settlement, where his kin were fighting to defend themselves and the occupants of this village.

‘Line your shots, aim for the largest mass of them that you can see,’ he said, managing to project his voice, before looking at the screening skinks, positioned before the bastiladons with their muskets at the ready. At this range, the handguns would do no good, but they had their place in the moments to come. A projection of force, a clear barrier between the Ruinous Forces and the artillery.

There was a moment of silence as the gunners for the carronades got to work, carefully aligning the heavy guns. Then hissed out sounds of readiness.

He waited another ten seconds, observed the scene below, and then Major Boney slid his sabre from its scabbard, held it up in silent salute. This was the moment that he accepted his position, accepted his role as a leader of the Legion. This might be a battle that he wouldn’t walk away from, the numbers below were vast, but he saw his duty. He breathed in, held the breath, exhaled. And then, with all the acceptance of what he was committing himself to, he pointed his sabre down the hill at the forces of Chaos.

He was Major Boney of Outland Legion. But more than that, he was a Child of the Gods and a warrior spawned of Madrigal; he would not be found wanting.

‘Fire.’

As one, all eight of the artillery guns fired.

 

Siege of Bealivun – ...The Keg Ignites​

Eight Months Ago

—

Bonaeaix absently rubbed at his arms as he watched the hunters return from the jungles. They were carrying something between them, a somber look to their eyes. It didn’t take Bonaeaix more than a second’s glance to know that what they carried between them was the mangled remains of a saurus.

‘I warned him,’ the skink priest mumbled, swallowing down a thick lump that had formed in his throat.

A hand came down and rested on Bonaeaix’s shoulder, gave a reassuring squeeze. ‘You did, lad.’

Bonaeaix turned his head, just enough that he could make out Attendant Klixx’takka. Klixx shook his head mournfully, eyes fixed upon the scene playing out before them.

‘You can’t help those who don’t wish to be helped. Scar-veteran Zlarr-Ssthur chose to ignore your warning, his death is not on you.’

‘He would have listened if I was a saurus,’ Bonaeaix said, unable to help the bitter warble to his voice.

Klixx shook his head again, fingers tightening into another reassuring squeeze to the younger skink’s shoulder. ‘But the Old Ones had you spawn as a skink, one marked by Tzunki. You have a place in their designs.’

‘What use am I to the Great Plan if the saurus don’t listen to me? I wasn’t trying to control Zlarr-Ssthur, but...’ Bonaeaix trailed off, unable to properly articulate in words the feeling of failure that was swelling up in his breast.

‘Zlarr-Ssthur was blinded by an irrational hatred borne of the geas. He was too young to have been weened of the geas, but his experiences with the Guardian-Mother of Madrigal had him cast off the geas far too soon.’

Bonaeaix shivered at the mention of the event that had earned Zlarr-Ssthur his scar-veterancy. The Guardian-Mother was anything but motherly to those living on the isle, she was a harsh and brutal creature that was typically avoided lest the ones unfortunate enough to have stumbled across her suffered a painful death. Zlarr-Ssthur had gotten lucky with his survival. The first time at least. His arrogance and deliberate ignoration of a warning that he was moving into her nesting grounds meant that he hadn’t gotten lucky a second time.

Bonaeaix ignored the dull throbbing of his jaw, the bruise a reminder of just how intent the scar-veteran had been in ignoring anything that a skink might have to say to him, would prefer to stew in his hatred of the smaller breed of the Children of the Gods. Zlarr-Ssthur and those who had been drawn to him had died in the name of that hatred.

A small part of Bonaeaix wondered if he should actually celebrate the scar-veteran's death. At the very least, for the majority of the skinks living in Tiamoxic there would be a weight lifted from their shoulders, a relief that they wouldn’t have to tiptoe around a saurus who had an attitude best likened to a carnosaur under a blood-lust.

The damage had been done though. An entire spawning wary around their larger kin because of the actions of one. Despite that, despite the fear he’d had of the saurus, Bonaeaix had still warned him. Had still tried to avoid the needless death that came from an arrogant need to prove oneself superior. In the future, Zlarr-Ssthur would be the cautionary tale told about the reason saurus spawned with the geas in place, and why the geas was only supposed to fade when the saurus reached a level of emotional maturity that could only come about through experience.

Klixx hummed thoughtfully, watched as the hunters disappeared with the remains of Zlarr-Ssthur, took them to where the last rites would be performed. The personal attendant of Annat’corri then looked at Bonaeaix with a thoughtful look.



—

Present Day – Bealivun

—

A ball of iron was lifted by practiced hands and carefully pressed into a narrow muzzle. That ball was then pushed down the length of the bore by a thick rod with a flared end, shaped to best push against the heavy ball until it was nestled against a cloth bag filled with black powder. There was a moment where nothing happened, the rod which had been pushing against the ball was removed from the metal tunnel. And then a flash, a spark deliberately set against the bag against which the ball was pressed.

The contents of that bag were ignited, abruptly detonated with a loud bang and a burst of fire, the force of which sent the iron ball propelling forward, out of the bore, out of the muzzle and into the air in an arching motion, alongside seven other such balls. But the sudden motion wasn’t the only thing that had happened with the detonation of the black powder, a small fuse on the ball had lit up, slowly burnt its way down into the ball’s innards. Shortly before these eight iron balls could hit the ground, their wicks reached their zenith and a small carefully portioned amount of black powder within the balls repeated the feat performed by the bags which had originally launched these iron balls into the sky.

The balls detonated with small carefully planned detonations, the shards of the now shattered iron balls shot down upon those that were unfortunate enough to be beneath them, but that wasn’t the true purpose behind this, for the small explosion had caused the other contents of the iron balls to now spread out and come down atop the warriors of Chaos who’d had the misfortune of being caught in the radius of the spread of this delivery. Salamander bile, carefully harvested and even more carefully stored within the iron shells, was ignited, and came raining down, coating the armoured warriors with the viscous and burning substance, and even if these warriors had water at hand, this was not a flame that could be so easily quenched, water would simply spread the bile, make the molten flames worse. The warriors caught beneath this horrible weapon of choice screamed out as they were burnt, their armour did little to protect them, if anything made their situation worse as the metal was heated and contributed to the burning deaths that they suffered under the artillery barrage.

Under different circumstances, Korild might have had some appreciation for the sheer vicious brutality of this artillery barrage, could have seen the benefits that came of this weapon that didn’t just inflict death upon the foe but was also burning away at the bravery and resolve of those who were fortunate enough to not be caught beneath the rain of liquid fire. It was taking everything that the more experienced warriors had to keep those lesser warriors from breaking, but even the most experienced and storied of the warriors was clearly shaken, nerves shot as they not only witnessed their comrades-in-arms flailing as they burnt to death, but the screams of agony.

His eyes lifted back to the hill, to the beasts carrying the artillery weapons that had done such damage in so few barrages. He could just about make out the motions of those mutants riding atop the beasts as they loaded the large guns anew. Twenty seconds later, the line of artillery guns fired a fresh chorus and more liquid fire splashed down upon Korild’s warriors.

Korild’s jaw ached under the force his teeth being ground together, a pain sparked along his nerves from one of his teeth cracked, unable to withstand the amount of pressure applied to it, but the knight of Chaos found himself uncaring of the pain.

‘Knights, we need to cut this blight from the field,’ he shouted out, then motioned to first one battalion then another. ‘Go, charge down those mutant bastards and make them pay!’

There was a returning shout, but Korild didn’t hear the words, he was glaring up at the hill, vision tunnelling and all sound becoming muted to his ears. He felt a fresh spawning of humiliation, that he would be outmanoeuvred so, that somehow these mutants would find a way to flank him and introduce a new wave of their cowardly weapons upon him from an unexpected angle.

They would suffer. He would see them all writhing in agony, begging him for a mercy he would not give. For the humiliation they had brought to him, he would personally make the rest of their existence nothing short of the most horrifying pain he could impress upon them.


*


Zak dropped down from the roof after issuing orders for the handgunners to begin making their way to the inner gate of the village. While their positioning was devastating, the forces Chaos caught in a brutal crossfire from both sides whilst they tried to clamber over the platform blocking the road and fending off spear jabs as they did so, with that one lethal volley, that marked the last of the musket infantry’s ammo pool. So, he had them fall back to what was the last defensive point that they had, the line that they could not allow the enemy to pass no matter the cost. There, they could scavenge any remaining ammo from the stores, and those that were able to reload their muskets would be good for one last shot when—not if, when—the saurus and Zak fell back to the inner gate themselves.

As he oriented himself, Zak paused, the echoing vibrations of artillery-fire reaching him. Except there was no way that what he had just heard had come from inside the village. So long as the mortars were still letting off the odd shot to the field outside the settlement, they were a perpetual a reminder to the Ruinous Forces that just because they had taken the walls and finally breached the village, that didn’t automatically make the outside a safe haven, not so long as those mortars had ammo. Which was going to run out soon, the Dawi manning the mortars had been relentless in getting those explosive shells delivered to the marauders at a rapid pace.

But that boom, that artillery firing... the sound had been muted, distant.

‘Have they finally gotten hellcannons? After they’ve already finished the hard part?’ Zak found himself asking incredulously.

Sergeant Haol huffed out an amused breath. ‘Since when were Chaos smart enough to wait for the big guns?’

Zak narrowed his eyes in an amused grin, then stabbed his sword across the street-block, stabbed the blade into the wrist of a warrior as the deplorable human tried to clamber up the wooden structure. The human squealed in pain and fell back, though he didn’t fall prone, the push of his fellow warriors managed to keep him upright and forced him forward again, even as he scrabbled at the ground in an effort to find the axe he had dropped when his wrist had been impaled. A spear punctured through the warrior’s cuirass, and the frantic motions stilled.

Zak then heard the distant artillery-fire again, and his eyes narrowed as something about the sound ringed at his mind. But any real thought he could give the matter was put on pause, as another Chaos warrior managed to come near enough that Zak was able to reach him with his blade.

Time and place, he mused after the warrior dropped, and stopped thinking about the distant artillery.


*


Boney watched as the latest barrage hit true and huffed in satisfaction. Then his attention shifted, took note of a large number of the Chaos cavalry breaking from the formations and rallying up at a new point, all now facing toward the hill that Boney, and his artillery battery, had claimed.

‘They’ve noticed us,’ he spoke out. ‘Their cavalry looks to coming for us.’

Coadmit and his cohort adjusted the sights of their muskets toward the horsemen, which had after a pause started to gallop toward the hill. It would be a small length of time before they reached the artillery battery, and they had enough numbers that there was no way that they’d all be killed before reaching their destination, even if Boney had the artillery shift their focus to aid in cutting down the cavalry. But Boney had actually planned ahead before he had committed his forces to this fight. Had seen the armoured horsemen and accounted for the possibility that they’d be sent his way.

Boney looked at the bastiladons and their gunner crews. ‘Fire another three more barrages, then pull back.’ He then turned to look at Coadmit. ‘Sergeant, fire at your discretion, then pull back in time with the bastiladons.’

Boney heard the affirmations, and then took a step forward and stared down the hill at the advancing cavalry. He inhaled, took in the air’s saturation of Aethyr. He had time, this was the only chance he would get for this. He inhaled again, this time deeply, took in the Winds of Magic and allowed them to fuel him while his mind stretched and shaped those same Winds. The hand that wasn’t holding his sabre came up, rested on the gold neckpiece hidden beneath his shirt, used the small piece of his old priestly regalia to ground him.

So deeply into his concentration was he that he failed to hear the thunderous applause of eight carronades firing. Despite the lack of hearing, the vibrations in his body from the event was enough to let him know that they had fired, delivered more of their payload down to the armies of Chaos below. He inhaled again, took in more Winds to fuel his effort, sculpted them with a sense of caution lest he miscast. This was not a spell he wanted to miscast, even compared to the normal sense of self-preservation that told that miscasting was a bad thing to happen.

The horses reached the bottom of the hill, now they just needed to climb. Boney pointed his blade at the approaching horsemen, and he exhaled. In doing so, he released his hold on the Winds and allowed the new shape to come into being at his direction.

There was a flash of white light as the sky, in spite of the absence of any clouds, cracked and split as a massive bolt of lightning crashed down into the midst of the cavalry formation. Those caught directly beneath the strike of lightning were killed immediately, left naught but ashes to make their existence, while those just outside of the immediate blast were thrown aside with force enough to break bones. They weren’t thrown far, there were too many others around them to allow distance, at the expense of those that were hit by the flung aside horses and their riders getting knocked down, their own bones cracked. Of those not caught in the blast or the after-effects of the same, the horses panicked, loud neighs heard even by those atop the hill. It took precious time for the riders to regain control of their mounts. Time which was spent vulnerable to Coadmit and his cohort firing off their rippling volleys of gunfire.

Boney spent a few moments panting, drinking in air that wasn’t infused with Aethyr, just feeding his lungs. After maybe ten seconds, he straightened his posture, silently promised himself that he would find time to practice the use of summoning a lightning bolt, both to hasten its use in future, as well as to prevent the momentary fatigue that came from shaping the Winds for such a large spell.

Certainly, without mastering that particular use of the Winds, he’d never feel comfortable with the possibility of one day bringing down a comet, which others marked with the Winds of Azyr could boast.


*


Zak mentally stumbled for a moment, eyes lifting unconsciously to the sky as, of all things, a lightning bolt slammed down from the gradually brightening sky, light enough now that it was very clear that there was no cloud in the air from which a lightning strike could have originated.

‘Who the what?’ he asked dumbly, batting aside an axe aimed for his neck. ‘Who’s the mage and who are they working for?’

Haol grunted, barely lifting his shield up in time to prevent his own forcible shortening of his height. The axe bit into the edge of his shield, and then got stuck. The saurus snarled and yanked his arm back, probably only meant to force the weapon from the grip of the one who was trying to use it, but the warrior in question was the stubborn sort who refused to loosen his grip, to unfortunate effect when he found himself pulled forward toward Haol, who slammed his head forward, bone crest hard enough that the helmet worn by the Chaos warrior buckled and dented inward. The warrior slumped, unconscious or dead from head related trauma, Zak neither knew nor cared.

‘We’re starting to get overrun here,’ he hissed, attention lifting to the rooftops of the buildings either side of the street. Notably, there were no longer any skinks lining the edges of the roofs, no gunlines using a devastating crossfire to exposed flanks. ‘The musketeers have run out of ammo.’

Haol plunged his spear into another warrior with a hissed curse. ‘We can’t hold this position.’

‘I know,’ Zak admitted before raising his voice. ‘Fall back, to the gate.’

In order to better allow them the time to retreat without being stabbed in the backs, Zak quickly shaped the Winds and directed them to the barrier that was causing such an inconvenience to the warriors of Chaos. Where it was a hurdle that was forcing the fell warriors to climb over it, the spell Zak cast turned the barrier into a source of bright light that burnt away at the eyes of any corrupted by Chaos. It would last only for ten seconds, but that was extra time that could be used by Zak and his troops to fall and reposition.


*


Korild swore angrily as the lightning bolt slammed down into the ranks of the knights that he had tasked with cutting away the cowardice of his foes.

‘More cowardice,’ he snarled, feeling another crack as another of his teeth succumbed to the pressure of his grinding. He swallowed down some of the blood that resulted from the abused gums and spat the remainder to the ground. ‘What are they doing? Simply charge up the hill and KILL THEM! STOP WASTING TIME AND JUST KILL THOSE MUTANT BASTARDS!’

He didn’t care that his screaming wouldn’t be heard by the intended recipients, he was angry, nay, furious that he was being made a mockery of. He craned his head back, glared toward the camp that he had begun this assault from. He didn’t know whether the Everwrath was still there, or if he had chosen to lead one of the other fronts. But the camp made a good substitute for glaring at the exalted champion himself. Safer too, though that wasn’t a thought that was really at the forefront of his mind at that point. His vision was red with rage.

Another chorus of gunfire from the oversized guns atop the hill, and more of Korild’s troops were incinerated by the vile substance that these mutants were hiding behind.

‘Damn them. Damn the Everwrath. Damn this paltry Empire. Damn them all.’

Korild breathed in, tried to simmer his rage from burning hot flames of hatred, tried to temper it back into a cold simmering fury. Fortune finally gave him something to smile over, he took note that the knights that he had sent to purge the artillery atop that hill were nearing the peak, in-spite of the gunline that tried to scare off the oncoming cavalry.

A wide sneering grin stretched his lips as he watched, saw the way that the mutants tried to withdraw. It was too late for them, if they had really wanted to survive, they should have run while they had the chance, instead of thinking that they could feasibly alter the course of the battle by simply having a single line of guns in a flanking position. It was an irritant at best, one soon to be cut down.


*


Another barrage of artillery shells was fired off. In the fields below more of the Chaos army were lit aflame. One of the skinks atop the bastiladons called out for Boney’s attention, and when the major turned to face the gunner, the green scaled skink motioned to the stockpile of iron shells.

‘We’ve nearly used up our salamander shots.’

Boney gave a single nod of understanding. ‘Switch to solid shots for the moment, but if you think you see a moment where a salamander shot would be better served, by all means.’

There was an answering chuckle, though words weren’t given as the crews loaded a fresh round of shots into the artillery, though these iron balls weren’t marked with a stripe of crimson paint, were simply rough iron balls. Twenty-five seconds later, the artillery guns gave another bark. That marked the final barrage before they were to fall back, as per his instruction.

He was tempted to tell the artillery guns to let off another, final barrage before their pulling back, but a glance at the now reorganised and charging cavalry coming toward them vetoed that idea. He stepped back and hopped up, grabbed the edge of the platform atop the nearest bastiladon’s shell and allowed the thundersaur to carry him as it backed up at the urgings of the crew atop that same platform. Coadmit and his cohort also slowly backed away, kept a careful screening line in front of the bastiladons, and they slowly started to climb down the opposite side of the hill from which the cavalry was approaching.


*


Kaelar sneered at the strange reptiles, noting quickly that now that their futile attempt to prevent the knights of Malice from ascending the hill had failed, they were trying to flee rather than stand and fight as warriors. Honestly, what more could one expect from the weaklings of the south? Mutant or not, they were all cut from the same cloth, and inevitably, all would be crushed beneath the heels of the Warhost of Malice.

Ahead of him, those knights who had taken position at the head of the formation reached the apex of the hill, screaming out a warcry as they crested that peak...

Kaelar jumped in shock as the rapturous cacophony of gunfire echoed loudly and that entire first line of knights was cut down by the brutal volley of brutal. So, they still had some fight in them, even as they withdrew. It wouldn’t help them, but maybe it would make what came next a little more satisfying. Experience had shown that it would take time for the guns to be reloaded, time in which the mutants were now vulnerable, so they were now destined for death at the hands of the knights of Malice.

The sudden need to avoid the bodies of the dead horses and their riders meant that Kaelar wasn’t able to think much more beyond that. His attentions needed to be focused on directing his mount into not tripping over the new obstacles littering the ground. He managed, looked up with a battle cry and slammed his heels against his mount in order to encourage it to charge full speed.

Then, at that moment he crested the hill and could see down the opposite side, he realised that he was looking at a far larger force than he had anticipated. What had been seen atop the hill previously was not the entire force, but instead a single portion of a far larger whole. That realisation distracted him from noticing the large wooden stakes impaled into the ground, sharpened ends angled so that they were pointed in the direction from which Kaelar and the other knights were now charging at full speed, down a hill.

He only noticed after his horse suddenly stopped all forward momentum, pitifully whinnying in pain from the sharpened wooden stake now stabbed into its gut. Kaelar widened his eyes in realisation, turned to shout, to warn any of his fellow knights that might not have yet crested the hill to stay back, that they’d just fallen for a trap. He wasn’t able to utter a sound before he was pulled from his now dead horse by one of the larger of the reptilian mutants, thrown forcibly to the ground and then the narrow point of a blade was stabbed through the gap between his helmet and his cuirass.


*


Boney couldn’t help the grin to his eyes and soft chuckle as the cavalry charged forward directly into the wooden stakes that he had tasked most of his command with planting the instant he had spotted cavalry among the forces of Chaos. They had fallen for his ploy, come at him thinking that they would easily crush what troops he had. More fool them.

A small quarter of his mind wondered if the Chaos warrior in command down below even realised that Boney was a reinforcing force, not some small group from the defenders to try and shift tides with a flanking gunline. That would have probably been Boney’s first assumption, had he been the one in the position of attacker, now that he thought about it. But more than that, it was the small size of the force sent to cut down the artillery that gave him the idea that that was what was happening, that and the lack of any attempt to scout around the hill for a better idea of what else might be hidden behind the heavy guns.

Well, he wasn’t about to start complaining about the mistakes of the enemy. If anything, he should celebrate such mistakes.

After the last of the mounted warriors was finished off, either through an inability to stop their mount in time, or the muskets that were quick to cut down those that showed themselves to be skilled enough, or perceptive enough, to avoid having their horses run headlong into sharpened stakes, Boney sounded out the order for everybody to advance back to the top of the hill. There was probably a joke to be had about the repetition of going up and down and up again in such rapid succession, but now wasn’t the time to ponder on matters of humour.

Everybody slowly advanced. The saurus led, slid between the wooden stakes, pushed free the impaled carcasses if they blocked the path. Behind them were the skinks, then the bastiladons. Those wooden stakes that were still upright were now pushed flat to the ground as the thundersaurs chose not to worry about being careful about keeping them rooted. They’d served their purpose anyway, so Boney didn’t object.


*


‘My lord!’

Korild grunted in irritation, eyes affixed to the settlement as they advanced. It took another two attempts by the other knight for him to finally tear his eyes away from the prize.

‘What?’ he snapped.

The knight didn’t answer with words, but instead pointed at the hill over which the group of knights that he had sent had disappeared. Korild let out another irritated breath of air and turned, expecting to see his knights re-emerging, triumphant. Instead, he was witness to the mutants... far more of the mutants than he had seen up there previously. And it wasn’t just the smaller ones that were used as gunners, but also the larger warrior ones, which he was absolutely certain had not been atop the hill previously. And where before he had seen only a small handful of the gunner mutants, that number had multiplied.

‘Did they manage to have their entire garrison sneak out to outmanoeuvre us?’ he asked, his rage momentary quenched by shocked realisation and a nugget of fear which weighed down his thoughts with all the surety of a lead weight.

As he watched, the large force marched with what was a clearly pre-determined formation, the warriors at the fore in thick close ordered formations, while the gunners were in longer stretched out lines with enough distance between each of those lines that. Even to Korild, who knew little of the tactical mechanics of guns, it was clear to see that the lines had distanced themselves in such a way that each formation behind the previous was elevated enough to see and be able to shoot over the heads of the ranks in front of them. Any attempt to advance on them now would be invitation to a rain of lead such that it was surely suicide to even attempt to advance upon their position now.

During the time the mutants had been hidden, more of Korild’s warriors had entered into the settlement, were unavailable and unaware of this flanking force. And with two of the three battalions of knights that he’d had to his command now dead from whatever their earlier ploy had entailed, it wasn’t even like he had a real option for flanking around them.

‘I don’t think they were part of the garrison,’ another knight uttered, voice faint. ‘I think those are reinforcements.

‘Reinforcements?’ Korild absently repeated the word. ‘How many of these wretched creatures are there within this land?’

The knight, a fellow Kurgan of the steppes, gave an uncertain gesture, then flinched as the top of that hill now held once again the large lumbering beasts that carried the artillery guns. And there was no hesitation on the parts of the mutants to start firing anew.

Korild felt his anger beginning to re-emerge, but held back those feelings of fury, needed the clear head. Needed to think about his next course of action. Couldn’t advance on the creatures while they had the hill, it was a death-zone, and would only serve to kill what warriors he had outside of the settlement. Couldn’t wait for them to come down from the hill, not while they had the artillery, because then he was just going to have his men blasted from a distance while all that he could do was watch impotently. His efforts to keep his fury and hatred in check t didn’t fully work, but he did manage to retain enough of his mental coherency to motion to the rest of his knights.

‘Move, get into the town quickly. They won’t fire those artillery upon us if we are inside the town walls, they’d do too much collateral damage otherwise.’ So said, his heels slammed into the sides of his daemonic mount, stirred it into galloping for the open gate, uncaring about any who weren’t able to move aside in time to avoid being trampled over by his passage, or those of his fellow knights as they formed up and followed close behind him.

The foot warriors, seeing their lord’s hasty retreat from the threat at their flank, broke from their formations in their own hurried rushes to reach the apparent safety of the settlement. The only ones that didn’t were the few daemons that hadn’t yet breached the village. Those large monstrous abominations, with no thought of self-preservation, turned toward the new threat and charged.

Once Korild reached the battered gate, he paused and cast an eye back at the formation of mutants on their hill, took stock of the number of not just the gunners, but also the larger warriors, and swore. One hand shot out, caught the bicep of one of his knights. The knight managed to still his horse before he was pulled from the saddle and craned his head around to glare at Korild for the act.

‘Stay here and command these men, hold this gate. They can not be allowed to enter into this town and meet up with the defenders.’

The Chaos knight shook his head and yanked his arm free of Korild’s grasp. ‘Are you mad? We haven’t the means to protect ourselves from those cannons!’

‘I don’t care. If those mutants manage to enter the streets, we’ll be crushed between them and the defenders. We need to keep them apart!’

‘And what of you?’ the knight asked scornfully.

‘I’ll be leading the effort to crush the defenders.’

‘Who are already tired and being chased further into the village!’ the knight retorted angrily. ‘My lord, you are better served commanding this fight.’

Korild's hand swung around and connected with the insolent knight’s helmet, resulting in an uncomfortable clang of metal meeting metal. ‘Do not question me. I am in charge, not you, and not the Everwrath!’

He paused, momentarily distracted by the sound of those cannons firing off another barrage. A quick glance back revealed that while there was no liquid fire spread upon his warriors this time, the solid iron balls had still carved a dark and bloody line through the warriors of Chaos.

‘Spread out, you fools! Stop grouping together!’ he screamed, his voice hoarse. He turned and renewed his leer upon the knight. ‘Hold this position, let not a single one of those mutants enter this village. Fail me, and death will only be a kindness compared to what I will inflect upon you. Am I making myself understood?’

The knight glowered back, but ultimately buckled before Korild’s will and with a not-so subtle muttering, directed his horse to face out of the battered gate and he began to call out rallying cries in an effort to get the warriors to renew their formations and reorganise to properly defend against this new threat.

Korild left him to it, cried out to his remaining knights and then slammed his heels into his mount, led the charge deeper into the settlement.


*


Zak reached the inner gate, that final barrier that would move to the innermost part of this village, where those that weren’t able to fight had been sequestered away to hopefully survive to see another day. This was it. This was the point where the line had been carved into the street and could not and would not be redrawn.

Regrettably, there was no barrier that the warriors had to clamber over this time, the only defensive advantage that the saurus had was that they couldn’t be flanked easily.

He raised his voice and called out, a verbal reminder as much an order. ‘They do not get past this point. No more falling back, no more relocating.’

On the nearby rooftops, those musketeers who had fallen back from their lack of ammo had started distributing the ammo cartridges that remained within the reserve stores, which had been left nearby for such an eventuality. Win or lose, this marked the point where Zak’s forces—and indeed the entirety of Bealivun—would be out of ammo, no gunpowder, even if they still had actual bullets. Once the musketeers had refilled with what they could, they would once again take a position at the roofs lining the street, creating a lethal zone of constant crossfire. It would last either until they ran out of those ammo reserves that they'd just taken, or until enemy forces took to the rooftops as well.

Hopefully the inconvenience that came from the makeshift bridges across each roof being removed as the skinks had crossed in their retreat meant that the forces of Chaos had considered traversal across those same roofs to be more hassle than it was worth. Hopefully.

Regrettably, there was no barrier that the warriors had to clamber over at the street level this time, the only defensive advantage that the saurus had was that they couldn’t be flanked easily. The only way that this position could get flanked was if the rooftops were lost, or from behind, and if that happened, then this battle was lost regardless.

But that didn’t mean that Zak hadn’t planned out at least two surprises for the Chaos slaves to contend with. It was just a matter of waiting for the right moment.

Zak shook his head, grip on his blade tightening as he retook his position amidst the saurus warriors forming a tightly woven phalanx, the final obstacle before the warriors could get to that gate.

‘Here they come!’ one of the skinks on the roof called out, already shouldering his musket.

That was quicker than I expected. Zak shook his head, cast out the thought and refocused his attention.

With a grunt, Zak pulled in the Winds, frowned internally as he realised that the Winds of Magic didn’t feel as saturated as they had last that he’d felt at them. It was a reminder that there was another sorcerer nearby, that they had tapped into the Winds, and if they were a foe then they could drain Zak of the fuel to cast the lights of Hysh. That could be a problem, but not one to focus on this very instant. He shaped the Winds with a practiced expertise and released them.

A white light filled the street, but this wasn’t the harsh light that would burn at the Chaos corrupted. As useful as it would be to momentarily dazzle the warriors. In this instance, he looked for something to bolster and assist rather than debilitate.

As the soothing light rested upon those under his command, their efforts doubled, both rejuvenated by the light, and bolstered as their perception of time shifted, and their bodies matched that perception. Time for them was slowed and yet they were able to move as swiftly as they could have otherwise. Or maybe it was that time was instead hastened for those outside of the light of Hysh’s comfort, left unable to move with the same speed they now witnessed the world passing by.

The spell woven, its light cast, Zak inhaled, shook aside the moment of pressure that wanted to weigh him down. The spell laid down was not a simple cast and forget, it wasn’t like the dazzling beacons he had crafted before where the spells effects would remain for a period of time before fading. This was a spell that required his focus to remain, would linger until he ceased concentrating on keeping it maintained. A lesser adept in the mastery of the Winds of Hysh might not be capable of maintaining such a focus whilst still being in forefront of combat, but Zak had trained and prepared himself mind, body and soul. So long as he didn’t overdo it, create too many constructs which requires such concentration, then he was capable of fighting, whilst still bolstering his command. With the enemy approaching—an enemy with daemons backing them—it was the least he could do, and he wasn’t done yet.

From around the corner down the street, the white armoured figures of the Chaos warriors, marching with deadly intent. The moment they locked eyes with those saurus at the front of the phalanx and Zak, there was a stutter in their advance, and then they charged.

‘Brace!’ Zak screamed out.

At his command, the spears were lowered, and the saurus all braced for the coming impact. The warriors of Chaos, blinded by bloodlust or arrogance or even just anger at how difficult their assault was proving to be, they didn’t falter in their charge, even though it meant that the initial clash resulted in more casualties than was needed. Practised movements from the saurus whose spears had punctured through the armour of the warriors had the bladed tips of their polearms yanked free and then jabbed at more warriors that formed this white tide of malicious fury.

Zak watched as one warrior managed to lean aside a spear jab that would have surely been a fatal blow otherwise and rapidly step toward the owner of that same spear. So focused was that warrior on the saurus, that he failed to notice Zak, up until Zak managed to drive his sword into the warrior’s knee, crippled him and left him falling forward, axe dropped in favour of bracing himself for the inevitable collision with the ground. He didn’t live long enough to experience that impact, for Zak quickly angled his blade so that it was the warrior’s fall that drove the blade through his armour and into his heart. Then Zak pivoted his body around in such a way as to throw the corpse back the way it had come. Another warrior stumbled at the body of one of his comrades falling gracelessly upon him, which allowed a saurus spear an easy target.

It was not a long period before the street was crowded with the warriors of Malice, all vying to get to the saurus phalanx.

‘Fire,’ a voice called out.

At the command from the ranking musketeer, those skinks lining the street at their elevated positions reminded the warriors of Chaos about the threat that they had likely dismissed as a non-issue after their previous clash. The crossfire from both sides of the tightly packed warriors was immediately apparent, a lethal volley from two sides that carved out a chunk of the attackers. The warriors of Chaos hadn’t been prepared for the threat. Shields hadn’t been raised to ward off any attack, and attention had been so fixed upon their destination they hadn’t even thought to raise eyes.

It was a mistake that cost the Chaos thralls, but for all that their choices in life which had led to their servitude to the Ruinous Forces were poor, they weren’t stupid. The moment the warriors realised the new threat, shields were hefted and raised up to offer protection against more another hailstorm of lead.

‘Carronades,’ Zak bellowed, his voice cutting through the music of battle. He didn’t add any more words to his call, this was pre-planned.

Beneath the skinks, three of the wooden shutters that blocked the windows at the ground level suddenly splintered and exploded outward. Behind where those shutters had been, the smoking barrels of three carronades were revealed. They’d been taken from the backs of the bastiladons on Zak’s command, and instead placed for the perfect surprise for the attackers should they indeed manage to get so far in as they had. But what the carronades had just fired out of the windows upon the unsuspecting flanks of the warriors of Chaos had not been a solid iron shot, nor had it been a salamander shot—Zak wasn’t fool enough to use those within a settlement that he wanted to keep standing and unburnt—but instead had been grapeshot, a bundle of smaller shots that on firing had expanded outward.

Zak had been told it was a likeness to how a blunderbuss worked. The smaller lead balls, on exiting the carronade, spread out and punched and tore through armour. It might not have been an uninterrupted line punched through the massive block of warriors, but in the crowded quarters, it had been just as, if not more effective. And also had the benefit of not destroying the buildings opposite.

But, aside from the benefit that would come of the three of four uses of the carronades, was the temptation that they presented. Artillery guns that appeared within easy reach? A tempting target for anybody, let alone a warrior of Chaos, one who had likely gotten progressively more infuriated by the death toll such weapons had inflicted upon their numbers ever the month. It would not be a surprise to anybody that a number of the warriors would break off from their push toward the phalanx, lured by the siren call of the carronades and the idea of silencing those guns forever.

Alas, it turned out that there were indeed fools readily willing to answer to this challenge, as a small trickle of warriors broke from their formation to try entering into the buildings which had previously been dismissed as empty. Only they failed to realise that they were marching through a bottleneck and without support from their fellows, and that the three carronades and their gunnery crews were not the only ones within those three buildings. The roars of kroxigors marked the moment they learnt their mistake, and they were doubtless crushed before they corrected that same mistake.

It was a small relief to the saurus phalanx, but it wasn’t an indefinite answer to the assault, even kroxigors could and would tire. But it was still another area where the attackers now had to divert attention, gunlines above them, a phalanx to their front, and now artillery guns that were guarded by kroxigors that, for all the thralls of Chaos knew, if not distracted by the suicidal attempts to enter into the buildings within which they were positioned could, and easily would, take swipes at the passing formations. Even when attempting to keep the large crocodilians distracted, that didn’t mean that they weren’t safe from them, as was proven when a battered corpse was thrown back out the door and bowled down a number of warriors.

In truth, the kroxigors could have fully exited the buildings and become islands of death amongst the sea of Chaos, but for as good as kroxigors were in such a skirmish, they were still few to the Chaos warriors’ many. Without a true way to fall back should they start flagging, Zak had been strict in his order for them to use the buildings as a chokepoint, to only strike at those who were provoked into trying to silence the guns. The best strength they would offer wasn’t to be the hurdle that Chaos had to bypass or overcome, but to be the hazard that would unsettle nerves, make the warriors slow as they questioned whether they were about to be victim to the abrupt and violent lunge of a predator in action, or dare they risk entering into the lair of those same predators without any way to be backed up by their fellow warriors.

It worked, the thick column of armoured warriors slowed their advance, as the more intelligent among their numbers tried to push their way toward the middle of the mass of warriors, to put distance between them and the buildings lining the street, shields unable to decide whether to be angled upward to ward off the muskets above, or faced with the threat at ground level in a futile hope that they could be saved should the carronades fire again.

‘Come on,’ Zak spoke up, projecting his voice. ‘We hold here, we keep them back.’

Whether he was taunting the warriors with promises that he and his warriors would not fall, or simply keeping the morale of his warriors bolstered with reminders that they were not moving from their spot, even Zak didn’t quite know. But it did do the work of both. The warriors of Chaos shuffled forward in answer, eager to prove him wrong, momentarily distracted from the threat of the kroxigors to their sides. Meanwhile, his saurus roared in eager anticipation to prove him right.

More warriors were felled to Zak, his blade expertly slipping into the vulnerable spaces in the joints, or even brute forced through the armour plating itself if it was more convenient. At his sides, A handful of the saurus were starting to drop their spears in favour of their sabres, the forces arrayed against them now too close for the frontmost saurus to use them effectively, while behind them the next rank of saurus were still able to thrust their spears between those in front of them. The saurus quickly proved to the Chaos thralls that they weren’t any weaker for the weapon switch, blades danced in masterful flurries, carved down those warriors that had gotten too close.

Any saurus that did fall was quickly replaced by the one behind. Unfortunately, saurus were dropping. It wasn’t a rapid rate, but they were tired, and each new line of Chaos thralls was as refreshed as the previous while the saurus had to contend with increasing fatigue the longer the fight went on. It was only a small comfort that for every saurus that fell, a far more significant number of Chaos warriors were killed as a price.

Another volley of gunfire. More warriors cut down by the gunfire. How many shots were left, Zak had lost count, knew he’d missed a handful of volleys, but the ammo scarcity was sure to make itself felt soon. Louder explosions of sound marked the bigger guns firing their storm of lead.

A screech, unnatural and grating to the ear canals. Behind the warriors, a large form appeared. It didn’t take Zak long to place it, even if he hadn’t yet the displeasure of seeing these things in a fight. A greater daemon of Malice. It was a large, beastly figure coated in chitin, running on cloven hooves, with a bestial horned head that was ghoulish and akin to a skull despite still having flesh coating it. But it was the tail that truly stood out. This daemon had a tail. That detail alone wasn’t enough to stand out, after all, each of the Children of the Gods could make the same claim. What did stand out was the humanoid head at the end of that tail, almost feminine in appearance, fair of colour, gifted with a hawkish nose and full lips and coated with a mop of black hair. Any potentially conventional beauty that this head might have had to it was undermined by the hateful glare this tail-head bore. And just beneath this strange head, jutting out as though where shoulders would have been on a normal body, a pair of long, barbed, scorpion-like stingers in a mocking parody of arms.

His blade was lifted in preparation as another Chaos warrior neared. His teeth were barred in a vicious snarl, muscles tensed and coiled ready to spring into movement.


*


‘Daemons,’ Boney called out in warning, as the large creatures that hurt his eyes to look upon lumbered toward Boney’s command.

Even having seen the sketches on that scroll that had been gifted by Middenheim, seeing them in person was different. It didn’t matter that they were still at a distance, Boney could see them clearly, could make out those details, and felt a revulsion he’d never before experienced. Not even his first face-to-face encounter with the skaven had managed to bring such disgust to his gut, such a detestation and desire to eradicate the source of such a well of disquiet.

Behind the daemons the majority of the human warriors had double-timed it in a rush to enter into the town or village or whatever this settlement was. He supposed there was some small measure of sense in the desperate act, Boney wouldn’t be able to fire his artillery at them once they were within between the buildings, shielded by the knowledge that any artillery barrage he might order would be just as likely to damage the settlement as it was to harm the enemy. But—he mused in the privacy of his mind—they’re also trapping themselves within. The best that they can hope for is that now they are the ones under siege, unable to leave without being blasted.

But it turned out that not all of those warriors were fleeing—couldn’t call it falling back, and calling falling forward felt wrong even if it was an accurate description. In fact, as they reached the smashed wooden gate that allowed entry into the settlement, the majority of them turned and reformed into their formations. Meanwhile, at least two of the boxed formations of Chaos warriors had never started fleeing, had instead turned and were advancing behind the apparent safety of the daemons. They must surely be aware that their efforts were tantamount to suicide, but there they were. Boney wondered if they had been given orders to the effect of slowing Boney’s command down. Or were these the rare breed of Chaos warriors that were willingly sacrificing themselves for their brothers-in-arms?

He tilted his head for a moment, eyes taking to the other side of the Empire settlement. Even from the top of this hill, he hadn’t gotten a truly good look at the events on that side, but the scouts he had sent, who had reported the battle before Boney and the rest of his command had arrived, they had reported that the attackers were engaged in a multi-front attack. Boney hoped, sincerely, that the defenders on those other two fronts were holding up better than this front had.

‘All guns, focus fire on the daemons,’ he ordered loudly. ‘Saurus, wait for my word.'

There was a moment of silence, broken by the ambience of the musketeers adjusting their handguns, lining sights.

‘Fire!’ One of the sergeants called out.

It wasn’t the muskets that obeyed the command, it was the carronades. One of those daemons very swiftly discovered that eight artillery guns firing nine-pound iron balls into it was more than it could endure. Whatever foul energies that were used to keep the daemon manifested within the mortal realm were destabilised. Its physical form disappeared in a burst of eldritch energies, though whether it had survived that barrage and simply lacked the strength to maintain its presence, or if it had been outright killed, Boney couldn’t say. He would like to think that the daemon was killed, that nothing could have survived that barrage slamming upon them. The pessimistic side of his mind mused that a greater daemon might well have survived and even still had the strength to maintains its presence in the mortal realm.

The defeat of one of the daemons didn’t deter the other five. They continued storming towards the Children of the Gods, snarled out sounds of rage vibrating the air and rattling teeth. Pity that they move so fast, Boney mourned, there's no way that the artillery can destroy them all before they reach the saurus lines.

However, he was quick to realise that because the daemons were moving at such speeds, the human warriors were flagging behind, unable to keep up and in their efforts to do so were tiring themselves.

‘Fire!’ This time the order was shouted by Coadmit, and the ones to answer were the skink musketeers.

Two of the daemons stumbled, peppered by the gunfire. They were slowed, though not through a sudden concern for their survival. They had mere been the ones to bear the brunt of the volleyed gunfire, chunks of their chitinous forms shorn from their bodies, in one case a leg completely missing, but still they tried to charge forward.

‘Fire!’

The second ranks of the musket formations fired, and those two daemons failed to endure the repeat performance. Their bodies fell and swiftly dissolved, while one of the other three stumbled.

Boney craned his head to look at the carronades. ‘Each of you load a salamander shot and aim for the humans coming up behind the daemons.’

He vaguely heard the acknowledgement before it was drowned out by a third volley from the muskets. Returning his attention to the charging daemons, Boney took note that the third volley had unfortunately failed to completely remove any of them, though all bore signs of injury from the gunfire.

‘Hold fire,’ he called out. There was a moment of silence, he watched the daemons, took careful note of their distance from the saurus at the base of the hill. ‘Saurus, charge! Artillery, fire!’

The carronades blasted off their loaded shots. The twin charging columns of Chaos warriors were very abruptly engulfed in liquid flame, and no amount of dedication to their patron god was shield against the viscous burning substance coating them. The warriors screamed out a wretched sound that Boney had to force himself to ignore, to remind himself that these weren’t just humans he had put to the flame, that these were Chaos corrupted wretches, that they were just as deserving of this death as any skaven would be.

A pocket of his mind made a point of promising that only against those two would he ever willingly order these salamander shots against. And ideally not when they were close enough for him to hear, because deserving or not, that sound they made was a wretched and piercing melody that churned his guts uncomfortably. But his purpose for the use of the incendiary carronade shot proved its value, those warriors that weren’t caught beneath the liquid fire stumbled back, their nerves shot worse than Boney could claim, for they weren’t hearing anonymous wretches of their enemy, they were hearing the damned screams of their comrades, of warriors that they knew and had fought alongside. It was the final straw for them, their morale shattered, and those that had survived turned and fled.

Boney watched them flee, noted that they weren’t fleeing toward their fellows who had formed up at the settlement’s entry, but were running away, where they would likely disappear into the lands of the Empire. That was, in this instance, the ideal outcome. They weren’t likely to rally, their numbers devastated, their resolve burnt away. The worst that those warriors could do going forward was to become a minor nuisance that the Empire would cut down in the following days. Or they’d meet another band of marauders, but then they’d be with a group that was already going to be an issue, and these terrified wretches weren’t going to tip any scales regarding the balance of power.

While the carronades had fired their lethal barrage, the saurus had jumped forward at Boney’s command, and the charging daemons were abruptly swallowed up by a counter-charge that was made up of snarling Children of the Gods. The large reptilians having not been battered by gunfire, not spent the past minutes charging at speed, and being fuelled by a hatred of all things Chaos, meant that it was a swift and brutal victory for the saurus, destroying the daemons so utterly that there was no question as to whether the daemons had survived before their bodies were dematerialised and pulled back to the realms of Chaos.

Boney let out a huff of satisfaction. His eyes trailed to the open gates to the Empire settlement, and then those same eyes narrowed. ‘Form up. Coadmit, organise a cohort or two to remain with the bastiladons, and everybody else will be following the Chaos forces into the village.’

‘Understood, major,’ Coadmit answered, then turned and gestured to another skink sergeant. ‘Sergeant Winst,’—his finger then trailed to one of the saurus sergeants—‘Sergeant Loril, both of you and your cohorts are to remain here with the artillery, make sure this hill remains our hill.’

Both addressed sergeants didn’t seem to have any issue with Coadmit barking orders on Boney’s behalf, despite Coadmit being the same rank as them. On hearing what was expected of them, both started to organise their cohorts and detached themselves from the rest of Boney's command. Boney himself gave the bastalidons a mournful look, already missing the idea of having their impressive weapons at his beck and call, but he wasn’t so blinded by his rapidly growing fondness for the artillery guns that he would bring them into the settlement.

He regretted leaving the stegadons and the kroxigors with the refugees, it occurred to him at that moment that the stegadon would have been particularly useful as a living battering ram in the tight confines of a village’s streets. Especially if bolstered by muskets riding on the platform they carried.

He let in a breath—felt the Winds of Magic and took note that somebody else was making use of them to fuel their fight—and turned to the warmblood settlement, calling out the orders to advance.


*


Zak ducked under an axe that to his eye was trailing the air sluggishly, jammed his blade into the gut of the owner of that same axe. Movement at the edge of his perception. Didn’t pull his blade free, used his spare hand to grab the shoulder of the temporary sheath to his sword, pulled and pushed in equal measure. The axe of another warrior connected with the back of the warrior still gaping in shock at the sword to his stomach. The force of the blow threw the warrior turned shield aside and all it took was a slight adjustment to the grip of his sword for the skink to let that movement do the work of pulling the blade free. Lunged forward, cut into the leg of that latest warrior, then slammed his shoulder into the same.

The warrior fell to the ground, movement still slowed, as though everybody but Zak and those under his command were fighting while submerged in water. Took note of another warrior, this one hefting a halberd, but far enough away that Zak could not reach without moving closer, which would expose him to strikes from the sides. Held out his off-hand, pulled in the winds of magic, shaped it into a snare and released. The warrior might have let out a gasp of shock as he was grabbed by a snare made from light, but such a gasp was lost to the slowed perception of time, and then the warrior was plucked from the ground and yanked forward through the air toward Zak, who held out his blade and let the momentum of the spell’s pull do the work for him. Released his mental grip on the snare and allowed the corpse to fall to the ground, ground which was rapidly becoming unsteady as there was little of the actual ground visible beneath the bodies of the dead.

Had to recover his balance as one poorly placed footfall almost had him trip on the leg of a Chaos warrior’s carcass. Steadied himself, looked up, noted that the greater daemon was nearly upon them. Inhaled, shaped another spell, held back on releasing this one, waited for the right moment. Parried a blow from a great axe, slammed his knee up into the owner of that same axe, then slammed his helmeted head upon that of the warrior as they keeled over, ignored the ringing sound of helmet meeting helmet, knew that because of the difference of speed between them, he was the one to come out the victor of that clash, smaller stature be damned.

A gauntleted hand managed to grab Zak’s off-hand, pulled in an effort to upset his balance. They likely didn’t anticipate Zak throwing himself in the direction he had been pulled. His shoulder took out the leg of the one who had gotten so brazen, upset their balance in his stead, and while Zak was rolling back to his feet, a saurus jabbed a spear into the Chaos warrior.

A choir of explosive sound and smoke from above. The greater daemon flinched at the volley, stumbled slightly but rightened itself without much effort, baleful eyes glaring at the skinks that had dared to fire at it so. Zak heard a sound following that volley, a whistle that bode an ill omen, a wordless signal that the skinks were now truly out of ammo, that even the stores were drained.

The daemon took another step forward, and Zak chose that moment to release the Winds that he had held back. Regrettably, Zak’s control over the field of time’s warping meant that he wasn’t able to put the full effect of the latest spell he had shaped into its release, not without sacrificing the timewarp. But even weakened, the effects were still felt instantly.

Within the middle of the street, a burning white light erupted from the ground. The warriors of Chaos that chanced a look at this radiant light flinched, momentarily blinded until they managed to avert their gaze. But for the greater daemon, the effect was more profane, it flinched and stumbled as though physically struck by the touch of Hysh’s light, and every step forward it made from that point was a struggle as it was pushing against a barrier that repelled the daemons of Chaos. Flecks of its form were shaved away, slowly carved away by the light’s caress.

There was a surge of renewed energy from the saurus fighting in the street, one that was less about the exhaustion of constant combat being faded and more about renewed determination as the biggest concern they’d felt was visibly struggling against the Aethyr being rent and weaponised against it.

Behind the daemon, there emerged a charging mass of mounted warriors, their howling war cries heard even in their slowed tempo. Zak backpedalled, though still made a point of maintaining his focus upon both spells now in effect and requiring his mental supervision. A quick test of the Winds, there was enough saturation for one last single spell, one that would not require concentration. A cast and forget. He could manage that.

Maybe the other mage on the field could use what would remain, but this was Zak’s limit, after this, he knew he was not going to be able to concentrate on fighting and maintaining both the timewarp and the light of daemonsbane.

As he stepped back, made certain that he was well and truly a part of the line of saurus once again, he focused his eyes upon the cavalry, took note of the knight at the head of the charging formation. His armour was more or less identical to all others, but he rode atop not a horse but a daemonic mount of some variety—to Zak, it looked more like a deformed pillbug than anything, but it certainly appeared to be keeping pace with the mundane horses it was charging alongside. More than that, the cloak worn was elaborate and familiar, and but Zak couldn’t quite place why. Must have been a survivor from one of the previous attempts to assault the settlement.

Couldn’t be anyone important, Zak made a point of remembering those who had actually posed a threat, such as that warrior who had led the night assault that first night of this siege.


*


Korild slammed his heels upon the sides of his mount, screaming angrily. He was being made a fool of, he had an insubordinate subordinate that had somehow been gifted favour from the Everwrath, and now because of the incompetence of the other bands roaming the Empire’s lands, he had somehow been flanked by a reinforcing army.

No, no no no! He would not let this stand. Now that he was within this pitiful settlement of weaklings, now they had no barriers to grant them some facsimile of strength, now they were forced to fight on their own terms, no hiding behind their guns, no hiding behind walls. They would fight the real way battles were meant to be fought. Their weakness would now become apparent and Korild would spit on their corpses, and he would show them that he was truly strong, and they existed only to be trodden upon by the likes of he.

‘Charge!’ he cried out, leading the charge, as all true warrior-leaders should. He was a knight of Chaos, he was a born leader, and he would lead them to this battle, he would lead them to their rightful victory.

It wasn’t difficult to find where to go, the sounds of violence were at their strongest toward the middle of his village, and he could just make out the greater daemon of Malice—the Doomlord—over the tops of the buildings, marching with angry sounds toward those who were continuing their futile struggles. There would have been a point where Korild would have offered begrudging respect that the weaklings of the south would continue to fight to the last in such a way even against such inevitable death, but then they’d dragged out this siege for weeks and Korild was no longer willing to be so gracious as to offer them any modicum of respect. Not now.

The sudden flare of light around the next corner confused Korild for a moment, but he shrugged it off, assumed it some new flavour of cowardice at play. The light of the sun was rising, it was no longer the dark of night, so why would they need to create light unless there was some cowardly stratagem at play?

He led the charge around the corner, and found his prey, the large mass of these reptilian mutants, backs to a sealed gate. There was a bright flare of light that hurt Korild’s eyes, but he simply averted his gaze, and huffed at the ineffectual nature of the apparent trap. Maybe it could have worked if it had been projected after his arrival, but he’d known of a light bright enough to be seen from streets away, he was forewarned.

He didn’t notice the Doomlord struggling against the light, never even considered that the light was not a weapon for use against him or the mortal warriors, but instead was harnessed explicitly against the daemonic servants of Malice. He also failed to notice his mount’s waning strength as it hit that light, the way it was forced to push through a physical barrier.

Korild locked eyes with the shorter figure in the front ranks of the mutants, the one with the armour that looked straight from the ancient Remas Empire, and he grinned. That one, that one was his. Korild would crush this mutant that believed itself worthy to wear the armour of the ancient empire. Its cowardice had already proven that it wasn’t deserving to wear the armour of a true empire of antiquity.

He spurred his daemonic mount onward, urged it faster and led his knights forward for the glorious moment he would crush his foes. The mount tried, but its speed lagged to the point that the mundane horses behind it had caught up and were just starting to overtake it.

‘Foward, to their ruination! Forward, to their defeat. We are the real warriors of the lands, we are----’

His war cry was interrupted with a startled gargling sound as the small reptile gestured toward him and a construct made of light shot forward, ensnared itself about Korild’s neck, and then yanked him forward, through the air and toward the mutant. As he flew, Korild tried to move his arms, to shift his halberd to run through that little bastard. Unfortunately for him, whatever this snare of light was, it had his limbs frozen in place as he soared the air. His movement ended abruptly, the broadsword of the mutant thrust up through the underside of Korild’s jaw and eyes locked onto that of Korild with a dismissive disinterest. The snare of light faded, and Korild’s lifeless body fell to the ground.


*


‘Spears up, brace yourselves!’ Zak called out once the corpse fell to his feet. ‘Here they come.’

The absence of the cavalry unit’s sergeant had momentarily thrown them, and the daemonic mount that was now riderless let out a guttural sound as it faded and was forced back to the realms of Chaos. Whoever was next in the hierarchy took a moment to realise that his superior was now gone, time that the charge faltered, before he gazed the mass of spears pointed at the cavalry and proved that some Chaos warriors were smarter than they ought to be.

‘Halt!’ the Chaos knight called out, pulling back on the reins of his horse.

Regrettably for the Chaos cavalry, fortunately for Zak, not all were able to react to the order in time and at least a dozen of the horses were run through by the spears of the saurus. Of that number, some had tried to stop but found themselves pushed forward regardless by the foot warriors still pushing forward. The riders fell to the ground alongside dead mounts, easy targets for saurus spears to finish them off.

Zak panted, tired, but unwilling to stop. The greater daemon was still a threat, still pushing against the daemonsbane. No ammo for the handgunners, had since started to come down from the rooftops and into the buildings proper and were now resorting to jabbing bayonets out of windows.

Distantly, he hoped that the other fronts were doing better than he was. Hadn't heard from them for too long.

Behind them, the gate creaked and started to open. Zak turned a wide-eyed glance back, hoped, deeply sincerely hoped that this wasn’t the end, that the other fronts hadn’t fallen and now he was about to be cut down from behind. The gate continued to creak, opened wide, and revealed a pair of bastiladons, two of the few he hadn’t had the carronades taken from. The gunner crews were already finishing up the loading of the carronades as the gate rumbled open. Zak let out a sigh of relief, silently thankful.

On seeing the greater daemon, which was still struggling against the light but slowly managing to advance regardless, the head gunner visibly steeled himself. ‘Fire at the daemon.’

The three heavy guns barked, spat out the iron balls which had been placed within. The daemon stumbled, one arm shorn off from the elbow and leaking a viscous black-purple liquid. Aside from the missing arm, one of its horns had also vanished, and it sported a large chunk of missing flesh on his abdomen. The daemon screamed, swung its remaining hand, uncaring that it was sweeping aside warriors on the same side as it, grabbed one unfortunate warrior and hurled him at the bastiladons. One of the thundersaurs hissed as the warrior slammed into its shell with enough force that there was a noticeable crack, and it took a wary step back in response.

Zak snarled, angry on behalf of the gunner crew who had just had their bastiladon harmed. A test of the Winds told him that he had spent up most of the saturation, he could maintain his two active spells, but he wasn’t able to fuel the casting of another. Although, that did not mean he didn’t have one last surprise prepared. His grip tightened on his blade, he had to resist the urge to charge forward, to fight the daemon. If the daemon wasn’t going to let itself die from the light of Hysh, clearly it needed to be nudged in the right direction.

The best offense was to maintain the defensive advantage, let the enemy crush themselves against his unbreakable wall. But, at this point, the wall didn’t need to be stationary.

‘Advance.’

Grips on spears were adjusted, and the saurus all took a step forward, braced, thrust at the nearest warriors. Zak breathed in a breath, then moved forward. His blade hamstrung a warrior, but he didn’t finish off that warrior, that was left to the spears-saurus behind him. Ducked aside an axe swing, swung his blade up, didn’t manage to pierce armour but upset the owner of the axe’s balance and left him vulnerable to a finishing stab from the spears. Step forward, bat aside an attempt to grab him by the throat, grabbed the offending hand and pulled, had the owner stumble into a spear-thrust.

The daemon roared as the carronades were fired anew. They didn't have many shots left, unfortunately. Had ordered that most of the black powder be donated to the Dawi cannons and mortars, more potent and useful for the siege. Had left enough for three shots, two spent.

Still the daemon did not disperse, continued to claw at existence within the mortal realm. Its tail lashed out, the head at its end screeching a harpy shrill. The twin pincers caught one of the sabre wielding saurus—one of those who, like Zak, were disruptive to the enemy formation, created openings where needed for spears to punch through—and the barbs punctured through scale and muscle. The saurus gagged, frothed at the mouth, and flesh shrivelled and aged and atrophied away in the span of seconds, before the decrepit corpse fell to the ground, released from the grip of the barbs. For a brief moment, the daemon rightened its posture as though strengthened, before the light of Hysh flared out as if in response and the daemon faltered again.

‘Damn,’ Zak hissed angrily, noting that detail for later dissection and analysis.

The carronades roared, gave their final bites. The daemon faltered and fell, one knee now splintered. Zak took the opportunity offered, and he charged forward. As he moved, weaved between warriors and their futile efforts to cut him down and prevent him from reaching his target, he grasped at the thread that connected him to the light of daemonsbane, tugged at it and reshaped it. The white light faded and disappeared. There was a moment where the warriors visibly cheered, believed that their victory was now in grasping distance. It pleased Zak to prove them wrong as he reshaped that light and channelled it through his blade and poured it outward, which turned his broadsword into a beacon of light, a radiant weapon that held within it now the power of Hysh. The daemon recoiled in its efforts to pick itself up, its eyes met Zak’s. Major Zakarius, onetime priest of Madrigal and a proud student of Major Moretexl, then leapt and drove the radiant weapon through the monstrous face of the daemon of Malice.

The moment the blade pierced what passed for flesh with the daemon, he grabbed that radiant light and he poured everything he had into it, did what was very strongly advised against, and he overcast. The radiant energies flared out and even to Zak’s eyes, the light was blinding. When it faded, the daemon was no more, just wisps of eldritch energies that were pulled away by the morning breeze.

Weapon no longer blazing with the light of Hysh, Zak heaved in a deep breath, adjusted his blade and calmly accepted that he had exposed himself to the vengeful wrath of the warriors, morale damaged from the loss of their daemon or no. He didn’t care. Without any more ammo from the carronades, and the daemon resisting the light of daemonsbane, he had needed to act before it had a chance to recover, to kill more of his troops.

His eyes narrowed in grim resolve while he angled his blade in preparation to intercept the first warrior that would swing at him. He wouldn’t just let them kill him, despite the fatigue that came from deliberately overcasting a spell.

‘People of the Empire, this is your home.’ A familiar voice spoke loudly, clearly. ‘Show these bastards that you won’t be removed. Show these Chaos thralls that you are fuelled by faith and steel.’

Zak turned his head and witnessed Captain Yuata, standing alongside a formation of human and dwarf pikemen. The saurus met his eye and gave a tired grin while absently straightening his tricorn, then focused his gaze upon the suddenly faltering Chaos thralls.

Zak couldn’t help the chuckle, felt his stamina renew itself just from the pleasant nature of this surprise.

The surprise wasn’t yet over. From the other end of the street, behind the Chaos warriors, a new group appeared from around the corner, a group made up entirely of saurus that Zak didn’t recognise as being from his command. And leading these saurus was the newest major of the Legion. Zak met the eyes of Major Boney, couldn’t help but feel some shock and surprise and above all else relief at the sight of the younger skink, and the saurus alongside him.

Boney narrowed his own eyes in a grin that the experienced major was able to identify as one of relief and determination. ‘Saurus,’ Boney then called out. ‘Advance.’

As Boney called out the order, Zak hurriedly backed away and repositioned himself amongst his troops. ‘Saurus, men and Dawi of Bealivun,’ Zak spoke up, projected his tone. ‘Advance.’

At the orders, both blocks advanced with the Chaos force—what remained of it—trapped between the two. Some tried to use the buildings to escape getting crushed between them, but they were quickly reminded that the kroxigors under Zak’s command had taken residence within, and were now backed up by Zak’s skinks, there was no reprieve to be had. All they could do was pick one direction and fight.

Unlike Zak’s troops, Boney’s, while clearly bloodied with combat, weren’t suffering from exhaustion, and they were carrying their sabres rather than spears and pikes. Even with the renewed enthusiasm borne of seeing the end within sight, Zak’s troops advanced slowly, pushing tired bodies forward, meanwhile, Boney’s were able to advance at a double-pace, and quickly smashed into the Chaos warriors with a fury that pushed them back, towards the slower but no less lethal spear wall. Panicked yells started to emerge from the Chaos thralls as it truly dawned upon them that their position was not one that they could emerge victorious from.


*


Boney slumped into one of the chairs within the room he had been directed by the tired dwarf who had identified himself as the mayor. His muscles ached, even though compared to the saurus he’d been commanding, he hadn’t been nearly so active. A glance outside the nearby window reminded him that he really had nothing to complain about, nearly every single Child of the Gods that was formally under Major Zak’s command had collapsed at the nearest available space and was in as deep a sleep as Boney had ever seen any. When he had offered his own troops to take over the sentry duties, he hadn’t anticipated just how badly that they had needed the respite.

Even the warmbloods that lived within this settlement, what few he had seen, they were all saggy eyed and looked ready to keel over. Meanwhile, the refugees from the other settlements were integrating themselves, helping to clean up the bodies and tend to any injuries.

The door opened, allowed a saurus entry into the room. The saurus removed the tricorn he was wearing and cast tired eyes at Boney, took a moment to examine him, then narrowed those same eyes in a happy smile.

‘Major, good to meet you. Captain Yuata.’ The saurus held out his arm in greeting.

Boney managed to abort the unconscious desire to flinch back as the saurus raised his arm, and even managed to return the smile with one of his own and clasped the larger reptile’s forearm.

‘Yuata. How’s Zak?’

The saurus sighed, eyes rolled upward in a put upon but still good-natured huff. ‘He exhausted himself with his magic use alone, never mind his going overboard in the midst of combat. He’ll be out for the rest of the day, so for the time being I have command.’ He paused, then let out a huff. ‘Well, command of Zak’s regiments. I’m not going to usurp your command.’

Boney let out a chuckle. ‘Well, that’s reassuring.’

Yuata heaved a deep breath and slumped against the nearby wall. After a moment, he shook his head and looked at Boney again. ‘Where’s the colonel? I was under the impression that he was the one in charge.’

Boney shrugged and leaned back in the chair, head tilted so that he was gazing at the ceiling. ‘He took a couple of regiments and split off, went to continue trying to defend other settlements while I escorted the survivors of the places Chaos sacked here while also reinforcing you.’

‘You knew we needed help?’

Boney gave a single shallow nod. ‘The last town I was at, just before Solin split off from us, the survivors told us that warriors were being sent this way. Solin mentioned that the description of the one directing them matched one of the exalted champions that attacked the Feyerabend Keep.’

The words invigorated the saurus, he straightened his posture and stared at Boney, eyes widened. ‘Wait, what description? What did he look like?’

‘Skull for a helmet, Solin said it was a dragon-ogre skull.’

The scar veteran tilted his head in thought, then shook his head. ‘I didn’t see anyone like that. I can ask around and check the bodies, but what I heard about those that attacked the keep? We’d have far more dead on our side if he was personally fighting here.’

‘I wouldn’t actually know,’ Boney admitted. ‘When they were fighting Mort and Solin, I was inside the keep proper, stumbling across a secret passage into desecrated catacombs with Kro-Loq.’

The name of the deceased scar-veteran had Yuata’s shoulders slump, a look of grief passing his eyes before then getting shuttered behind steel barrier. ‘Right.’ The word came out in a hollow tone that betrayed that he was holding back his feelings.

‘Did you know Kro-Loq well?’ Boney asked.

There was a beat of silence. ‘He was my spawn-brother. I’m now the last of my spawning.’ Another pause then a sigh.

‘I’m sorry.’

Yuata shook his head, hand moving in a wordless gesture of dismissal, then spoke again, very deliberately changed the subject. ‘Once we’re rested, we’ll try sending out scouts to see if we can track him down. Taking out an exalted champion would be a big blow to the warhost.’

Boney grunted in affirmation, allowed the change in subject. ‘If he’s anywhere near.’

Yuata shrugged, and then his shoulders slumped again. ‘Mind you, on our end we’re no longer quite so... ready, for continued fighting. We’ve used up everything we had, and while we’re perfectly willing to get into a melee fight...’

‘It feels wrong to deliberately get into a fight without every tool available,’ Boney finished with an understanding hiss. ‘I’d offer some of my own supplies, but that would leave us both working with less than ideal reserves.’

The door opened, and the Dawi that had introduced himself as Mayor Strongwall entered, looking exhausted enough that it was a wonder that he was able to stand upright.

‘Ey, lad,’ the dwarf rumbled, visibly fighting back a yawn, then looked at Yuata. ‘Captain.'

‘Mayor.’ Yuata nodded back.

The mayor absently straightened one of the chairs and slumped into it, propped his head against one of his palms and stared at Boney.

‘I owe you thanks,’ he said. ‘If you hadn’t arrived when you did, my home would be a mass grave, and there would be none to add these Chaos wazzocks to the book.’

Boney shook his head. ‘If you hadn’t been firing those cannons during the night, I wouldn’t have arrived in time.’ He admitted it easily, let out a huff. ‘We’d set camp, hadn’t realised how close we were, then were woken up by cannon-fire. I made the decision to send most of us to see if we could help.’

‘According to one of my mortar crews, you rained fire and death on the wazzocks.’

Yuata tilted his head, and Boney murmured ‘Salamander shells’ in explanation to an understanding hum. He then turned to look again at the mayor. ‘How are the refugees?’

The dwarf let out a slight smile, barely visible behind his beard. ‘We have enough space for them, and they’re working to earn their keep even without my having said anything. They’ll be fine, food might be tight for a while, even with the siege over. We went through our stores and need to resupply. Need to get more black powder, or baring that, the means to make more. Which actually means, much as I hate to ask more of you both after what you’ve done, I need to hire your services for an escort to Middenheim so we can buy what we need.’

Yuata spoke up before Boney could. ‘On Zak’s behalf, I’ll accept. I assume you know what the fee would be?’

‘Aye.’ The Imperial dwarf nodded. ‘You need black powder just as much as we do, maybe even more so. Which was why even if you couldn’t spare the time, I’ll still be paying you for your efforts in keeping my home standing with as much black powder as I can afford.’

Yuata let out a breath of relief, and Boney didn’t envy the concern that the scar-veteran had been harbouring about how to re-supply. Meanwhile, the dwarf hummed after he had finished speaking, and for a moment it looked as if he’d finally succumbed to sleep, before he snorted and shot Boney another look.

‘That’s Zak and his troops paid for. Now how do I repay you for your role in our victory here?’

‘A place to rest for a few days before we leave again to catch up with the rest of my regiments.’ Boney didn’t hesitate to answer, then added as an addendum, recalling his earlier lessons on how the Legion worked ‘And maybe any news or rumours you’d been hearing before all... this... happened.’

The dwarf laughed with enough force to jolt himself further awake. ‘Heh, that’s a good one.’ He narrowed his eyes and gave a considering look upon the skink. ‘I’ll work something out.’

Yuata shrugged at Boney’s wide-eyed look and then mouthed out the word ‘Dwarf’ as if it explained everything. Considering what Boney had been taught about the Dawi, that probably did. There was a twenty second span of silence as the dwarf stared at Boney, before then snapping his fingers.

‘I know. Right now, they’re dead-weight, so you’ll get better use out of them.’

Boney blinked, confused. ‘What?’

‘And it’s not like they’re a terrible price on our end, easy enough to replace. And after what happened, I was thinking...’ the mayor trailed off, mumbling a one-sided conversation.

‘What is he talking about?’ Boney asked Yuata, hoping the saurus had an answer. He got a shrug in answer, which was rather unhelpful.

‘Cannons,’ the mayor then blurted loudly. ‘Y’see, my brother was rather offended by your carronades. So, after you have shed blood helping my people, I think it is the least I can do to pay you with some of the cannons we made.’

Boney’s jaw shut with a click, and he leaned closer, interested. ‘How do they compare with the carronades I already have?’

The dwarf barked a single ‘Hah!’ at the question. ‘Your carronades fire, what, eight-pound piddly little things, right?’

‘Nine,’ Yuata corrected.

‘Nine-pound piddly little things.’ The mayor corrected himself without a second of hesitation. ‘What my brother made during the siege... what I’m offering you are fifteen -pounders.’ He then paused and looked apologetic. ‘I know, they aren’t the thirty-six pounder great cannons the umgi at Nuln are famous for. But these were made during an emergency... actually, maybe I should have my brother build you some proper cannons, not those rush-jobs that barely deserve to be called cannons. I’m not even a metal smith and I can tell a rush-job when I see one.’

Boney held up a finger, which had the mayor pause in his pitch. He then looked to Yuata, but the saurus leaned back, hands raised in silent communication that this was entirely on Boney to negotiate. Boney breathed in, considered his next words. He recalled what he had been told days prior.

‘I would need to discuss it with the crews who handle the bastiladons. We chose the carronades specifically out of weight concerns with larger cannons.’

The mayor let out a breath, wind knocked from his sails, but his eyes held a hint of understanding. ‘That’s a fair point. It would be a waste for me to pay you in something you cannot use.’

Boney managed a smile, nothing false about it, pure delight and wishful thinking. ‘Trust me, master dwarf, if I can, I would be delighted to be fielding bigger cannons.’

Any further continuation to the conversation was interrupted when the door to the room opened, and a skink stepped through the opening, one not wearing a uniform of the Legion. The russet scaled skink cast a tired smile to the room at large, then tipped his brimmed hat at Boney and Yuata.

‘I was told I would find the major in command here. Hola, fellow legionaries.’


*


Valnar the Everwrath stared down at the Empire village, head tilted in bemused amazement. What exactly he was amazed it, he wasn’t wholly certain he even knew himself. Was it amazement at the displayed levels of ineptitude that had been showcased by the warriors of Malice this day? Or amazement at the dogged determination of the lizardmen to protect this realm of weaklings against those same warriors of Malice.

Even with Korild’s stupidity, the numbers alone should have drowned out any defence that could have been mustered, was going to. Even with the reinforcements, they’d still been outnumbered.

What was infuriating was the idea that if he had committed himself into that fight, he wasn’t certain he would have survived. But in the same vein, his presence might have secured victory.

A victory that wouldn’t have been worth it. The entire reason for the roving warbands had been to distract, to keep the Empire from prying into Skaros’s affairs, whatever they were. This one settlement had just cost the warhost hundreds of warriors. Not a terrible loss, but the reason for the loss was what... irked... A lowly settlement that wasn’t even labelled on any map that the Everwrath had laid eyes upon. Had this been the likes of Middenheim, or Nuln, such a casualty toll would have been acceptable.

Sucking in a breath, the Everwrath turned. His mind turned over the details he had memorised, the whereabouts of every remaining marauding warband. After an internal debate, he pivoted around and began to march.

Let these lizardmen and Imperials have their victory. It meant little for them in the grand scheme of things. Even if Skaros’s ambitions didn’t measure out—the favoured of Malice still had yet to explain just why he had the warhost digging through the ruins of that keep—the Empire would still fall, it would collapse under its own weight, its petty bickering between the weak men that were supposed to lead them a tumour that would crush these provinces.

Skaros told him to buy time. As such, he would buy Lord Skaros all the time he needed. Not even the news of the Grand Duke of Middenland returning to his capital would change that. If the Everwrath needed to carve a bloody line through the armies of Middenland should they finally begin to muster out, then he would do just that.

Admittedly, even Valnar was questioning the absence of the Middenland army up to this point. Mercenaries, free company militias, and knightly chapters. The Outland Legion. But no sign of the actual army? Valnar the Everwrath was never going to claim himself some strategic savant, but he wasn’t ignorant of strategy. The absence of the Middneland armies, there was no strategic value in their absence.

Still, best to leave that sort of thing to Skaros to contemplate. He probably had some idea of what was going on. Contemplations of the Empire of Man and their quirks was not what the Everwrath was used for.

 

Ailing Aftermath​

Five hundred and seventy-six years ago
—

Solinaraxl groaned softly, rubbing at his shoulder. The injury had mostly healed, but there was still an ache where the bone had been broken. After a few moments of simply massaging at the ache, his eyes drifted to the fabric garments that had been laid aside for him. For a moment he considered ignoring them, should he…

A soft sigh left his nostrils, and he grabbed the tunic and pulled it over his head. He had partially expected the tight fit, the garb had hardly been tailored with a saurus’s physique in mind, but it wasn’t so bad as he had been expecting. The previous owner must have been quite a large man.

Should be leaving. He had spent enough time here, in this warmblood’s home. The unexpected hospitality was a pleasant surprise, and while he had been told that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed, it felt wrong to be in one place, to not be out hunting for threats to the Great Plan. He had to remind himself not to become complacent, that he was gifted with a purpose and while recuperating from his injuries was an acceptable reason to put his task on pause, now that he was able he should be leaving, should be continuing in his role.

He had probably lingered longer than he should have. He should go. But…

There was a light tapping on the door moments before it opened. His host entered into the bedroom, her eyes, milky from whatever ailment had afflicted her, but still capable of sight, drank in the image he must have presented to her. A saurus, mutant as he might be, dressed in a tunic made from fine materials. Cotton, one of those materials that was indicative of nobility. Honestly, why had she given him such a tunic? Surely she had something made of wool or linen she could have given him in place, something that wasn’t so costly.

Had the robe he’d been wearing before his injury not been ruined beyond salvage, he would have refused to accept her offering. Her lips twitched upward, and almost against his will, his eyes narrowed into a smile in turn.

Without words, she managed to coax him into joining her and her two offspring—children, he quickly reminded himself, warmbloods refer to them as children—at the table where the day’s lunch had been laid out ready. As soon as he sat down, the younger child, a girl, moved closer and started chattering about anything and everything with a wide grin.

Why were they so accommodating? In his experience, warmbloods did not often react well to those that were different. Even when the physical differences were slight, such as between elves and humans wherein the difference at a glance was the shape of the ears, there was always a measure of dislike. As a Child of the Gods, Solinaraxl was as far removed from the appearance of the warm-blooded races as could be, so why was this woman, and her two children, so accepting of him?

The question stewed in his mind even as he answered the young girl’s questions, gave an anecdote to the slightly older boy of one of his more eventful misadventures—half an eye fixed upon the woman, judging where to censor himself—and enjoyed the lunch that had been prepared.

Finished the small meal, went to stand and politely vacate himself from the room. Found himself stilling in shock when the girl, toothy grin stretching across her face, wrapped her limbs around his waist and gave him a look which somehow made her eyes larger than should have been physically possible, asked him to follow her, she wanted to show him something. He gave his host a wide-eyed look, barely held in the panic. Found no help there, she was too busy laughing at him, but not a malicious laugh.

Swallowed, looked down at those overly large eyes and agreed to come with the child to whatever it was she wanted to show him.


*


Present Day
Middenland
—

In the time since splitting the battalions and parting ways from Boney, they had managed to reach their next destination in time to fully ward off raiding bands of Chaos and move on to the next village with time to spare, repeated the feat, and again. The unfortunate truth of travelling in number, the fewer there were, the faster they moved.

After travelling through four villages and a walled town, they had exhausted their list of destinations in their efforts to defend the people of Middenland against the marauding Chaos warriors. Since the Knights of the White Wolf were moving westward, Solin's battalion didn't need to go eastward as any eastbound marauders would be caught. That left Solin at a momentary pause in his regiments’ travels, and they were now waiting for either a runner from any nearby settlements with news of Chaos movement in need of intercepting; or for a rider with news from any of the Legion’s other battalions or other defending force.

It wasn’t so bad, it was a chance for Solin’s regiments to have some downtime, rest up and enjoy the moment. Enjoy the hospitality of a grateful town, the taverns of which had declared that for the night, drinks were on the house.

Which led to Solin’s current position, head rested upon the palm of one hand, elbow braced against the surface of the table at which he sat. His eyes were drilling into the sheet of parchment he had laid flat, trying to gather his thoughts and consider what to write, what observations needed put to page, what hearsay and gossip he had heard from grateful villagers. And while at it, he read what was already scribed upon the parchment and reminded himself of what had already been noted down.

‘Excuse me?’ The two words were accompanied by a very light tap on his shoulder.

Solin looked up from the parchment and took note of the human. Despite having saved the human with the rest of this town, the warmblood had a look that was equal measures of wary caution mixed with confused gratitude. Not an unfamiliar combination, saving lives might earn some goodwill, but a lifetime of attitudes of fear and distrust of anything different was not going away just from a single act to the contrary of expectations. Still, the fact that the human had actually touched him in his effort to get his attention meant that, at least in this instance, the goodwill earned was overshadowing the wariness. For now.

‘Yes?’ Solin asked, confused.

The human, a fairly slight man, but with a thickness to his limbs that suggested he was a physical labourer despite being naturally slight of build, pointed to Solin’s side.

‘Is your sword supposed to be glowing?’

Solin’s eyes darted to where he had rested his blade against the table. It had been at the edge of his peripheral vision, enough to see it if somebody dared try and move it or take it without his consent, but beyond his ability to have noticed the way the silversteel had subtly illuminated itself, not so much as to be a beacon, but enough that had he been paying it attention he would have gotten the meaning quickly. His hand moved to grab at the hilt of the zweihänder, but somebody else’s hand darted forth and caught Solin’s wrist.

‘Let’s not overreact now.’ The voice that spoke was low. Low enough that even though the one who had drawn Solin’s attention to the blade was right behind him, he gave no indication that he had heard.

A glance over his shoulder revealed to Solin that the tavern had in the span of time it had taken for him to reach for his blade, the tavern had emptied. There was nobody left within but Solin and the one currently gripping his wrist.

Solin lifted his eyes, followed the arm of the hand encircling his wrist. It turned out the hand belonged to a tall man with noble features, platinum hair pulled into a ponytail, and a large aquiline nose. He was dressed in fine materials, a shirt that looked to be cotton and a waistcoat of light purple silk. He met the man’s eyes, and after a moment he relaxed his posture infinitesimally. He craned his neck to look again at where the labourer had been, confirmed that he too had vanished, and felt the grip on his wrist disappear as he did so.

Leaning back on his seat, Solin tilted his head. There was no sound, not from within the now empty tavern, not from outside the building. Wait, that was a lie, there was a low creaking sound as the building settled. The lack of sound, the sudden absence of life was unsettling, where before there had been a dull throb of constant ambience vibrating the air, the suddenness of its lack was jarring.

The well-dressed man took a seat next to Solin and let out a sigh of contentment. Solin hesitated a moment, then shifted the brass tankard that had sat near his parchment, moved it so that it took up a space on the table that was technically between the two of them, and fixed his attention on the tankard rather than look upon the man next to him.

‘Quintrix,’ Solin spoke after a long bout of silence, uttered the name of the other with a sour expression, as if the mere word left a foul taste on his tongue. ‘Give me one reason I shouldn’t cut you down.’

The reflection of the one sitting next to Solin shuffled, and fixed his own eyes upon the tankard, met Solin’s eyes through that reflection and grinned.

‘That would be rather rude. I thought we were friends.’ Quintrix didn’t hide the amusement in his low voice. ‘Not that it would achieve much, right here, right now. Maybe release some pent-up stress… do you and yours actually suffer stress?’

There was a moment of silence, and then Quintrix craned his head to stare at Solin dead in the eye, despite Solin’s own attention being instead fixed upon the reflection on the brass tankard. The next words to leave the other individual were lower in tone, oozing with a sinister smugness.

‘Besides, you’ve had your opportunity to kill me, and you passed it up.’

Solin narrowed his eyes. ‘That was then.’

Quintrix huffed in amusement. ‘Do you regret your actions, back then?’

It was a trick question, both knew the answer. Regardless, Solin answered with an honest ‘No,’ to which Quintrix chuckled dryly.

‘That’s what I like about you, young Solinaraxl. That rare knack for looking at the bigger picture.’ Quintrix hummed in acknowledgement of Solin’s words and his reflection rested his head upon his fist, angled so that he was looking at the zweihänder leaning against the table. ‘That’s new. Last we met you were still using a sabre.’

Solin didn’t say a word, simply continued to glower at the reflection of the one sat next to him.

The other seemed to focus intently on the blade. ‘A gift then.’ He flinched back with a startled hiss, blinking his eyes rapidly. ‘That’s… quite the gift.’

Still, Solin didn’t say a word, just stared at that reflection with narrowed eyes.

Quintrix hummed thoughtfully. ‘Yes… Those Dawi don’t do things by halves, do they?’ He carefully moved away, slowly, and created some distance between him and the blade.

Solin didn’t outwardly react, his crimson gaze remained transfixed to the reflection. He let a full minute pass before he decided to speak to the other, finally spoke up. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Ah, that’s the question, isn’t it? Turns out that things have been happening. I will be honest, my scaly friend… I wasn’t expecting a Chaos warhost in the Empire.’

Solin scoffed in disbelief. ‘You expect me to believe that?’

The other shrugged in amusement. ‘I don’t expect you to believe much of what I have to say. Price of knowing my truth, it becomes harder to believe the truth when I utter such truths.’

Solin’s eyes rolled upward, had to remind himself that the word “truth” was, in fact, a real word despite the rapid-fire use almost stripping it of meaning, then quickly returned to staring at the reflection of the one sitting next to him. ‘Ok, I’ll humour you. If you didn’t know about the warhost, why are you here?’

‘Ah,’ the one next to him breathed out. He opened his mouth, but his breath stilled, and no sound came. After two repetitions, his shoulders slumped and his expression twisted into annoyance. ‘I can’t say.’

Solin’s brow ridges rose in bemusement. ‘Really?’

‘It seems that, as much as I like you, there is nothing to gain from saying, so my tongue is stilled.’

Solin snorted. ‘What, you’ll not even get some sick amusement?’

‘Not regarding this, I won’t.’

Solin’s brow ridges lowered again. ‘The topic isn’t going to give you amusement, or my reaction won’t be amusing?’

The one sat next to him chuckled and made a show of thinking about that question. ‘Yes.’

‘Useful.’ Solin rumbled sarcastically.

‘Admit it, you knew that you weren’t going to get much from me. And even if I had been able to speak of my business, you wouldn’t have believed me anyway.’

Despite himself, Solin snorted in amused agreement. No, he wouldn’t have, but he also wouldn’t have disbelieved it out of hand either, because the other was well aware of the paradox of being considered to be untrustworthy and going unbelieved even if uttering a truth, so he mixed in truths with falsehoods intermittently with full knowledge that it was a gamble for the one being told as to whether to believe the opposite of what was spoken. It was a game for Quintrix, a source of amusement, watching as any that was aware of his nature tried to puzzle out and untangle fact from fiction, and even then work out which fact was pertinent, which truth wasn’t itself obfuscated behind double meanings, which fabrication was in actuality a riddle leading to a gospel.

‘So, why are you here, annoying me?’ Solin eventually asked.

Quintrix’s reflection shrugged. ‘I was nearby, and I wondered. In its own way, the presence of the Warhost of Malice is a reassuring balm. I was actually concerned.’

Remembering the nature of Malice, as far as the Legion had worked out, Solin gave Quintrix’s reflection a narrowed glare.

‘Why were you concerned?’

Quintrix huffed, then tilted his head in consideration. ‘My attentions were upon a new daemon prince that was birthed recently.’

‘A new daemon prince?’

‘Created through a minor act of cohesiveness between the Four.’

That detail gave Solin slight pause, understanding then why Quintrix might have had thoughts regarding any show of force from Malice. But still no understanding as to why the other would find it reassuring.

Quintrix continued. ‘Ironically, the prince was already a prince before becoming a daemon prince,’ the reflection shared with a chuckle before turning serious. ‘However, for now, he doesn't seem overly interested in following any edicts of the Four. He’s too drunk on his new power.’

‘You don’t sound impressed.’

‘He has been given power and is now acting on his own accord. Last I saw of him, he was arguing with Skarbrand while planning an attack on Kislev.’

Solin took some time to think about that. He had mixed feelings about the new piece of information he had received. And that wasn’t just the usual confusion of how much that was just told was truth and how much was fiction. A daemon prince in and of itself was… bad news, certainly, but not unheard of. The fact that this new one had favour from all four of the Ruinous gods was considerably more concerning.

After a pause, the reflection showed the Lord of Change shrug. ‘I’ll just take my leave now,’ the daemon said. ‘You might want to check the farmhouse just outside the town, by the way.’ And then, with those last words, the daemon was gone as though he had never been.

And Solin found himself reaching for his blade again, the labourer who’d asked about the weapon behind him. The background hum of conversations between tavern-goers returned as though there had never been an absence. A look at his weapon revealed that the blade’s previous low luminescence had faded.

Solin pulled his arm back and turned back to the human. ‘It was nothing. Must have been a trick of the light.’

The labourer hummed and cast a suspicious eye at the greatsword, but took Solin’s answer at face value and turned, moved toward the tavern’s owner and called for a drink.

Solin let out a breath he hadn’t been fully aware he’d been holding in, quickly ran through the conversation in his head. None of what was uttered was believed, as Quintrix himself had said, the fact that Solin was aware of the true nature of the Lord of Change meant that nothing was believed at face value. For all that Quintrix claimed a fondness for Solin, that didn’t change his very nature as a being crafted from a sliver of the Changer of Way’s very essence.

For centuries, the Lord of Change had taken an interest in Solin, playing with him and testing him as if they were friends. Ingwel and Iycan—that was every Iycan’ceya up to the current bearer of that name—had speculated that the strange Greater Daemon enjoyed interacting with someone who knew his true nature. Despite never directly interfering with the Legion or the Great Plan—and had, in fact, been responsible for the Legion interfering with a Nurglish cult on one occasion—they would never trust the avian daemon. Eccentricities aside, Quintrix was still a daemon of Tzeentch, still one of the Great Enemy. Manipulating the Legion into attacking a mutual enemy did not make them allies.

Solin had never attacked him, because Quintrix was always careful not to put himself in a vulnerable position. He quickly reminded himself that the reason he had spared the daemon his blade that first time that he had had the misfortune of encountering him had been borne of necessity, had been the lesser evil.

It figured that it would have the feathered fiend pester him. What was that saying? No good deed went unpunished.

Solin paused, as the last words that the Lord of Change had uttered crossed his mind. What farmhouse?


*


Solin had taken the vague warning about one of the myriad of farmhouses that surrounded the town, and he set patrols to keep an eye out. Might not trust the source of the warning, but based on what he knew, there was no love lost between those that worshipped Malice, and those of the more conventional Chaos leanings.

And there was a turn of phrase that Solin had never thought he’d be thinking. “Conventional Chaos leanings”, as if worship of the Ruinous Powers was conventional in any sense. But that knowledge that Malice intrinsically opposed the well-known entities of Chaos made the following of Malice an inherently unorthodox branch of the already twisted and unconventional worship of Chaos.

So, it wouldn’t be a surprise if the only real catch to being directed towards a potential ploy of any lingering Malice worshippers by a daemon of Tzeentch, was simply that the enemy of an enemy was being sent to undermine that same enemy. Not every plot had some big goal, and if it was some link in a chain of events, the end of that chain was far enough away that Solin wasn’t able to see any consequences.

It was an instance of picking battles. He could throw his hands up and refuse to track down any potential lingering traces of the marauders, but then any deaths that came from his lack of action would weigh on Solin’s shoulders. Or he could do as he was, follow that warning, seek out whatever issue might be, and potentially foil whatever act warranted a warning from a Lord of Change that liked to claim fondness with Solin.

A shrill scream echoed in the air. Solin didn’t hesitate, his hand came to rest upon the hilt of his sword and he charged toward the scream, distantly aware that the captain of the free company militia that was bolstering this town’s defences was following behind, not nearly so fast as Solin but still at a respectable pace. The scream had come from one of the nearby farmhouses, and Solin charged at the door, slammed into it shoulder first, which forced it open with a loud crash.

It took a few moments for the scene to register, and every curse that Solin had ever uttered regarding Chaos in general—Nurgle in particular—came rushing back to the forefront of his mind.

A child, a boy, eight, maybe nine summers of age, screaming and crawling backwards from a man who was dressed in a simple garb and shared some likeness with the child. But the source of the child’s distress was readily apparent in the pained groaning of the stumbling man, blood pouring down from his nose, flecks painted on his lips. When the man staggered and slipped, Solin could see the blood dribbling down even from the man’s ears.

Solin took in these details, hissed angrily, and turned enough to see the door through which he had entered. On seeing that the militiaman was about to enter the open doorway, Solin swung his tail, slammed the thick appendage into the human and sent him stumbling back, then hurriedly moved to slam the door shut again. There was a startled shout from the human, but Solin was acting quickly, grabbed at a nearby table and pulled and shoved it so that it blocked the door.

‘What in Sigmar’s name are you doing!’

‘Don’t come in,’ he shouted, then cast a sympathetic look at the ailing man, whose eyes had risen from the child and took in the lizardman who had just forced his way into the building. Solin sighed and cursed again, his second look not doing anything to dispel the initial assessment he had come to. ‘We have a pox in here.’

He didn’t say, didn’t have to, that if this was indeed a pox, then it was entirely possible that Solin was now infected.

There was a moment of silence, then the free company captain’s voice cut through that stillness. ‘Damnit. Are you ok?’

Solin barked out a sarcastic laugh, then cast his eyes to the child, whose screams had stopped, was now sniffing, tears rolling down his cheeks. Solin shook his head, even though the militiaman couldn’t see. ‘I’ve been better. If we’re lucky, this won’t spread.’ He paused a moment, then let out another breath then called out for the saurus scar veteran who had been with them when they’d heard the screaming. ‘Captain Mex, I need you to set up a guard, keep this building quarantined.’

The saurus scar veteran hissed out an affirmation, and then his voice was faintly heard shouting for the attention of any nearby Legionaries.

There was a pause. ‘We should burn the building.’ The free company captain at least had the decency to not sound overly eager with the idea.

‘At least wait for us to already be dead before casting us to the flame,’ Solin snapped irritably. ‘Just keep your distance.’

His eyes moved to the blood-soaked man, and the child, and another sigh escaped him. He moved closer, head tilted in consideration.

‘What are the symptoms?’ the militiaman asked after a drawn-out pause.

‘Bleeding.’ Solin answered while he stepped closer to the ailing man. ‘It’s coming from the nose, and the ears. Looks like he was also coughing it up.’ A closer look, and Solin found his gaze drawn to the eyes, whereupon he swore softly. ‘Also bleeding from the eyes.’

‘Sigmar damnit.’ The voice on the other side of the blocked door cursed. ‘I’ve heard tell of this pox. There was a similar outbreak earlier this year.’

‘How bad was it?’ While Solin asked, he moved to the child and gently turned him away from the sight of the bleeding man.

There was a mumble that was indecipherable through the door, then a muttered comment that began with ‘Well, for every hundred…’

Solin’s eyes rolled briefly to the ceiling, and his voice turned sharp as he realised what the man was doing. ‘I know how percentages work! We are not backwards, uneducated dullards! Just tell me the mortality rate.’ At Solin’s tone, the child flinched, the act of which had the oldblood make soft sounds of reassurance.

A pause. ‘Ninety-five percent kill rate. Once the infected was coughing up blood, death was certain.’

Solin heaved a deep breath, eyes rested on the boy, who for the moment seemed to largely be in a state of shock, reacting to sounds, but the eyes were blank and unseeing. That wouldn’t last. But while the boy was in such a state, it meant Solin had time to move the man. With a grumbled curse, he grabbed at the man.


*


Solin managed to move the bleeding man to the bed that he had been assured by the boy was the man’s. A quick examination didn’t give Solin any good news regarding the bleeding and feverish man. There was no way for Solin to work out how long the man had been pouring his life liquid from every natural opening his body had, but it had been long enough that the human’s breaths were coming out in quick shallow breaths that couldn’t be doing nearly enough to fuel the body, while pressing his fingers against the arteries on the man’s clammy wrist revealed a heart that was beating rapid melody.

If there was anything that could have been done to save the man, it was too late. Maybe somebody particularly talented with magic powered by the Winds of Ghyran, but even that wasn’t a certainty, Nurgle’s poxes usually had some resistance against such attempts to remove them. The man had lost so much blood that even if a miracle cure was presented, it wouldn't heal the damage caused by the pox. Solin would consider the man lucky if he lasted another hour.

Whether or not that was lucky in a good or a bad way was up for debate. Maybe it would be a kinder fate if the man passed away right that second, so he would no longer be suffering.

Once Solin had finished making the man as comfortable as he could, he had to coax the boy from the room. Nothing would be gained letting the child watch as his father died. There was a slim chance that the boy hadn’t been infected yet, but the longer the child was by his father’s side, the more likely it was that he was going to catch the ailment.

After that, Solin was left at a loss. What to do? He couldn’t leave. The message shouted for him to hear had been clear, he needed to wait inside this house for at least two weeks, lest he carry the plague with him to other victims. And unlike the boy, it was almost certain that Solin was carrying it, he was coated in the man’s blood from carrying him. Couldn’t even chance leaving the house to go to the nearby well for water to wash from. Had to keep himself confined until either he passed away from the pox himself, or there was a reasonable chance that he was no longer a risk to anybody he neared.

Damn.

It was a simple thought, but one that didn’t feel out of place.

Damn, damn, damn!

It was a thought that repeated itself when he took note of the boy’s skin, flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the late summer’s transition to fall. However, it could just as easily be the situation cementing itself within the boy’s mind as he came out of his shock and regained mental faculties. Eyes were wobbling, unshed tears pooling up… humans had so many tells regarding their emotional state.

With a sigh, Solin pulled the boy, held him at his side, and lowered himself to sit against a nearby wall.

‘What’s your name?’ Solin asked after a minute of silence where he struggled to think of what he could potentially do to distract the child from what was happening.

The boy shivered against Solin’s side, but he eventually answered. ‘Karl.’

‘Oh, like the emperor?’ Solin injected as much calmness as he could into his voice.

He felt the boy nod. ‘Papi always says it is good… lucky, to have the name of an emp’rah.’

‘I wouldn’t know. My people don’t have an emperor.’

The boy, Karl, made a sound of confusion. ‘So’s you have a king? Like… Bretonees?’

‘Bretonnians,’ Solin corrected, then registered the comparison, stuck his tongue out and made a gagging sound in an exaggerated expression of disgust. ‘Ew, no. Do I look like I go bothering ladies while swimming in lakes?’

His light tone and words did the job that Solin had strove for, Karl giggled. It was quiet, clearly reluctant, but it was there to be heard. Solin narrowed his eyes into a grin, pleased that he had managed that much. Managed to distract the child.

‘No…’ Karl said through his giggling. ‘They prob’ly run away from you.’

Solin’s hand came up to press against his chest, over his heart, and he gave a faux-wounded sound. ‘Oof, hitting where it hurts, kiddo. But I’ll have you know, they don’t all run away from me.’

Unbidden, his mind recalled that time so long ago. A soft exhale of air was blown from his nostrils, a weight forming in his gut. For a moment, the boy huddled at his side changed, another boy taking his place, but a blink later and the scene returned to normal.

‘I knew a boy like you, once,’ Solin mused aloud. ‘A brave boy who grew up, became a knight. Fought to defend the Empire.’

‘What happened to him?’ The question was asked after a long pause, the boy, Karl’s, mind torn between accepting the distraction that Solin was offering versus getting lost in the reality that was his father dying but a single room away.

Evidently, Karl had chosen to take the distraction, and Solin was willing to offer that reprieve from the cold hard truth of reality. Though Solin didn’t answer the question right away, as his mind lingered for a moment on the memories of the distant past. Seemed that today was a day of recollection, of old memories and faces emerging.

‘Got married, had kids of his own.’

He didn’t add that it was so long ago that the boy that Karl reminded him of was long dead, had been the first time that Solin had ever seen somebody he had known die from old age. Before that moment it had never truly dawned on Solin just what a saurus’s natural lifespan meant when it came to interacting with the warmbloods of the world. The mother hadn’t hit the same way, Solin hadn’t been there, so that connection hadn’t been made within Solin’s consciousness.

And then three summers later, the sister had likewise passed. If it hadn’t been rooted into Solin already, that was the one that cemented the realisation, that Seigfried hadn’t been an unfortunate victim of the whims of fate, had actually been fortunate to have lived so long when he had been a knight who had fought alongside the Reikland state troopers through war and strife.

Call Solin a coward, but the idea of going through that same pain again and again had guided his decision to cut contact with the family. It might not have been the reason the majority of his race kept warmbloods at arm’s length, at best, but it was certainly not a detail that would convince any to change that habit of aloofness.

But a moment of remembering helped distract this young boy, keep him from dwelling on the fate of his father. Tell the story of a brave knight and how he had come from a modest background, throw in a few anecdotes, the ones that in hindsight were amusing, and for a moment Karl was giggling, mind well and truly shielded.

It wouldn’t last forever. But for a moment, he would let the boy pretend that all was well.

Eventually, he turned and noticed that the boy had fallen asleep. Solin narrowed his eyes into a frown of concern and raised his hand, pressed his knuckles against the child's forehead, and felt the heat with a sigh.

‘Well, that’s a fever right there.’ The back of his head connected with the wall with a light thump.

Memories continued to rise up from the places where they had been buried away, deep in the back of his mind. He found himself humming a melody from centuries past. Couldn’t quite recall the words.

Slowly, carefully, he climbed to his feet, did his best not to disturb the child. Once he had managed to untangle himself, he quietly stalked to the bedroom where he had laid the boy’s father.

Solin had been somewhat expecting what would be found. That didn’t make him feel better about finding the dead body. By all appearances, blood loss had caught up with the man. With a heavy sigh, Solin carefully closed the body’s eyes and stepped back. From a distance, if one ignored the blood, it was as if the man was simply sleeping. Too bad that the blood was impossible to ignore.

After that, Solin carefully checked over himself, careful to note any feelings that he might have which could potentially be a symptom of having caught this same blight. Children of the Gods didn’t suffer fevers, so sometimes it made checking symptoms trickier than it was with warmbloods.

No fatigue. No aches that couldn’t be accounted for. No blood coming from any spare openings. Not even a cough. Unfortunately, the lack of any symptoms didn’t mean he was in the clear. Could be a slow-acting affliction, the man and his son could have been infected days ago and only started to show the symptoms today.

If fortune smiled upon them, the boy wasn’t infected, the fever was simply another less serious issue. The realist in Solin didn’t believe that for a moment, as much as he wanted to. The boy didn’t deserve to suffer through such.

Sometimes, Solin wished that he was just as cold and impassive as he and his kin were often accused of being. Maybe it would be easier, watching as a literal child was to waste away from a blight that had Nurgle’s dirty pox-ridden hands all over it. Wouldn’t it be better to just be able to dismiss the event as an unfortunate event and move on?

He quickly felt guilt at the thought. No, while it might be easier, it wouldn’t be better.


*


It was the morning of the next day when Solin was jolted awake from where he had slumped against the wall. His eyes blinked blearily as he tried to puzzle out what had awakened him. Then the trio of sharp thuds, a fist slamming against the wooden door, made themselves heard again.

‘Colonel,’ a voice on the other side of the blocked door called out. ‘Are you awake?’

‘Well I am now,’ Solin answered irritably, the voice having removed all traces of drowsiness from his body.

He clambered to his feet, eyes automatically scanning the room to find the boy. His eyes narrowed in concern once he spotted Karl. The child was curled up on the floor, still asleep, but his skin was flushed and slick with sweat.

‘This is Healer Eilswel,’ the voice on the other side of the door spoke again.

Solin instantly placed the name to a face in his mind. Eilswel was a skink who had joined the Legion strictly as a healer. He had some talent with the Winds of Ghyran, which was why he was strictly a physician, and the second-most authority on the physical health of those in the Legion, only outranked in that field by another skink physician called Spicra, who was the official chief body-healer of the Legion, in much the same way that Muja was considered to be the chief mind-healer.

Solin hesitated a moment before replying, took in the tone of voice, as well as the fact that Eilswel was addressing him by rank. That informed him of the tone that the conversation was about to take.

‘What news, healer?’

Eilswel answered swiftly. ‘First, checking on you and the two humans in there with you.’

‘The adult that was infected passed last night.’ Solin was quick to reply. ‘The boy is currently fevered. As for myself, give me a second…’

The saurus quickly checked himself over yet again for any hint that he was less than well. Same as last night, he found no signs of aches or pains, no fatigue, none of the usual signs that a Child of the Gods would show if their health was impacted. Despite his certainty, he then went through the process again to be certain.

Despite Eilswel’s typical impatience, the healer was silent and let Solin take his time. Whether that was actual trust in Solin to be thorough, or resignation to the fact that he was unable to do the check himself Solin wasn’t certain.

‘I’m not showing any signs of infection or illness, and I still feel perfectly able,’ Solin answered.

There was a sigh from the other side of the blocked door. ‘I had a feeling that would be the case.’

Solin let out a sound of curiosity.

‘We’ve actually seen this pox in the past,’ Eilswel explained. ‘We’re immune, the pox seems to only infect humans. But we can be carriers. You’re going to be trapped in that building for… two weeks after the boy passes.’

‘You’re…’ Solin trailed off, eyes narrowing in frustration. ‘I’m going to be locked in here with dead bodies?’

Eilswel allowed the no-nonsense tone to drop in favour of sympathy. ‘I can have the guards widen out and allow you space to leave long enough to give them last rites, fire does burn away the pox, so cremation is a safe way to put them to rest.’

‘How does it spread?’ Solin asked after a pause.

The professional tone returned to Eilswel. ‘From what we saw last time the Legion encountered this pox, it is mostly through contact with contaminated blood, or sweat during the fever stage.’

‘We don’t sweat, and if we’re immune, I’m not about to bleed on any humans.’

There was a tutting sound from the other side of the door. ‘I said mostly. None of the Legion are experts in diseases—so few actually affect us unless they’re Nurglish in origin—so I won’t make claims I can’t back up. Maybe breathing too close to a human could spread it. I do know that this plague has its origins with Nurgle, so I can’t purge the pox from you with magic. As such, I would prefer that you keep yourself quarantined for the full two weeks just so that we can be certain you aren’t going to cause a full plague on the Empire.’

Solin hissed out a string of vulgarity that would make any skink proud to hear. ‘Do we know how this pox started?’

The skink outside hummed, and Solin had a feeling that the healer was considering if he should be giving any information that Solin was unable to actually act on. After a while, there was a sigh. ‘Captain Mex and the free company captain both found some evidence of a Malice worshipper still in the town. They’ve been working to find them.’

Solin could see why Eilswel had considered whether to tell him or not. This was something that Solin would have involved himself in, tracking down and rooting out a Chaos worshipper who was scheming and plotting. But locked in this building as he was, he was unable to actually contribute.

‘How is Mex doing?’ Solin asked finally.

‘Muja says that he is doubting himself, but by all accounts, he is proving that he has earned his recent scar veterancy and the position of captain that came with it.’

‘That’s fair. He was supposed to spend more time as a sergeant, but after Kro-Loq…’ Solin trailed off and shook his head even though the healer couldn’t see. ‘Pass on a message that I trust him?’

The healer let out a huff. ‘Will do.’

Solin listened to the footfalls of the healer outside fade away, then turned. His eyes turned to the boy and noted that he was shivering, despite the warmth that was radiating from his skin.


*


Two days. Captain Mex was getting irritated, it had been two days and while he had found evidence to suggest that the Chaos cultist who had dropped the pox was still in the area—there had been a second instance of a human found infected with the blight, which was quickly quarantined—but Mex was still unable to find the one responsible. And he was now starting to take this as a personal insult.

Mex was a hunter, had been before his decision to join the Legion, and he had remained as one for the first half of his career within the Legion. Unfortunately, Mex had been noted as having potential in leadership, which shifted him away from his preferred role, and Kro-Loq’s recent death had left a void that Mex was the one tasked with filling, but that did not change that Mex was first and foremost a hunter. That this Chaos cultist had managed to evade him for so long was a challenge, a taunt, one that he felt an obligation to answer.

So, before he set out for the third evening’s prowl, he was in the room that he had been given at the town’s inn, considering his prey and how best to find and remove the blight upon the land.

‘How likely,’ Mex began, casting a look toward Sergeant Vhix, ‘is it that this cultist knows anything about our kind other than what they might have seen here?’

Vhix, a skink who before volunteering to join the Legion had been something of a scholar back home—his reason for volunteering had been a desire to learn about warmbloods up close, to satisfy a near insatiable curiosity—hummed thoughtfully. ‘That is a good question. I think I remember hearing that the Norscans have managed to get a colony on Lustria, but whether they’ve really learned anything about our cousins is questionable.’

‘And this cultist may not be Norscan, even if they have,’ Mex said thoughtfully.

Vhix hummed again, rubbing the underside of his jaw while he considered the question that had started this conversation. ‘Even these Empire humans aren’t that learned about our kind, and they, alongside the Tilians and Estalians, are the ones with the most presence on Lustria, the most likely to actually be learning of us.’

‘So,’ Mex trailed off, trying to articulate his thoughts. ‘How likely is it that any warmblood in existence is aware of just how impossible it is for one of our kind to be corrupted by the Ruinous Forces?’

Vhix opened his maw, paused, shut it and tilted his head in contemplation. ‘That… is an interesting question. And even if it was a known fact, would the arrogance of Chaos accept that as a fact?’

The fact Vhix asked that question was proof to Mex that the skink was aware of what Mex was planning.

‘It’s risky,’ Vhix said in a gentle tone. ‘They might not fall for it.’

Mex gave a single nod and shrugged off his coat, carefully folding the garb and putting it upon the room’s cot. ‘What’s that quaint Empire saying? “No risk, no reward”?’

‘I think it was actually “no pains, no gains”.’

Mex paused in his unbuttoning his waistcoat, blinking at Vhix dumbly. ‘How does that work?’

Vhix’s eyes crinkled. ‘Human muscles ache when exercised to the edge of their limit, but doing so allows those same muscles to regrow stronger than before.’

Mex stared at Vhix, considered what he just heard, then shrugged and started to ruffle up his shirt and waistcoat, deliberately creasing the linen and cloth garments. ‘That seems… strange and counter-productive.’

‘They aren’t like us,’ Vhix reminded the saurus. ‘They don’t just keep gaining strength as they age, they need to actually work for what they get. And they can lose strength through inactivity.’

Deliberately rumpled and looking very much like he was done with everything, Mex cast one last look at the skink. ‘No wonder humans are so susceptible to Chaos’s corruptions. Why’d the Old Ones put that kind of weakness in them?’

Vhix spread his arms in a gesture of confusion. ‘You’d have to ask a priest about that.’ He then peered closer at Mex, assessing the haggard appearance that the scar veteran had adopted. ‘Ok, you look sufficiently like somebody that would be open to tempting whispers.’

Mex looked down at his crinkled clothing and narrowed his eyes in distaste. ‘I feel like a vagrant.’

‘I’d suggest pouring cheap alcohol over yourself, but…’

‘No.’ Mex didn’t hesitate to shoot that idea before it could really form.

Vhix raised his hands into a gesture of surrender and stepped back. ‘You know the others will start wondering?’

‘Good,’ Mex said. ‘It’ll help sell the image.’

One last check over himself, had to fight to prevent the grimace that wanted to form up. When he’d joined the Legion, he hadn’t anticipated just how attached he’d get to the uniform and wearing warmblood style clothing. But now? Deliberately messing up his clothing as he had felt like he held no pride in himself, even if he was doing it for a purpose.

He suppressed a shudder and quietly slipped out the door. Once he had exited the inn, he began to mutter vague words of dissatisfaction.


*


‘In the quiet hush of twilight's embrace,’ Solin softly recited the previously long-forgotten words, rocking his body back and forth with Karl wrapped in a tight embrace. Yet despite literal centuries since he’d last even given any thought to the old song, he found them at the forefront of his mind, as if he had never had a long hiatus in uttering the melody. ‘A melody rises, filling the space,

Through whispers of wind and sighs of night,

It weaves through the darkness, bringing light.’

A pause to take breath, and to double-check his recollection of the words. It was a pause that was broken by Karl coughing. Solin didn’t curse out loud, but it was a near thing when he spotted the flecks of crimson staining the child’s lips.

It had been a single day since Eilswel had given Solin the update, and Karl’s fever had worsened. The coughing had started the noon just passed, and any hope that might have been had that the fever was unrelated to the pox which had afflicted the father was lost when Karl had lowered a hand spattered with blood. And the child’s condition had only worsened.

The poor boy wasn’t even able to sleep through the illness, the constant coughing kept forcing him back to wakefulness the moment it looked as though he were about to doze off. If Solin hadn’t been told that this particular illness had its origins rooted in Nurgle, this would have been its own form of confirmation. Nurgle would never tolerate somebody sleeping through one of his “gifts”, so having a racking cough that would force one to stay awake was almost a taunting signature, a mocking “this is mine, you don’t get a reprieve so easily”.

‘Mmm…’ Karl mumbled wordlessly, trying to steady his breathing even after the coughing fit had passed.

Solin continued to recite the old song, gave Karl something to focus on. Karl’s eyelids drooped but didn’t fully close. Solin noted the trickle of blood leaking from one of the boy’s nostrils.

There were moments, times that Solin, that anybody with even a modicum of compassion, would be torn between the kindness of a quick death versus the knowledge that in doing so they’d be staining their own hands. This was a nine-year-old child, a boy who hadn’t yet truly lived his life, there was no way that anybody could say that he deserved to die, and certainly not through a disease crafted by a malevolent entity such as Nurgle.

But mercy, sparing the suffering, still meant killing.

There were times Solin wished, so, so much, that he wasn’t burdened with emotion. The warmbloods, those who were actually educated, had a common misconception about the Children of the Gods, had a belief that they weren’t feeling creatures. That they operated purely on logic and the will of the Old Ones. Would that have been the case, maybe this pain wouldn’t exist. Muted as it may be for the Children of the Gods in comparison to the warm-blooded races, they still felt.

Thumb lightly traced circles on the boy’s back, held him as another fit of gut-aching coughs shook his body. A second trail of blood slowly leaked, this time from one of the boy’s ears.

He knew that his previous thoughts were wrong, that emotion wasn’t a burden. But it was hard to remember that as he watched this innocent child slowly waste away, life liquid leaking away until there wouldn’t be anything left but a hollow husk of a body.

He remembered where he had left off, and for lack of anything else he could do, he continued the song he had learnt those centuries again.

‘O, weary soul, in shadows deep,

Find solace in this song's gentle sweep,

Let burdens lift, let wounds find rest,

In the melody's embrace, be blessed.’


*


Captain Mex stared down at the scarred body, eyes instantly locked on the eight-pointed star carved into the man’s flesh. Four days he had spent hunting this quarry. And now it had come to the inevitable conclusion. The cultist had fallen for the ploy, for the exploitation of the lack of knowledge that the warmbloods had regarding the Children of the Gods. Two nights Mex had taken to stumbling about, clothing deliberately ruffled and creased, all while muttering about the futility of “fighting for uncaring gods” and other borderline blasphemous words. First bait set.

The next day, Mex had staged an argument with Sergeant Vhix, the skink having been told ahead of time what the plan was. Second bait set.

A third bait had been planned, but it hadn’t been needed. Night had fallen, and the cultist had foolishly revealed himself, intending to recruit Mex into service of Malice. A follower of Tzeentch this was no. No Tzeentchian would have fallen for that trap. Not with only two of the deceptions set up.

Mex paused in rebuttoning his waistcoat, eyes drawn to a shadow that appeared to move of its own volition, but when there was no other sign of movement, he shrugged and continued to tidy his clothing. Wished he had his coat, but that had been left in his tent, as the most recognisable part of his uniform, not wearing it had been a deliberate part of making himself look unsatisfied and ready to defect. Remove the most recognisable symbol of allegiance, that was more than half the work of making one look ready to turn against one’s own.

Another human appeared, this one dressed as a member of the free company militia in town, a pistol held in one hand, a blade in the other. Mex paused in his act of tucking in his shirt, eyes fixed upon the militiaman. The militiaman in turn eyed Mex, pistol pointed at the saurus, but then looked upon the body, looked past the bloody neck, blood that matched that which was dripping from Mex’s right hand—a reminder that even without weapons, a saurus was never without means of killing—and focused instead upon the aged scarring on the corpse’s chest, identified the self-mutilation.

‘Damn, this the one who dropped the blights?’ the militiaman asked after a drawn-out pause.

‘I believe so,’ Mex answered.

The militiaman paused again, then huffed out a laugh. ‘You was deceiving him, wasn’t you?’ the human asked with a sharp voice, almost annoyed but almost impressed in equal measure. ‘I was following you because the captain was concerned after you was spotted stumbling about like you was two steps away from deserting.’

Mex took a moment to consider that, then huffed out a laugh of his own. ‘Good, if I fooled you. That helped fool him.’

‘Nah, I geddit. A secret is naw a secret if ev’ryone knows an’ all.’

Mex nodded, but didn’t say anything, still wasn’t versed in conversing with the warmbloods. The militiaman hummed, lightly kicking the corpse as if expecting the act to prove the cultist was merely faking his death. Nothing, the body stayed just as dead as it had been previously.

‘So, a Nurglite?’ the militiaman mused, then shook his head. ‘Naw, nawt a sign of having been infected ‘imself.’

Now Mex did answer. ‘I’ve noticed that these Malice cultists have no issue using the methods of other Chaos cults. Needlessly bloody execution methods, magic, and now plagues.’ He paused a moment, remembering the failed defence of the Feyerabend Keep. He hadn’t been in a position to get a good look at the exalted champions who had led the warhost to victory, but… ‘Huh… something to discuss with the colonel, once he can leave quarantine…’

‘Eh… about that.’ Mex turned to look at the militiaman, eyes narrowed, and the militiaman took a started step back at the abrupt movement of the larger reptilian figure. ‘I think ‘e’s setting a funeral pyre. Yer quarantine guards all moved to give ‘im space to leave the farmhouse but still be distant from ev’rybody else.’

Mex cursed softly. ‘That means… the child?’

‘Yea, dead.’ The militiaman had the sense to lower his tone mournfully. ‘F’ck’n Chaos bastards. What does killing a child gain?’

Nothing, Chaos is just a malicious force in general, and this warhost seems to relish in being even more so than the usual suspects. Mex didn’t say what he was thinking, didn’t feel the need to. It would probably just be preaching to the believer.

Without another word, Mex pushed past the militiaman, left cleaning up the body to the human, and not-quite ran to the outer edge of the town, towards where the farmhouse that Solin had been locked away stood.

When he arrived, the pyre had already been lit, two bodies—carefully wrapped up in whatever fabrics Solin had doubtless been able to scavenge from the building—were rested in the centre of the pyre, slowly being kissed by the orange flames.

Solin himself was slumped against the wall of the farmhouse, far enough from the pyre that the wooden building wasn’t at risk of catching the flame. The oldblood sat with one knee drawn to his jaw, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

‘Hey, colonel,’ Mex called out.

It took ten seconds for Solin to react, but after those seconds passed, the oldblood turned his attention to Mex. Mex didn’t say anything, let his eyes do the talking for him. Solin appeared to understand the unspoken report, he breathed in deeply, let out a sigh, and then nodded in acknowledgement, eyes steeling as Solin managed to lock away whatever emotion was stewing in his mind, and he clambered to his feet.

‘Captain,’ he called back, voice raised to be heard clearly over the distance. ‘Continue the patrols, but get everybody ready. Unless a runner gives us cause otherwise, once I’m free to leave, we are going to be marching back westward.’

Mex was a little taken aback at the tone that Solin spoke with, but his eyes drifted to the pyre, easily recalling the most oft-used joke the Legion liked to utter regarding Solin’s habits. He silently promised to himself that he would make certain that everybody was aware to put a pause on those particular jokes for the immediate future. He also told himself to make sure that Muja was sent Solin’s way. Other than that, there was little else that he could do. Maybe if he were one of those that were close to the colonel, but Mex’s interactions with the oldblood were, while largely positive, minimal and far from enough to consider them to be close enough for Mex to even consider getting involved in the older saurus’s personal affairs.

‘Colonel.’ Mex rumbled, acknowledging the order he was given. It was all he could do.

He looked again at the pyre, then turned. Behind him, Solin spent another minute staring at the pyre, before he too turned, and entered back into the building which he would be spending the next two weeks.

 

Basecamp​

Five hundred years ago
—

Moretexl hemmed and hawed, eyes narrowed. To anybody nearby, it likely appeared as though he were trying to drill a hole into the strange panoply that was being presented to him. And, if he was going to be honest, he wouldn’t protest a spontaneous manifestation of such an ability, even if it was limited to this one time. At least it would be a worthy use of such an unusual and short-lived talent.

Snorting out a huff of air from his nostrils, the Eternity Warden reluctantly leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against the curved metal. It didn’t buckle under his attention, not that he was really testing for such, but if it had, he would have had a very valid excuse to complain. A light sigh escaped him, and he finally tore his eyes away, instead turned his focus to the nearby skink.

‘Mussst I really?’

Unfortunately, this particular skink was immune to the dour glare of the aged saurus, if anything seemed amused by the larger reptile’s annoyance.

‘Oldblood Ingwel’tonl’sss order.’

As if I needed to be reminded that this is an order, Moretexl thought irritably. He returned his glare to the source of his annoyance. The breastplate, and other assorted bits of armour and cloth and leather, unfortunately, hadn’t mysteriously melted into slag while he wasn’t paying any attention, and there was no more putting this off.

Without looking away, he asked the artisan who had crafted this abomination ‘So how do I put all this on?’

Half an hour later, Moretexl was stood, wearing one of the first crafted pieces of the Temple-host’s new uniform. His opinion, now that he was wearing the armour and skirt, was completely unchanged. It felt unneeded, a breach in tradition being done not because it was decreed by the priesthood or the slanns, not because it was a part of the Great Plan, but because Ingwel’tonl and Iycan’ceya had been listening to Solinaraxl, and come to agree that wearing warmblood styled uniforms would help in their ongoing task.

During the past fall and winter, the Temple-host had hunkered down in a Tilean town, bolstering the defences during those two seasons, with the price being that the local blacksmiths would teach the skink artisans how to forge armour in the style of the ancient empire which had once ruled from these lands. The previous year it had been the weapons of the warmbloods: the swords and spears and halberds. Convenient that the Temple-host happened upon a town that remembered such ancient crafts, but then again… The Eternity Warden stifled those thoughts quickly, lest he work himself into another bout of irritability.

Though, to the skink artisans’ credit, they’d taken the lessons well and then worked in some of their own, minor, alterations, so that it wasn’t that the Temple-host would be wearing exact copies of the ancient human empire’s armour. The influence was still clear as day, but it was enough that it now felt like something made for the Children of the Gods rather than repurposed.

The artisan rubbed at the underside of his jaw, while his eyes narrowed. ‘You missssing sssomething.’

‘Thisss isss fine.’ Moretexl was quick to try to shoot down such a notion. He was already disliking the idea of wearing such coverings, he didn’t want more added to it.

The skink shook his head. ‘You are oldblood, more, you are Eternity Warden. Need… ssssybol of posssition.’

Another skink nearby, an artisan who hadn’t focused on metalwork, nodded in agreement and scampered off. Moretexl felt his nerves itch, knew that his opinion was being summarily ignored. They were going to add something, and damn his opinions on the matter.

He flinched when he felt the sensation of something brushing the back of his neck, twisted around to ward off the invasion of his personal space. Felt something drag behind him as he turned. At the approving twitters of the skinks, he sighed and craned his head around to observe the crimson cape that had been affixed to the back of his cuirass. He really wanted to protest, to argue against the impractical length of cloth that just screamed at him as a weakness that any foe in combat would grab at, but Ingwel’tonl himself appeared, similarly garbed and looking pleased with what he saw as he looked upon the Eternity Warden, and Moretexl gave up on the idea of fighting what was happening. For now.

He promised himself that once this experiment backfired and there was proof that this venture of dressing like they were warmbloods was ill-fated, then he would bring it up and argue for a return to tradition.


*


Present Day
Northern Middenland 
—

Mort scowled at the parchment, his inscriptions painting an unpleasant picture. He could be wrong, he would easily admit that. He was neither a priest nor a specially trained interpreter, so there was easily a possibility for error in his translations.

If he was right though…

The fabric curtain shielding the inside of his wagon from the outside was pulled aside to allow somebody entry. Mort looked up, hand automatically reaching for his sword, but stilled the motion once he recognised Ingwel. The oldblood wasn’t wearing his officer’s coat, just his undershirt, which was an indicator of just what hour it was. Ingwel rarely allowed himself to look anything less than fully dressed until the hour was late and he was about to retire for the night.

Ingwel paused, his scarlet eyes roving up and down Mort’s body, before settling on his face with a lightly amused slant to his eyes.

‘I haven’t seen you wearing those in a while.’

Mort stared flatly at the oldblood. Refused to feel self-conscious over the spectacles rested on the end of his snout. There was a reason he wasn’t oft seen wearing them, it was like an admission of weakness, that his eyes weren’t as good as they should be. He couldn’t even blame age, not like warmbloods could. Good enough for fighting, good enough for his job, but centuries of wandering the lands of the warmbloods had taught him that his vision wasn’t quite so suited for mundane activities. He could get by without, but prolonged periods of reading, or writing, gave him a headache unless he admitted weakness and wore those dratted glass lenses.

He let out a grunt and returned his focus to his parchment, double-checking his inscriptions. Ingwel huffed a quiet laugh and carefully placed a cup of some boiled brew—probably Cathayan tea if the scent wafting from it was any indicator—on the desk a respectful distance from both parchment and golden plaque.

‘I knew the moment we got that plaque that I would rarely see you until Horeo’s next arrival,’ Ingwel started, easing himself upon a nearby stool. ‘I accepted that, you are singularly dedicated to your position as an Eternity Warden, to expect any less would be a disservice to you.’

Mort stilled, his eyes returning to Ingwel. ‘I sense a “but” coming,’ he growled out, though not with any heat.

Ingwel’s look turned faintly disappointed. ‘I expected you to at least keep your health in good order. A month and a half… and nobody has seen you sunning yourself, none have seen you getting any food portions.’

‘I’ve gone longer in Annat’corri’s star chamber,’ Mort said, though he knew that was a weak defence.

‘The star chamber is saturated with the energies of the geomantic nexus it is built upon, energies which prevent you from suffering during your vigil,’ Ingwel rebutted. ‘And even then, one of my earliest memories of you is you coming off of that duty and eating fit for a dozen kroxigors before sleeping for two days straight.’

Mort felt his scales heat at the reminder. Months of silent vigil in the star chamber, yes, like Ingwel had said, he was fuelled by the ambient magics within, made so that he needed no food nor sleep, even beyond what was typically possible for a saurus in good health and discipline, but afterwards his body still craved those things that he had gone without.

Ingwel shook his head in disapproval. ‘All you had to do was ask and somebody would have brought you dinner once a week, which you could have eaten outside—in the sun—and still been doing your duty.’ His eyes then flicked to the parchment. ‘And it’s not as if you aren’t showing yourself capable of doing your duty while working on something else.’

‘You’ve made your point.’ As if to prove that Ingwel had indeed made his point, Mort grabbed the cup of tea and took a sip at it. He sighed in slight contentment at the warm drink entering his system.

Ingwel watched Mort sip at the drink and apparently decided that he had indeed won. His eyes then drifted again to the parchment that sat next to the golden plaque that had taken Mort away from the battlefield to the guardianship role.

‘I had no idea you were trained to translate plaques,’ he said after a moment.

‘I’m not, technically.’ Mort sighed and adjusted the spectacles on his snout. ‘Annat’corri likes to think out loud when he isn’t in deep meditation. Spend a few millennia listening to his thoughts as he contemplates plaques, you start to pick up some of the process.’

‘Really?’ Ingwel leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. This was probably the first time he’d really heard about what it was like to actually be Annat’corri’s Eternity Warden, stationed within the private sanctuary of the slann star-mage during the months that the lord of Tiamoxec contemplated the will of the Old Ones. ‘What did Annat’corri think about that?’

Mort hesitated a moment, then allowed his eyes to narrow into a small smile. ‘When he realised, I think he was happy. He liked being able to share his thoughts and have somebody question him on how he came to those thoughts. The trouble with the priests is that they will always defer to him, take his word without a second thought, even if they don’t understand. But with me, because I wasn’t… trained… he sometimes had to fully explain his thought process, which helped to check himself.’

Ingwel hummed, then actually made an effort to read what Mort had written upon the parchment. ‘Why is it difficult to interpret plaques? I never actually understood that.’

Mort considered how to word the issues that came from the inscriptions and their translations. ‘The problem is that they aren’t written words, it’s not a language to translate. They’re images and symbolism. The part that makes that a problem, as Annat’corri explained it, is that over time we change how we think, and some images lose their meaning because of events that have transpired or even just a difference of perspective. Some of the disagreements in translations come from whether the plaques were made with future meanings intended, or if we have to work out the historic meanings. Other disagreements simply come from different perspectives colouring interpretations. I doubt most slann of Lustria will reach the same conclusions as any of the three slann of Madrigal.’

Ingwel tilted his head. ‘Can you give an example?’

Mort tore a blank section of his parchment from the greater whole and then grabbed a nearby stick of graphite. He scratched on a symbol that he knew would have a definite meaning to Ingwel and then slid it closer so that the younger saurus could easily see what had been drawn onto it. ‘What does that mean to you?’

Ingwel’s eyes widened in instinctual disgust. ‘It’s the eight-pointed star of Chaos, a symbol of the Ruinous Powers, the Great Enemy.’

‘Ok. Now what would that image mean if Chaos had never come to this world, if we had never heard of the Ruinous Powers.’

Ingwel hesitated for a moment, trying to consider such a world. After a moment, he shrugged hopelessly. ‘I can’t even begin to fathom.’

Mort nodded. ‘That’s the problem even some trained interpreters have. A plaque might have been inscribed at a time before Chaos arrived, and certain images, like that star, are now symbolic of the Enemy. Same with any depiction of a hammer. Ever since Sigmar’s ascension, hammers are now seen as his icon. But did the one to depict that hammer know that this connection would come to be and is depicting the Sigmarites, or must we work out other meanings of a hammer in symbolism?’

Ingwel leaned back, musing on what he had just learnt. ‘Interesting.’ He glanced at the plaque, eyes narrowed. ‘So, out of curiosity, what is your interpretation of this plaque?’

‘Remembering that I am not truly trained, so am likely wrong.’ Mort huffed, then rested his finger upon a particular image on the plaque. ‘It looks to be a warning of an item. I think this symbol represents godliness, but not an Old One.’

‘So, “god” as in one of the warmblood pantheons?’

‘Maybe. But… lesser.’ Mort trailed his finger, following what appeared to be the correct sequence for this particular interpretation. ‘A gift, bestowed. Power, but with limits. Mortality, despite godliness?’

His finger ran along the edge of the plaque, felt at the barely perceptible grooves etched into the side. One of many little details that helped to identify a plaque, in this instance a way to tell that this particular one had a partner piece that would be set to that particular side.

‘It doesn’t help that this was part of a set. And we’ll probably never know where to find the others. We don’t even know which temple-city this one originally came from.’

Ingwel crossed his arms and tilted his head back in thought. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that sound somewhat similar to the nature of daemon princes? Lesser entities who were gifted a portion of power by Chaos, but with limits that keep them from ever becoming an actual threat to the Four.’

Mort huffed. ‘That’s…’ His eyes lowered back to the plaque and grimaced. ‘Not untrue. Except for the fact it warns of an item. Daemon princes aren’t items, or bestowed their power through items.’

Ingwel chuckled. ‘True.’

Mort took another sip of his cooling tea, then snatched up the piece of parchment which he had drawn the eight-pointed star upon and held it over a nearby candle, burning away the foul image.

‘What news of this war of ours?’ he asked after a period of silence.

Ingwel let out a sigh. ‘Good news, the graf has finally returned to Middenheim and by all accounts is getting ready to sally out and protect his land.’

‘And the bad news?’ Mort asked.

‘Captain Preda just reported that whatever the warhost was doing in the ruins of Feyerabend Keep, they’re finished and have started to organise themselves. It looks as though they’ll be marching soon.’

Mort let out a concerned hum. ‘Even with the Middenland army getting involved, the warhost still outnumbers us. Especially if we’re still scattered from chasing down the raider bands.’

‘Which was doubtless part of the intent of sending out those marauding warbands,’ Ingwel said huffily. ‘Tomorrow morning, I get to chat with Preda, Hoffman and a Middenlandese state captain to see if we can determine what direction the warhost plans to march, and where we should plant ourselves so as to block their way.’

‘Assuming they don’t decide to march east,’ Mort pointed out.

‘If they do, they get to march through the Drakwald. They then become Marienburg’s problem until we can catch up,’ Ingwel grunted.

It wasn’t a question of if, Ingwel would have the Legion pursue the forces of Chaos. The Ruinous Forces were an anathema to the world, a blight that needed to be extinguished. Skaven might hold the dubious honour of being the enemy that the Children of the Gods despised on a personal level, but Chaos would forever be “the” enemy. The moment that the Legion were to learn of any forces of Chaos that came south from the wastes and set foot within the Old World, that became the goal, their reason for roaming. Cull the weed before it spread and truly became a threat to the Great Plan.

It was a pity that it was logistically impossible to cull the entirety of the lands north of the Sea of Claws, the Norscan lands through to the very Chaos Wastes themselves. Even if they weren’t operating as the Legion, there was an unfortunate reason why it was that no temple-hosts went on a crusade within those lands. It was a venture destined to fail through attrition if nought else.

Somewhat fitting that the Great Enemy made its home in the lands that were singularly most inhospitable for the Children of the Gods, even before the corruptive taint of Chaos’s ambience saturated those lands. With the corruption seeded in the wastes, there was no realistic way that the Children of the Gods could take those lands and hold them. The best that any could really hope for was to keep the sons and daughters of Chaos confined to their frigid and inhospitable lands.


*


Hoffman rubbed at his shoulder, cursing the Chaos warrior who had managed to get so lucky. A lucky throw of the axe that had by a fluke of a chance managed to catch him at a weak point in his armour. The crescent blade of the axe hadn’t bitten deeply into his flesh, but it had bit deep enough to be felt regardless. A week later, the flesh itched where the wound had slowly healed, flesh knitted itself back together, but there was still a blotchy red mark as proof of the injury.

Thankfully, these weren’t Nurglites, he’d have likely had to amputate the arm to prevent the spread of whatever rot coated the weapon in such a case.

There was a new face in the tent, a middling-aged soldier in Middenland colours, with the embellishments that marked him to be a captain. A second look showed that the uniform was worn, breastplate storied. This was a man who had worked his way to the rank, not one of those nobles who bought their commission with family wealth. That could be a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, a captain who had earned his way from nothing got his ranking through merit, but some commoners who worked their way up the system had a chip on their shoulders regarding those they saw as privileged—a dark reflection of the out-of-touch nobility officers who saw the common rank and file as disposable.

On the upside, even if this captain was one of those chip-on-shoulder types, he would doubtless have other things to be distracted by, considering they were in a camp of non-humans.

But, seeing as this captain had apparently been sent by Graf Todbringer, he was hopefully of a reasonable sort.

The entrance flap to the tent fluttered, allowed entry for a saurus that Hoffman wasn’t familiar with. Lithe compared to the majority of the saurus seen within this camp, lacking the bone crest. The saurus nodded in wordless greeting, moved to the table in the middle of the tent and unfolded a map, marked out with what were doubtless up-to-date details of the positions of friend and reported foe. The saurus then hissed wordlessly—Hoffman assumed it was wordless, it had been a low drawn-out sound, akin to air slowly leaking in an unbidden sigh rather than muttered grumbles—and stared at a particular annotation.

Another saurus entered the tent, this one far more familiar to Hoffman. Ingwel was nursing a cup of some steaming liquid, which given the early hour might possibly be the first thing he’d had a chance to ingest. He didn’t look like he was suffering from early morning drowsiness, though despite the slight interest that Hoffman had taken regarding the lizardmen after learning of the collaboration the Knights Panther and the Legion had had decades prior, he was never going to claim to be an expert in them. Their bodies were far too alien for him to begin to comprehend their moods and tells. To his eye, the lizards were expressionless, impassive. Were it not for the tone of voice as they spoke, he would honestly have believed them to not feel emotion.

A small portion of his brain rebelliously wondered if they were simply playing up the idea of having emotion, like how parrots could mimic words and sentences but not comprehend the true meaning, were these lizardmen simply mimicking emotion?

He shook that thought away, dismissed it before it could properly form, angry with himself for having such a thought about what were his allies. Reminded himself of the blunders of the Colonial Marshal of Lustria, who was picking fights with the local lizardmen because he didn’t want to comprehend that they were not simply beastmen of a reptilian shape.

‘Gentlemen,’ Ingwel said after taking a sip of the tea in his hands. The simple act of drinking from the cup was performed differently than if it were a human. Instead of tilting the cup, the large reptilian tilted his entire head back and almost had to pour the liquid into his gullet. Once the peculiar display was done, his attention drifted to the Middenlandese state captain. ‘Captain…?’

‘Captain Bahnsen,’ the Middenland captain introduced himself. His accent confirmed Hoffman’s earlier analysis, this was a commoner who had worked his way through to captaincy through merit. ‘Graf Todbringer sends apologies that the Middenland army hasn’t contributed to our own defence sooner, but, to quote him: the moment he left Middenheim, a tower of cards he weren’t aware of the existence of crumbled.’

‘Any outsider involvement?’ Hoffman asked, brow raised in confusion.

Bahnsen shrugged. ‘Not that I’ve been told of, but I wouldn’t rule it out. The timing was unfortunate and only served the warhost. But with nobody with the authority to muster the regiments, we were left standing around in our garrisons with our thumbs up our arses.’

Ingwel huffed out a breath. ‘Indeed. What is Todbringer’s plan of action, now that he is back and rallying the army?’

‘He wants to take the fight to the majority of the warhost, the ones that’ve been lingering in the ruins of the Feyerabend Keep.’

Ingwel and the saurus that Hoffman didn’t know shared a look. ‘Interesting timing, considering they’ve just started to organise themselves and look to be marching soon.’

Bahnsen scowled. ‘That’s a bugger. I believe the graf was hoping we’d get the opportunity to circle them—him from the south and west, you from the north and east.’

The unnamed saurus snorted. ‘We’d still be outnumbered.’ Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowed. ‘But bring enough of your artillery… it could have worked.’

Hoffman finally spoke up. ‘Do we know which direction the warhost plans to march? If they plan to move eastward, I can have my knights scout out an ideal ambush position. Similar result to the graf’s initial plan of circling them. Arguably, it would be even better for us, as they won’t be in grounds they’ve had time to fortify.’

Ingwel turned to the other saurus. The saurus shook his head. ‘I’m waiting for some of my cohort to return, they’ll have the direction the warhost is looking to move in.’

Ingwel hummed, then turned his attention to the map. ‘Does the graf have any other plans, or is he going all in with his intention to strike at the warhost?’

The Middenlandese captain shook his head. ‘He’s waiting to hear your own reports on the front. According to him, you’ll have the better picture of what is happening.’ As he spoke, he leaned forward to better examine the map, and Hoffman followed in his stead, eyes scanning each scribbled annotation.

‘By all accounts,’ Hoffman said, slowly, piecing each of the notes written down into a single cohesive whole, ‘we’re not doing too badly.’

Ingwel’s finger rested against one of the annotations. ‘But we’ve also stalled in a few places. This town…’ his finger trailed to another, and slowly moved along a path that only he seemed to see, from one annotation to the next. ‘And this town. And where they were meant to then move on, it looks like their stalling cost these towns and villages.’

‘We all knew we couldn’t save them all.’

Hoffman knew it wasn’t a comforting thing to say, to point out that small failures had been expected. Ingwel turned his attention to Hoffman at the words, scarlet eyes boring into him, with no clue as to what he was thinking, no shift of facial muscles that hadn’t the dexterity to contort in the way that those of men could. The silence seemed to stretch on, and Hoffman wondered if he’d made a mistake, in his reminder.

Eventually, Ingwel nodded slowly. ‘I know, and you are right. We aren’t doing badly, in the grand scheme of things. But the cold and ruthless calculus of warfare is at best a cold comfort.’ He paused, then tilted his head. ‘And it’s a logic that is all too easy for my kin to fall into.’

Bahnsen stared at the map, reading each annotation and each marked location of a Chaos band having been spotted, as well as the last reported position of allied regiments. Hoffman got the impression he was trying very hard to ignore the conversation, whether out of discomfort or simply because he didn’t see it as any of his business, Hoffman couldn’t tell.

‘Is it alright if I bring this map to the graf?’ the captain asked after a while. ‘It would surely help him with his planning. This is a well-detailed map.’

Ingwel opened his mouth but didn’t get the chance to answer, a third saurus entered the tent at that moment, in the process of unfolding a sheet of parchment as he approached the marshal.

This new saurus was slightly smaller than either of the previous two, not by much, and only noticeable because he was in such proximity to them. The knight in Hoffman looked past the alien visage and instead looked to the familiar. He wore the same red coat as so much of the Legion, but there were slight alterations, alterations that were shared with the unnamed saurus who had been in the meeting thus far. Things like the sabre being worn not from the hip but instead from a baldric which replaced the crossed shoulder belts most of these redcoats wore. It was details like that which gave Hoffman the idea that both were riders. Cavalry troops perchance? It would explain the presence of the other saurus. The cavalry being used as scouts, this saurus was likely one of the better informed of what was happening out in the Province.

‘Marshal Ingwel, Captain Preda,’—there was a brief pause as he registered the two humans in the tent with them, then he nodded once in greeting—‘human and human.’

Yackl.’ Ingwel looked to the newcomer. ‘What news?’

The saurus—called Yackl apparently—handed the parchment to Ingwel, but gave a verbal report that was doubtless the same as had been written down. ‘The warhost has finished forming a marching column and has started to march east and north.’

Ingwel hissed softly, read the words on the parchment, as though double checking what he had been told, then grabbed a quill that was rested on the table, uncapped one of two bottles of ink and then used that quill and ink to circle the marked location of the warhost in a crimson ring, and then carefully trailed three lines from that circle in a north-eastern direction.

‘Those are the most convenient routes they can take going in that direction,’ he mused aloud, examining the map and the newly etched markings. He re-read the parchment, then hissed again. ‘They aren’t splitting themselves, or if they plan to, they aren’t doing so right away.’

Hoffman scowled. ‘Where do you think they’re planning on going?’

The saurus turned to face him, and Lord-General Hoffman had to remind himself that this was an ally. This saurus was unlike Ingwel, who seemed to know how to make himself look approachable and un-aggressive towards any humans he was talking to. Not harmless, no amount of effort would ever convince a human that Ingwel was not fully capable of harm should he so desire it, but he managed to project the air of calm authority, that he wasn’t about to use those sharp teeth or claws, or even the blade he wore at his hip, to rend one’s flesh. This Captain Preda didn’t have the ability—or simply didn’t care to try—to project that same air.

What a fitting name, this captain has. Just having his attention placed firmly upon him had every one of Hoffman’s senses cry out that he was in the line of sight of a predator that would not hesitate to make him prey if he made the wrong move. Preda must have noted the unease that he was causing within Hoffman, he took a visible step back and turned to look again at the map, tapping his claws on the desk in an irregular rhythm. Hoffman let out a breath he hadn’t been aware that he’d held in.

‘Eastern Nordland maybe.’ Preda answered with a possibility. ‘Or maybe they plan to go further than that, maybe they are aiming to leave the Empire’s territory. Keep moving that direction and they will reach the Oblast eventually.’

‘And the Oblast is vast and empty enough that they could move mostly uncontested east to the World’s Edge, back south to Ostland, or north to the rest of Kislev.’ Hoffman frowned. ‘We can’t risk following them, not without upsetting the Kislevites. And last I heard, tensions are high enough in Kislev that a foreign army crossing their borders might start something.’

‘Tensions. You mean their seven-year winter?’ Ingwel asked.

‘I… don’t know anything about that. A correspondence of mine has mentioned civil unrest in the realm, something about a feud between their church and the tzarina.’

‘Of all the times…’ Ingwel shook his head. ‘I can’t wait for the irregular Solin sent to check Kislev to get back to us. It’ll make for a most enlightening report, I’m sure.’

Preda crossed his arms, his eyes never having left the map. ‘The warhost still have hellcannons held in reserve. Moving those…’ His finger trailed one of the predicted lines of movement that the warhost might traverse. ‘This is the easiest path for them to take if they plan to continue keeping their artillery with them.’

‘You sure?’ Ingwel asked.

Preda looked toward Captain Bahnsen. ‘You are a native of these lands, your opinion?’

Bahnsen’s eyes widened momentarily at being addressed directly by the saurus, then looked at the map again, eyes steeled with an officer’s discipline. ‘He is right, the terrain on this route… it will cut their travel time down, they won’t have to fight the terrain so much while moving any cannons they have.’ His lips upturned. ‘But it has its downside, for them. Forest on this side. And they’ll still be forced to march uphill here, here, and here. And that’s assuming they don’t turn at some point.’

‘That’ll be the job of me and mine, to watch them.’ Hoffman declared. ‘We can follow and send word if they do turn. In the meantime, you and the graf can co-ordinate and plan out where best to wait for them if they keep to their path.’

‘Very good.’ Ingwel nodded, glanced at the fresh ink upon the map and once he had determined that it was dry, rolled the map and slipped it into a container which he then handed to Bahnsen. ‘I’m sure the graf will make good use of this. I look forward to our future correspondence.’

The captain accepted the map with a solemn nod. ‘With how detailed you’ve marked it, I’m sure he shall.’ He tucked the container away safely and then looked at Ingwel. ‘By your leave?’

Ingwel nodded, and the human disappeared to return to his graf. After a moment of silence, the marshal then turned to the other two saurus in the tent with him. ‘Yackl, go get Sergeant Nalpoch of the terradon cavalry. I need him to fly a message or two.’

Preda blinked, while Yackl vanished, swift to obey the order. Hoffman wondered, for a moment, which creatures terradons were. He was under the impression that the lizardmen cavalry made use of what the colonists in Lustria called cold ones—though he wasn’t certain if they had started calling them that first, or if it was because that was what the dark elves called those same creatures—but was reasonably certain that he had heard the Legion calling them aggradons at some point. The thought was unimportant however, could easily be the name of a particular breed of the creatures, a nickname of the regiment that this Sergeant Nalpoch worked within, or something else. He’d learn in time, or he wouldn’t, if it wasn’t important enough. Instead, he leaned back and watched as Marshal Ingwel finished the last of his now lukewarm beverage and unfolded a fresh map, one that hadn’t been annotated repeatedly.

‘Preda, take a number of your riders and check all three routes for ideal places for us to meet the warhost. I want to know the advantages and disadvantages of each possibility that I might need to account for if the graf makes a decision without input from us.’

Preda nodded and peered at the map as though to commit the routes to memory, even without clear ink markings. ‘Understood. I shall depart at once.’

He didn’t wait for a dismissal from the marshal, Preda simply pivoted around the moment he’d finished speaking and marched from the tent, leaving just Hoffman and the large saurus. Ingwel turned to face Hoffman fully.

For the first time since meeting the marshal, Hoffman was alone with him. It was an opportunity to properly examine the aged saurus. Even without others standing by him, Ingwel was a large figure, towering over Hoffman, even with the slouch to his posture. Somehow, he made his size easy to ignore though, where Preda hadn’t been able to hide the predator nature he carried, Ingwel was somehow able to convey the idea that he was a diplomat as well as a warrior, carried an air of welcoming discussion.

Had the cup of tea he’d arrived in been some calculated effort to cultivate that air, or had Hoffman’s initial assessment of it being the first thing he had been able to ingest been accurate?

Even without the way he projected the air of patience and willingness to engage, Hoffman had a chance to watch some of the smaller movements of the saurus, took careful note of the way that the large lizardman moved with deliberate slowness, had been carefully gentle in any physical interaction he made. Even the moment he had marked the map with crimson ink, the movements, the quill had moved with careful deliberation where most humans in a similar position would have had a flourish in their efforts.

Every physical action that Marshal Ingwel did was so clearly done with interacting with smaller and weaker races in mind. He made it so easy to ignore the fact that he was an eight-foot—nearing on nine—lizardman. And for all that his eyes were unreadable, there was definite intelligence to them, the kind of intelligence that the breyherds only wished they had in actuality.

‘You said you are willing to tail the warhost to make certain they don’t shift their intended direction?’ Ingwel asked, very clearly just verifying, making certain that there was no miscommunication between them.

‘I am.’ Hoffman nodded a single sharp nod.

‘Are you certain? I can have terradon cavalry do the same…’

‘What are terradon cavalry?’

‘Flyers. They’ve been the ones reporting most of the marauder warbands for us.’

Ah, Hoffman thought, so they are something different from the usual cavalry. ‘I can understand the appeal.’ And he could, flying overhead would give a very clear picture for the scouts, and they’d be safe from a lot of the danger. Not all, the presence of hellcannons alone would put to bed any lie of absolute safety, but for strictly scouting purposes, that risk was almost negligible. ‘I feel that with the warhost, we don’t want to alert them that we are watching them. Can’t hide from prying eyes when in the sky, while scouts on horseback are less visible than creatures flying overhead. We simply need to keep to the trees and we can keep them in sight, but remain hidden from most prying eyes.’

Ingwel’s scarlet eyes rested on Hoffman, unreadable. That expressionless muzzle gave nothing away as to his thoughts.

‘It feels like a scouting job such as this would be beneath a knightly chapter such as yours,’ Ingwel said slowly. ‘I always picture your kind as at the head of a charge.’

Hoffman let out a soft snort. ‘War isn’t all the glorious charges. Don’t mistake Empire knights for our Bretonnian counterparts, we understand that the less-than-glamorous tasks are just as essential to winning a war.’

Ingwel’s voice was coloured by a measure of amusement. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

‘Me and my men have spent the last month and a half non-stop running down marauders and Chaos logistic trains. We are tired, bordering on exhausted. I have a shoulder that aches from an axe wound and doesn’t quite have the full range of mobility it normally has. Right now, a simple scouting job is a reprieve we need. Especially now that the Knights of the White Wolf will have finally swept back from the Ostland border enough that they’re actually contributing to chasing down stray marauders in our stead.’

Ingwel dragged out the following silence for a moment, then let out a slow nod. ‘I understand.’

Hoffman grinned wryly. ‘It’s not like you can order me not to anyway. But I thank you for your concern.’

Ingwel snorted. ‘Very well.’ He held out a hand in a human gesture of respect. ‘I wish you good fortune. Hopefully, I’ll see you again.’

Hoffman clasped the lizardman’s forearm, or he tried to anyway, the forearm in question was so thick that there was no way his fingers were going to even partially encircle the limb. Meanwhile, Ingwel’s fingers had length to spare, just to drive home the size difference between their two races. But, it was the thought of the gesture that counted in the end. And while Hoffman and the Knight Panther’s efforts in this war against the Chaos warhost had resulted in fewer joint effort battles than he had predicted, he had found that working with the Legion was not an unpleasant experience, the circumstances which had led to it notwithstanding.

‘If all goes well, I’ll join you in the battle against the warhost wherever you and the graf agree to meet them.’

Ingwel’s eyes narrowed, and Hoffman finally thought that he was able to see an emotive expression in the gesture.

‘Looking forward to it.’

Hoffman cast one last look to the newly unrolled map, unsoiled by inked notations. It was more of a quick reminder of the terrain he would be riding across, that moment of double-checking the route before committing. That done, he gave one last nod of farewell to the marshal and then departed the tent with the aim of tracking down his fellow knights and briefing them on their next agenda.


*


Skaros rolled the stone about in the palm of one gauntlet-clad hand, eyes drawn to the iridescent glimmer. Such a pretty bauble, for all that it was capable of. Potent magics solidified, so the esoteric tale went.

Infuriatingly, its power had waned in the vast expanse of time which had passed since it had been interred in the tomb, hidden away from those who would abuse its potential. A safety measure maybe, perhaps those ancient fools had accounted for the idea that somebody might one day seek the power of this relic, and in an attempt to deter those hungry for its power, deliberately designed it with more tasks than simply finding it to harness the potential it held.

Never mind that he had expected this setback. Had planned to account for it. Malice had spoken, had warned him of the chance he had to unlock the stone, to reignite its potential and take what it offered for himself. Warned him, because it represented a last chance.

The Four were moving, whispers in the north spoke of a potential coming of the next Everchosen. Malice’s time of power was coming to the end of the cycle, soon any boon that could be granted would wane in returns. So it was that Malice had directed him to this place, at this time. If he was to keep acting, he needed to fuel Malice’s warhost through alternative means.

What a shock the Everchosen would have, should he or she indeed emerge, to learn that the Warhost of Malice would not be weakened with their coming, not this time.

But like all real sources of power, there was a price, even if the price at this time was simply rekindling that power for use.

There was a distant rumbling sound, akin to thunder echoing the air. Skaros tilted his head, confused for a moment. The skies were clear, the whirling maelstrom that was the Winds of Magic over the past two months invisible to mortal eyes. Yet something had caused that sound.

Are there schemes in place, that malice had not thought or known to account for?

It was maybe a touch heretical a question, but Malice, being a god who had been forced to come to terms with its nature of constantly weakening just on the cusp of victory, was not going to punish him for such a question. Maybe somebody less favoured, but from Skaros, it was not a question that was borne of doubting the power of his patron, but a question of trying to consider what possibilities might go wrong, what hurdles would be set in his path.

The game played by the Four was of little interest to Skaros. They could destroy each other for all he cared. But the explosion of power those months ago, the maelstrom’s presence, it spoke of affairs happening elsewhere. And as little as Skaros was interested in the Four feuding with each other, one always had to be careful of other players in the game. It would not do to get dragged into other’s affairs through ignorance.

He would have to keep his eyes open.

He carefully put the stone into a pouch which was then secreted away, hidden from prying eyes and protected.

‘Begin the march. We move north-east.’

Kranax heard his command and repeated it, louder. The Warhost of Malice began its march. Skaros turned to one of his warriors, one of those who acted as a part of his personal retinue. Not bodyguards, but trusted companions, in as much as they could be companions when they weren’t fellow exalted.

‘Go to Fatesaw, tell her I would speak with her.’

The warrior nodded wordlessly and disappeared into the throng of marching warriors.

 

The Other Side - Blood Stained Leaves
​

Konistag Erntezeit 13th, Drakwald Forest

With the arrival of Fall, temperatures are starting to drop. One would have thought that would make for more tolerable conditions, but the Drakwald insists on such a thick humidity to its air that we are still left feeling disgusting and sticky, but now we get the dubious joy of doing so with a chill.

The Efror Guard haven’t expressed complaint about the conditions. One would have thought they’d feel it worse than any of the landsknecht, the gambesons worn beneath their chainmail must soak up so much of the humidity that they are surely carrying twice their own weight in sweat alone. I could believe that the guardsmen were simply just that disciplined, but even those who we learnt were recent conscripts of the fallen county have been just as tight-lipped.

I owe my life thrice over to members of the Efror Guard who have stood alongside the landsknecht against a mutual foe.

In the time we have been stationed within this inhospitable realm, we have been witness to creatures that repulse and disgust. Beasts that walk as men do, creatures that hurt the mind to look upon, ancient evils that by their very existence remind as to why man is so small in the world. And the undead that we hunt, monstrosities raised and perverted even beyond what they had been during their mortal coil.

There are things in this forest that man was never meant to lay eyes upon. I can’t help but wonder if recent events have stirred these ancient evils from a slumber.

Yesterday, one of our scouting parties returned, bloodied and half delirious from exhaustion. They’d spent an entire day running non-stop. Once he regained his mental functions, the head of the scouting party reported that they had found what appeared to be the resting ground of the undead. He even claims that he saw the necromancer himself in their midst.

Captain Sigismund of the Efror Guard is in a meeting with Captain von Eisling and Brother Kakovlev. However, night has fallen. Time to pick the brambles out of my bootlaces and then to sleep. At dawn, I have little doubt our march through this hateful realm begins anew.

-Journal of an unknown soldier​

Hulgar Orinson grumbled softly as he followed behind a band of umgi. Much as his pride dictated that he should be leading this merry bunch, he wasn’t so proud as to border on blind arrogance. Forests? Not his preferred terrain. And this particular forest was not one that he was about to start practising in without those better suited taking the lead.

The manling leading this band was one of the myriad of umgi that had signed up to join Captain von Eisling. A working-class man who no doubt found the quiet village life to not be to his liking and saw a landsknecht as a chance to live some excitement for coin. Hanz something-or-other. Or was Hanz his family name? Hulgar didn’t rightfully know, didn’t rightfully care either. Hanz was short and simple. Like the average umgi lifespan. Still, Hulgar had to give credit where it was due, for all that Hanz was walking around in a getup that looked colourfully pompous—something about joining a landsknecht seemed to encourage umgi to try and outdo each other in a contest of flamboyant fashion—he at least walked with a confidence to him, a gait that spoke of a history of fighting. He was still a nobody though.

Hulgar paused a moment and absently checked his handgun—a mastercraft of a weapon, unlike the manlings’ umgak—before then reassessing the group. There was only one other Dawi with them, that being Brogar, the two of them being the heavy ranged support, their rifles no doubt ready to absolutely destroy anything that dared to approach the party. Oh, if only he and Brogar were a part of the Karaz Ankor, there they’d be proper thunderers, not this paltry imitation.

Everybody else in the group, manlings. Though, Hulgar would admit a grudging respect for the warpainted, kilt-wearing manlings, the ones that fought as if they were taking inspiration from Dawi slayers—though without the stain on their honour, they weren’t going all the way in imitating the slayers, and thus wore passable examples of armour. Passable by umgi standards at any rate.

However, half of the group was made up of these landsknecht umgi. A more or less even mix of archers—because apparently Captain von Eisling, for all that she respected the sheer power of Dawi rifles, still felt that that power needed to be paired with the speed of trained archers—and the spear-men.

Better them than those Efror manlings. Hulgar did not like those Efror manlings. A brief explanation of their history only cemented that opinion. Why would they be proud of their lineage? Descended from those who would secede from the Empire, followers of a man who was insane enough that their city was burnt down. And to make matters worse, nobody Hulgar asked could say whether there had ever been any reparations made from the people of Efror. It was like the manlings of the Empire just let this wrong against them fester, a grudge unresolved.

No, Hulgar did not like or even respect those Efror manlings. But for the sake of duty, he would do as he must and work alongside them. He had pledged his service to Captain von Eisling as a part of her landsknecht, so she was the one who gave the commands, and he would not dishonour himself by refusing to do as duty demanded.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to tolerate them at that time.

Click. Click. Click.

Hulgar swallowed back the grumbling that wanted to escape him. That infernal sound was driving him crazy. Why would anybody willingly spend time within these forests if such constant noises and sounds were a normal occurrence, a constant effort on the part of these trees to drive people insane? No wonder the wood elves were so crazy, living their entire lives with such a racket drilling into their skulls.

It was actually somewhat reassuring that even the manlings stilled at the clicking sound, scanning the surroundings with wariness. At least it wasn’t just him that hated those infernal sounds.

‘Spotted something,’ one of the archers spoke up.

The group slowly spread themselves out, putting enough distance between each other that if any giants or minotaurs or whatever else started hurling boulders at them then at least it wouldn’t devastate the group in a single blow.

Turned out there was some sort of a structure. It was mostly overrun by greenery, the original stone long since covered by moss and ivy. But it was a structure nonetheless.

But of significantly more interest than a standing stone that was planted near an opening in the ground, was the mass of undead. There was little doubt that they were undead, where flesh should have been, was nought but bare bone and skulls. But there was something different about these walking skeletons. Fortunately, the party was far enough and forewarned enough to keep low, out of sight, allowing them to view the clearing and the undead within, without themselves being seen.

‘Wights,’ came the low voice of the party’s accompanying battle-priest.

‘What’s a wight, for those of us not versed in necromancy?’ Somebody asked.

‘They still have their mortal minds,’ the battle-priest mumbled. ‘They aren’t puppets, they’re just as skilled as they were in life.’

Hanz visibly ground his teeth. ‘Traitors.’

Hulgar was quick to identify that these wights wore the same colours as the Efror warriors. Hulgar wasn’t stupid, he had learnt quickly that the Efror manlings were involved because they’d been attacked by the same undead that they now hunted. But if what the battle-priest had said was accurate about those that they could see at that moment, these weren’t puppets without a will of their own, they were willing participants.

As Hanz had declared them, they were traitors to their own.

‘Not a lot of them,’ somebody noted. ‘We could probably take them right now.’

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Hulgar tensed, the new sound momentarily taking his attention. What managed to return his focus to the undead was the way that they were also shifting, visibly scanning the surroundings in reaction to the constant low thudding sound that reverberated through the air, getting progressively louder, before then fading away again.

‘What was that?’ Hulgar asked.

Hanz stared blankly, eyes narrowed. ‘That was new.’

‘Sounded like footsteps,’ an archer commented.

‘I…’ an Udoses warrior trailed off, then shook himself. ‘Really don’t want to see what made those footsteps.’

‘We might not get a choice,’ Brogar spoke lightly, but Hulgar knew the other dwarf well enough to recognise the way the sides of his eyes creased, the tell that suggested he wanted to frown but was fighting against it.

Hulgar opened his mouth, was going to speak, but he was cut off from doing so by the familiar explosion of sound that was a handgun firing. He and Brogar both lifted their rifles, twisting around and shouldering the weapons.

Behind the priest, a wight dressed identically to those in the clearing swayed on the spot, as though struggling to stand under its own power with its skull now fragmented. It wasn’t given a chance to decide if it was going to recover or not, the priest, once he recovered from his shock, hefted his hammer and slammed it into the wight, finished it off, assuming that it hadn’t already been finished from the gunshot.

But neither Hulgar nor Brogar had been the ones to fire the shot. Hulgar lifted the end of his rifle, aimed upward at the branches of the trees, focused his attention on the smoke of spent black powder. Something reacted, a blur of yellow and green flew across the branches and quickly vanished from sight.

‘So, that's what they meant,’ Hanz commented under his breath, then twisted back to face the clearing.

The wights in the clearing had reacted to the gunshot, they had turned to face their direction, with poleaxes lowered into aggressive stances and then they slowly began to advance.

‘Aah, I hated sneaking around anyway,’ Hulgar said. He aimed his rifle at the nearest wight, quickly pulled the trigger and relished in the way that the undead stumbled and fell aside with one leg removed at the knee. ‘Die!’

‘They’re already dead,’ one of the Udoses shouted with a laugh, claymore in hand and charging forward to meet the wights. ‘We’re just reminding ‘em of that.’

Hulgar laughed with the warrior, while already going through to motions of reloading his handgun, carefully pouring from his powder horn, barely needed to concentrate to know when to stop, to know when enough black powder had been poured into the weapon.

‘Make way, for the Dawi!’ Brogar yelled with glee, his only warning before he too fired his weapon, disarmed one of the wights in the most literal sense of the word.

The warriors all having now met their undead counterparts, the lopsided wight was quickly finished off.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

There was a momentary pause, both living and undead alike. The pause was broken up when Hulgar, now finished with his reloading, took aim and fired.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

The trees nearby shattered as something forced its way past them. Halgar turned to identify the new threat, but he wasn’t given a chance. He saw a blur of movement, and then a pressure hit him in the chest, and he knew no more.


*


Dalad Proudsworn cursed softly—softly for a dwarf at any rate—as he examined the gunpowder stores.

‘Gods damned, it’s been tainted.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Gerwin asked the Imperial Dwarf, looking up from where he was running a rag across the length of his blade.

‘The keg is cracked. This gunpowder has been soaked.’ The dwarf emphasised his displeasure with the news by kicking at the keg that had been full of back powder.

Gerwin hummed in some sympathy. It had been a risk that the guardsman hadn’t considered before in regard to black powder weapons, the idea that the gunpowder could get ruined in such a way. Fortunately, the Efror Guard hadn’t been able to afford black powder weapons—the mortars that had been sat at the walls of the Feyerabend Keep being the exception—and was as such equipped purely with bows when it came to ranged support, something that didn’t have the same concern over. But the landsknecht that the guard had joined forces with was host to a regiment of Imperial Dwarfs, who were armed with handguns, and there was little doubt that the dwarf handgunners were not going to be happy about their diminished ammo stores.

Gerwin privately wondered if the dwarfs would declare a grudge against the Drakwald. Or would the grudge be declared against the weather?

Click. Click. Click.

Gerwin held back a groan at the clicking which was beginning to haunt his dreams with how often it had been heard. Even though he knew he wouldn’t see anything, his eyes rose to the tree branches above in a futile attempt to spot the source, be it some bird pecking at the trees, or a lizard pulling back the hammer of a musket mockingly.

He didn’t spot anything, as usual. But also, as usual, his paranoia was ratcheted up, nerves taut. He had an unfortunate feeling that even after they finally left this gods-forsaken forest, somebody snapping their fingers was going to have him stressed out and searching for threats that didn’t exist.

Dalad also heard the clicking sound, but unlike Gerwin, the dwarf didn’t let himself get stressed out by the sound. Instead, he turned to face a random direction that he seemed to decide that the clicking had come from and puffed up his chest.

‘And you can shaddap,’ he bellowed. ‘This is why forests are the bane of civilisation. Why you umgi haven’t torn down the lot I have no idea.’

‘I’m sure that some would love the idea,’ Gerwin said in reply. ‘Graf Todbringer would no doubt love to burn this entire forest down just to root out the beastmen within.’

Dalad chuckled and ran his fingers through his auburn beard. ‘No doubt.’ He relaxed his posture and sneered at the keg of soiled powder once more before dismissing it as unimportant. That, or he simply acknowledged that there was little he could do about it.

Gerwin absently turned his head to look toward the clearing where the leading elements of this small army had gone to have their meeting. A part of him wished he was there to take part in that meeting, but a larger part of his mind was relieved to not be involved in decision-making on that level. Leading men and women in battle was all well and good, but there was a difference between leading from alongside those fellow soldiers, and trusting one’s instincts and assessing a situation as the events played out, versus discussing plans and strategy from an abstract position of attempted foresight.

Dalad nudged Gerwin with an elbow. ‘Ey, umgi. What you think we’ll be doing in the mornin’?’

‘Marching.’ Gerwin smirked. ‘Probably a dose of sweating, for those of us wearing gambesons.’ He gave a pointed look to the padded armour at Dalad wore, but the reference was just as much about himself and the padding worn beneath his chainmail. The shift of temperature as summer made way for fall wasn’t enough to stop those in padded linens and wool feeling warm.

Dalad grinned toothily, acknowledging the downside of a good gambeson with amusement, then turned and started to clean his handgun.

Having been thoroughly distracted from the stress brought on by the earlier clicking sounds, Gerwin returned to swiping the rag across his sword, wiping away the moisture of the day’s dose of humidity and replacing it with a thin coating of oil. Lost in the motions of the soothingly repetitive act of weapon maintenance, Gerwin allowed his eyes to rise to the forest canopy, green leaves gradually getting replaced with reds and golds.

The lizardman perched on one branch blinked its bulbous eyes at him when it saw that Gerwin was looking at it. Gerwin blinked in reply, and the lizard vanished. The sergeant swallowed back the reflexive desire to scramble, to call out an alert. He doubted the strange creature was still there.

‘Still here then,’ he muttered irritably.

‘What’s that?’ Dalad asked, looking up from working his own weapon’s maintenance.

‘Nothing.’ Gerwin shook his head.

Nothing would be accomplished by getting everybody up in arms, and in the month plus extra that they had been within this forest, those strange creatures had done nothing against the loyal men of the Empire. The few sightings of them had shown them only really seemed to be interested in watching the Empire’s sons. The most that they ever acted beyond that was always targeted against the same undead that the Efror Guard and the landsknecht were hunting, or against the beasts of Chaos.

So long as the only offensive acts that the reptilian creatures performed were against a mutual threat, Gerwin would ignore their existence. For now.

He wouldn’t forget that they were responsible in part for the fall of the Feyerabend Keep, however. That they were one part of the fall of his home.


*


Allison pressed herself against the bark of the tree, willed the branch that she was perched on to not break, to not even creak at her weight pressing down upon it. Below, she watched a pair of those strange reptilian creatures that had warned her and the sergeant so long ago of the undead, and more than that, had directed them towards the landsknecht—the leaders of which had shortly after meeting decided to consolidate their forces with those of the Efror Guard. With that experience, one would assume them to not be an enemy, to not be a threat. However, that did not change the truth that they were non-human, mutants, little different from the beasts of Chaos. Allison did not trust them, trusting them would be anathema to good sense.

Besides, the story had been passed about shortly before they had entered this accursed forest. The tale of the count’s keep falling to these same creatures. They were very clearly no friend of the Empire. That they seemed to have an aversion to Chaos meant that they were simply a lesser evil in the grand scheme of things. A threat, but one that could be left be if just so that they could weaken the bigger threats for the Empire’s sons and daughters to benefit.

‘Looks like they’re getting ready to move,’ one of the creatures hissed.

‘What way?’ the other asked.

The answer was too quiet for Allison to hear, but judging from the gesture, they weren’t talking about the army of humans. The guard and the landsknecht’s unified army wasn’t marching in the motioned direction.

Another quiet hiss where Allison couldn’t make out what was said, and then both of the reptilian creatures turned to stare abruptly in the same direction, paused, bulbous eyes searching for something that Allison couldn’t see, and then they scampered away, vanishing into the darkness of the night.

Despite now being alone, having apparently managed to go unnoticed—this time—she didn’t move. Something had scared the creatures off. That had not been a controlled departure, that had been a hurried retreat.

Two minutes later, something entered the clearing. It didn’t look like any creature that Allison knew of, but that wasn’t too surprising. A farmer’s widow and part-time hunter turned conscript for the remnants of a count’s private militia did not make her learned regarding all manner of beasts that threatened the good men and women of the Basin. However, even to her uneducated eye, this wasn’t something that had anything to do with the breyherds, and it didn’t share the decayed look that suggested it had anything to do with the undead.

The Drakwald was home to many a threat, the beasts of Chaos were one among many. Was this… thing… one of those untold horrors that dwelt deep within the Drakwald?

What emerged from the darkness was a nightmare given form. Its body was a grotesque fusion of sinew and metal, twisted and contorted together into an unsettling visage that gnawed at the senses. It had a sickly pallid blue hue to its flesh, with veins visible beneath, glowing with an unnatural hue that made its appearance even more eerie. Tendrils of dark, pulsating energy extended from its form, reaching up and then arching so that they came down like grotesque fingers descending from the heavens. There were eyes—pale white lights that were placed where one would assume eyes to be—reflecting the sickly glow that illuminated its veins, and for all that they resembled lights rather than actual eyes, they still held to them that gleam of intelligence, malevolent though it may be.

Allison swallowed back the bile that wanted to rise up as she took in this monstrous figure. What was it? A daemon? Some artificial creation of the undead? Or an ancient guardian of the Drakwald?

Klak-klak. Klak-klak. Klak-klak.

Allison brought her hand to her mouth and bit down. The pain helped, grounded her, reminded her to not gasp out her breaths, but to control them, keep them as quiet as possible lest she earn the attention of this manifest nightmare. Would have probably drawn blood, had the thought not crossed her mind: can it sense blood? The internal question had her ease up the pressure of her teeth pressing against the meet of her hand just below her thumb, kept it at a point where it was doubtless going to bruise, but the skin remained unbroken.

The grotesquery remained stationary, its dark tendrils quivering. Then its entire body shifted, turned in the direction that the reptiles had disappeared into. Two seconds later, the monster surged forward in a rush of movement and likewise disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Allison didn’t move, other than to press herself against the bark of the tree and gasp out a strangled breath. Despite the absence of whatever that creature was, the air was still thick, heavy with a physical weight that pushed down against her and made it difficult to properly breathe.


*


‘Half of our night patrols never came back.’

Gerwin craned his head to look at Burke, who had just spoken. The huntsman had a concerned frown, lips tugged downward into a grimace. Without pausing in his stride, Burke looked back to Gerwin, and then jerked his head toward the surrounding forest.

‘Twenty men and women, missing.’

‘You think something happened?’ Gerwin asked. He kept his voice low, didn’t want to attract too many ears and possibly damage morale over speculation.

Fortunately for his efforts, the marching column wasn’t so tightly packed as they would have been had they been marching on open plains. The forest being so thick with trees meant that the men were fairly spread out to avoid people tripping over one another as they rounded trees in their path. But that didn’t mean that the men nearest to Burke and Gerwin weren’t still within earshot if they didn’t control their volume.

It was a marching column in name only.

‘That’s the thing that’s concerning me right now.’ Burke glared at the thick trees, his grip on his bow tightening such that his knuckles could be heard popping. ‘The patrols don’t go that far from camp—they’re patrols, not scouts—if something happened, we should have heard it.’

‘You think desertion?’ Gerwin tried to clarify.

Burke shook his head sharply. ‘I know a few of the missing, they wouldn’t desert. Especially not now. Can’t speak for the landsknecht folk, but our people? Not likely.’

‘Not even the ones we conscripted at Dryad’s Fell?’

‘Not even them. Pride and a need for vengeance over what happened to our county are fuelling them.’

Their voices weren’t low enough, not to avoid all attention. A member of one of the sub-groups within the landsknecht—the ones who spoke with thick Ostlandic accents, wore kilts and painted the right sides of their bodies with woad warpaint, and were supposedly all directly descended from the ancient Udoses tribe—moved closer to Burke and Gerwin. For a moment, Gerwin was concerned that the man wouldn’t control his volume, but was quickly proven wrong with his concern.

‘Four of the missing were my men, and I can assure you that there are no craven among me and mine,’ the bearded man informed them, didn’t sound angry at the speculation bringing up the possibility of his men deserting. ‘If they din’nae return, it was because they can’t.’

It took Gerwin a moment to make out the words beneath the accent, one that he was reasonably certain wasn’t standard even within Ostland. His voice was very thick with traces of what was the well known Ostlandic regional accent, but now that he was actually listening to one of these “Udoses”, there were differences, something more archaic than the norm.

‘That doesn’t make me feel better,’ Gerwin said in admission. ‘That means something was close enough to camp to interfere with the patrols, but nobody else heard or saw anything.’

‘Wasn’t meant to be reassuring,’ the man gave a non-smiling smile. ‘Bran Doylei, first of my clan.’

‘Sergeant Gerald Gerwin of the Efror Guard.’ Gerwin introduced himself, possibly redundantly, but Mamma Gerwin hadn’t taught him not to be polite.

As cautious as Gerwin felt around these clansmen, who had the misfortune of reminding him a touch too much of Norscan tribesmen, they were still allies. No need to be adversarial with them, not if his life might depend on having one of these Udoses watching his back at some point in the future. The presence of warrior-priests within the landsknecht that these clansmen were attached to helped to put any unease Gerwin had to rest. They might not be so paranoid as witch-hunters traditionally were, but warrior-priests were still keenly vigilant to the taint of Chaos.

‘Yes, Efror.’ Doylei grinned knowingly. ‘An independent city-state that burnt down but two generations after Orwell Adelbrecht earned Efror’s independence. Too bad his progeny didn’t match up to their legacy.’

‘You seem better educated about my home than I am,’ Gerwin said with a sharp glare levelled at the larger man.

The only members of the guard who seemed to have any real knowledge of the history of the county were Captain Sigismund, and the missing Cruniac. Gerwin had never felt the need to educate himself on the past, on the glory days that he hadn’t gotten to witness.

Doylei’s grin widened, then fell. ‘I s’pose that means that Count Adelbrecht’s friendship with my clan is lost history then.’

Gerwin shared a look with Burke, who looked just as surprised at the comment. ‘Truly?’ he asked with a small measure of scepticism.

‘I’m no storyteller, I can’t speak overmuch on the history myself. I know that back during the War of the Three Emperors, my kin fought side-by-side with the men of Efror. Can’t say much more’n that.’

Gerwin hummed and logged that bit of trivia away to ask Sigismund about at a later point. Further conversation was cut short when a rumble of voices from further up the marching formation. The sergeant strained his ears, tried to make out what was being spoken of, what had caused this rapid shift from otherwise scattered but quiet conversation between those marching side-by-side to a wave of voices slowly raising in volume.

Significantly more concerning was the way that those in front were closing ranks from the previously relaxed formation, shields lifted to form walls at the sides of the column.


*


Othan Stock was a proud Ostandler, one of the true sons of the Udoses. Not like most of those who called Ostland their home now. Time had watered down the blood, until only a small number could claim to be true heirs of the Udoses, most of whom dwelt within Udosheim, where they largely remained isolated from the rest of Ostland at large.

Isolated, but not indifferent, and on hearing of the passing of a landsknecht, it had been decided that a number of fighting men would join up with this army, an opportunity to remind the people of the Empire that the son of the Udoses still remained, still believed in the Empire that Sigmar Heldenhammer had forged. And so, they had intercepted the landsnecht of Tanya von Eisling and the Knight of Morr called Brother Kakovlev, and pledged service until the purpose of the landsknecht had been fulfilled.

Othan had been mildly disappointed to learn that the threat in question had not been related to the rumours of Chaos within Middenland, but instead some bloated menace of undead aberrations. Not that Othan was about to dismiss the undead as a threat, he had been raised on stories of the many different ages of strife and internal feuding, and when the undead came to mind, so too did tales of the Vampire Wars. If the Elector Count of Stirland was concerned enough about an undead threat to hire a Reiklandese noble to form a landsknecht for the purpose of hunting that threat even beyond Stirland’s borders, then Othan was not about to dismiss that threat simply because it wasn’t Chaos.

And to be very honest, the few confrontations that they had engaged in during the month that they had been hunting within the Drakwald—blight upon the Empire that it was, hiding not just their prey but greenskins and beastmen and more besides—had shown that the undead were a foe most infuriatingly resilient. Glimpses had been spotted of the greater whole, but the horde vanished quickly, always leaving behind a smaller horde of chaff which delayed any attempt to pursue.

While some of his kin were grumbling about how they were fighting cowards, Othan was looking at it from another angle. The necromancer in charge of this horde was planning something, and they weren’t interested in the kind of delay that fighting an organised enemy would cause. Othan was prideful, but he tempered that pride before it became arrogance; acknowledged that it was possible that a full-on fight might not end with victory, for they had yet to see how large the horde truly was. There was enough evidence that the horde was still growing, that every fight had with the others dwelling in this forest meant more bodies to add to the collective.

So, Othan Stock was one of many scouts combing the forest for their foe. He might not be a huntsman by trade—his claymore marked that his preferred method of warfare was of the close and bloody variety—but no son of the Udoses would ever be lacking in basic survival skills, tracking being one such. There was risk involved, especially for those scouts and hunters who had changed tact and were now hunting solo rather than as parties. It was hoped that by doing so they would better avoid notice. If they found the horde, it was very much hoped that the horde wasn’t given cause to move away before the landsknecht could encircle and crush them.

In the distance, the sound of sporadic gunfire that was far enough away that it sounded more like a rumbling of thunder, marked that either a dwarf or two had found a threat, or the creatures that rumour claimed to be carrying handguns had gotten into a fight. There was a part of his mind that said he should backtrack, to follow the sound of gunfire to lend aid, should it be the imperial dwarfs that had signed themselves up as members of this army.

However…

He believed himself to be on the right path. For the past hour, his movement had been following disturbed ground. That in and of itself was hardly noteworthy, with the other threats within this accursed forest. What was noteworthy was how uniform the disturbances were. Even when parade marching, people’s footfalls were not perfectly uniform, slight distances apart from the neighbour, who might have had longer legs, or just been a fraction of a second slower in putting their foot to the ground.

But with the undead, particularly those that had to be puppeteered by the necromancer in control—such as animated skeletons—there was an unnatural, uncanny uniformity to their movement. If Othan was not mistaken, he was following such a trail.

Was following such a trail. In the span of seconds, he felt a pressure around his chest, and then a hand clamped over his mouth. Next thing he knew, he was pressed against the rough bark of a tree, staring at the bulbous eyes of something that was definitely not human. The creature stared at him, then pointedly turned its head to one side, tilted, while a low hiss escaped its maw.

Wait, that’s not a hiss… It was shushing him! Of all the nerve!

Othan made to force the hand covering his mouth away, while also reaching for his claymore. His movement stilled when a snap echoed through the otherwise silent forest.

Klack-klack. Klack-klack. Klack-klack.

Low thumping sounds vibrated the ground. Rhythmic. Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Took a small number of repetitions for Othan to realise what it was. Footsteps, from something big. Wait, no… multiple somethings. Was right about the size though, they were big.

The creature that was holding Othan to the tree pushed itself forward, pressed its body against Othan in a parody of an intimate embrace, and hissed out quiet sounds that were eerily reminiscent of a shushing sound. Othan started in shock, but quickly stilled himself as the flesh of the creature warped, changed colour until he was looking at the same colour as the bark of the tree against which he was now being held, with patches of green which matched the vines that climbed the tree. If he hadn’t known where to look, he wouldn’t have known where the creature’s bulbous eye was; the actual orb might not have changed its colouring, but it was a speck compared to the rest of its body, still easy to miss.

The creature shifted, releasing the hand which had pressed against Othan’s mouth to prevent any sound, and adjusted its position. It took moments for Othan to realise that the size difference between them meant that it wasn’t able to completely cover Othan, so it was moving so that its body was covering that which would be most noticeable—the woad warpaint—Fortunate for Othan that only one half of his face was painted, allowed him an eye to watch what was happening—and it was clearly hoping that what else showed wasn’t enough to be too noticeable.

It was a hope that Othan quickly shared, as from around the nearby trees, armoured figures stomped by and formed a loose perimeter. But despite the armour, there was no hiding the fact that these were undead, mottled and rotted flesh visible where the armour failed to cover them. But these were no mere zombies, the glowing blue orbs where eyes should lie spoke of power, and these wights had a clear awareness that was beyond most risen.

The next figure to emerge was similarly armoured, but the drawn hood did little to hide that there was something unnatural about it. Blue orbs glowed from within the hood, but they did little to dispel the thick black darkness, where light refused to touch.

The wraith—for what else could it be?—paced around the formation of wights, clearly agitated. Its hand constantly twitched toward a blade at its hip, before aborting the motion.

What is it worried about? Othan wondered. Or is it merely impatient?

Then yet another figure stepped into sight. This one was an elderly-looking man, weather-worn and beaten down by time’s less-than-gentle touch. Yet he stalked toward the wraith without an ounce of fear.

Is this the necromancer we’ve been hunting?

His question was swiftly answered with a negative, all the wights and the wraith turned to face this elderly man, weapons pointed in the clear promise of violence, though they delayed from making through on that promise.

‘I have no quarrel with you,’ the elderly man spoke up after a pause, voice ragged with age.

‘That’s funny,’ a voice, clearly coming from the wraith, answered him. ‘We have a quarrel with you.’

The geriatric chuckled, a humourless sound. ‘I believe there is a saying about biting the hand that feeds.’

‘And there is a saying about believing the lies weaved by one such as you.’ The wraith stepped forward, towered over the old man. ‘Your services are no longer required, oh weaver.’

To Othan’s shock, the man didn’t look afeared at the clear threat, the evidence that his life was soon to be cut short. The old man simply laughed again, this time with clear mirth. He paused a moment, took in the armoured appearance of the wraith and laughed harder.

‘How quickly your count disregards his debts. And yet I note that he has not come to parley in person, he sends you to waste my time.’ The geriatric stopped laughing abruptly and tilted his head as though in thought. ‘I suppose one could understand, he has that Empire army hunting him down. But no…’

The old man turned his back on the wraith, heedless of the threat that the undead entity represented.

‘Oh, I see…’ he said, speaking to himself than to the wraith.

The wraith lunged forward, jagged and chipped longsword thrust forward to cut down the old man. And the old man turned with a speed that should have been impossible at his age and held up a hand. The wraith, against all logic, stilled mid-lunge. The old man cackled with amusement.

‘You forget yourself… you owe your existence to me. You and the rest of you. Your count owes me a debt, and I will have it repaid in full.’

‘You are nothing, old man. A relic of a time past.’ The wraith didn’t spit, but Othan got the distinct sense that it wanted to.

Klack-klack. Klack-klack. Klack-klack.

Othan’s brow creased… that was a different sound from the usual clicking that had long since become just another part of the ambience. He’d heard it earlier, hadn’t he?

Apparently, that new sound was new to the undead as well, the wights all turned and faced outward, away from the wraith and the old man, their poleaxes adjusted into defensive stances, but for all that it was impossible to read the body language of the risen dead, they still somehow projected a sense of uneasy caution.

The man cackled, and Othan wanted to sock him in the jaw for the knowing sneer he now had painted across his face. He then slowly, deliberately turned his head, and stared directly at Othan and the creature that had mostly concealed him and let out a slight smirk. ‘I’ll take my leave now.’

‘You are going nowhere, old man,’ the wraith scoffed as the man turned his back again.

This time, when it swung its blade, the old man didn’t react, and the jagged metal carved through his flesh. But what fell to the ground, was not the bisected corpse of the old man, but instead a skeleton dressed in the same colours as the bulk of the undead force. It was as if the old man had never been there.

The wraith stared at the pile of bones, managed to convey an air of bafflement despite the lack of any facial expressions. Then the old man’s cackle filled the air again. Yet there was no sign of where he might be.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Low, thudding booms, those same footfalls which had originally alerted Othan and the creature pressed against him, returned anew. And this time, the source of those footfalls revealed themselves. Two monstrously large figures pushed aside the trees that were in their way to make room for their advance. They towered over everything, large enough that Othan wondered if he were looking at giants. They were humanoid in the vaguest sense of the word, in that they walked upright on two legs and had two arms attached to a torso that seemed human enough in shape, but everything else about them was just plain wrong, in a way that made Othan’s eyes ache. They had a light grey bordering-on-blue hue to their flesh. Their heads were misshapen, the proportions all wrong for the otherwise humanoid look; mouths too wide, eyes too large, and too many at four a head, with two tusks jutting out from beneath their narrowed lips. And instead of feet, they walked instead upon cloven hooves.

Whether they were some breed of the beasts of Chaos, or something else, Othan had no clue. What he did know was that as brave as he was, as capable as he was, there was no way he would be able to survive a fight against even one of those creatures, not on his lonesome. He felt his opinion on that matter was quite justified when one of those giant abominations, charged toward a cluster of wights and swung a leg around in a kick. The impact of hoof and shin with the wights unfortunate enough to be in the path of that kick were shattered—bones turned to powder from the amount of force levied against them. Fragments of the wights’ armour were scattered in the wake of the sheer force levied against the wearers.

The wraith stilled, glowing blue orbs staring at these abominations as if flummoxed by their appearance. Then it lifted its blade into a salute and charged into a fight that it surely knew it wasn’t going to survive. Then again, Othan mused, holding his breath as though it would help prevent his being noticed, what fear does a wraith have of dying?

The giant creatures made short work of the undead. While a few of the wights managed to get their licks in, their pole-axes managing to carve chunks from the legs of the giants, it wasn’t enough to so much as slow the oversized aberrations. The wraith put up the best fight, but it too was felled in a single kick that left behind little that was recognisable.

The giants stood silently for a moment, simply seemed to be revelling in their one-sided victory. Unfortunately, for Othan, one of the giant creatures turned its head, its four eyes zeroing in on Othan. Whether it was aware of the creature covering him or not was irrelevant, it was staring at Othan right in the eye, knew that he was there.

‘Shit,’ Othan cursed.

Thankfully, the reptilian creature recognised that Othan had been noticed. The creature hissed, pulled itself away from Othan, its flesh rapidly reverting to its original colouring, and it pulled up its handgun, levelled the weapon at the giant abomination. The trigger was pulled, and thunder echoed out as the weapon spat fire and lead.

The giant reeled back, an over-sized hand coming up to cup one of its eyes. A sound finally escaped the giant, a low groan of pain. Black liquid seeped down from behind the hand. It didn’t seem to incapacitate the over-large creature for long though, its hand lowered again, one eyelid sealed shut, not that it did much to prevent the black ichor that leaked, and it started to advance.

To make matters worse, the other one had turned, alerted by the gunshot.

‘Run,’ the reptile hissed, already going through the motions to reload its handgun. ‘Run now!’

And Othan did as the creature told him, he turned tail and he fled. He wasn’t long into his sprint when he heard the retort of the creature’s handgun. And moments after that, a thunderous sound that was followed by a crack. He never looked back.

Not even when he heard the thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. He continued to run, pretending that he couldn’t hear the rapid footfalls getting closer and closer.


*


Sigismund scowled, assessing the scene with distaste.

A small clearing, one that might have looked almost picturesque under normal circumstances. That serene picture was tainted though, with the amount of blood that stained everything, and more than just blood. Something had passed through here, and it had torn and ripped asunder some poor unfortunate fools.

Whether those poor fools were his men or not he honestly could not tell. There was nothing left but the blood, the entrails, and flayed flesh so thoroughly dyed in crimson that one had no way of telling what the original tone had possibly been.

‘This was recent,’ Captain von Eisling commented from where she was crouched next to a gory puddle of fleshy remains. ‘The stink of rotted flesh hasn’t yet hit.’

Sigismund let out a slow nod of agreement, the hand resting on the hilt of his blade twitched, but he still was not yet pulling the weapon free of its scabbard.

‘Which means whatever did this is probably still close,’ he observed while he moved his eyes away from the gore to instead glare at the nearby trees as though they were about to walk and try to rip him in two suddenly.

Captain von Eisling let out a sound of surprise, and she snatched something from the ground then held it at eye level. After a moment, she approached Sigismund and held it out for him.

‘Does this mean anything to you?’ she asked.

Sigismund took the offered item with a grimace and looked at it. He did recognise the cloth scrap. Though it could just be a coincidence, but the green fabric, which had somehow avoided getting stained by all the blood, reminded him all too easily of some of those individuals who had taken the Feyerabend Keep. The same ones who Gerwin had reported as being within the Drakwald with them.

‘The Legion.’

The other captain raised an eyebrow. ‘The “Legion”?’

‘The Outland Legion,’ Sigismund quickly clarified. ‘Lustrians playing mercenaries.’

Von Eisling’s eyebrow lowered, and she rubbed at her chin thoughtfully, a look of vague recognition flashing across her features before they were then walled behind her typical stern visage.

‘I see.’ She hummed, and her eyes rose to the branches of the surrounding trees as though she would instantly make out one of those alien creatures. She wouldn’t, Sigismund knew, Gerwin had reported that the ones with the green garb could turn themselves invisible, so if they were indeed being watched at that moment, he sorely doubted that von Eisling would make them out.

At least not while the weather was dry.

‘I’m not fully educated on Lustrians,’ von Eisling began after a long pause. ‘But wouldn’t the Drakwald be their favoured terrain?’

Click. Click. Click.

Sigismund’s face twisted in distaste at the topic. ‘The stories of these particular Lustrians date back at least two centuries,’—had to stop himself from exploding into a verbal tirade about how the history of these reptilian sellswords seemed determined to entwine itself with the history of Efror—‘which involves a lot of back and forth from the Provinces and the Border Prince Peninsula, so they might not be so used to forested terrain any longer. Why?’

‘Trying to get a sense of how dangerous a threat we have lurking nearby, if it managed to massacre Lustrians in a forest like this.’

Ah, that’s… He hadn’t quite considered that. ‘The ones that wear the same green as this scrap? They can turn invisible.’

That detail had von Eisling start in surprise, though after a moment she did mouth the word “invisible” to herself in confusion before acknowledging everything and thinning her lips into a grimace.

‘So, masters of hiding and ambush, and they were…’ Her arms swept the scene. ‘Maybe we’ll have the advantage, that being numbers and regimental formations, but I would still prefer we not meet whatever did this.’

That was a sentiment that Sigismund could get behind. He opened his mouth to say so, but the sound of a dry twig snapping had him twisting around, his blade yanked free of its scabbard and held up alongside his shield, while Captain von Eisling lifted her flamberge and readied it. Nearby, the dozen halberdiers who had accompanied them to the clearing lowered their polearms into a ready position and stepped forward to form a small box with Sigismund and von Eisling as two of the corners.

Click. Click. Click.

Snap!

Everybody angled themselves toward that last sound, tensed. Then the source of the sound emerged. It took Sigismund a few seconds to place her, one of those who had joined at Dryad’s Fell, the farmer’s widow who had talent as a hunter. Allison, he reminded himself.

Allison’s eyes were wide, frantic with a fear that looked out of place on her. Her skin was a pale shade akin to parchment that had been left under water for too long, and was slick with sweat.

‘Captain,’ she breathed out in open relief on identifying Sigismund, then her eyes drifted to von Eisling, ‘captain.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Sigismund asked, beating his counterpart to the question by a sliver of a fraction of a second.

‘We need to move,’ Allison said, voice hoarse. ‘There is something in this forest with us.’

‘Is that something responsible for this?’ von Eisling asked, motioning at the scene once more.

Allison took a moment to spare a glance at the gore-soaked clearing, then nodded frantically. ‘I saw it. I…’ she stopped talking for a moment, visibly trying to steel herself, to reign in her obviously frayed nerves. ‘It’s… I don’t think it’s natural, but… it didn’t look undead, and it doesn’t look…’

‘It’s alright, it’s alright…’ Sigismund shot a panicked look at von Eisling, silently hoping that she would be better at calming somebody who had just witnessed some of the worst the world had to offer—at least, Sigismund assumed that that was what Allison had just witnessed. The best kind of help that Sigismund could offer was to play the stern officer and to use the training of his men to not so much snap his men out of panic, but to get them into the motions where they were functional, and that would be enough to allow them to wait for the breakdown to happen at a more opportune moment. Unfortunately, his was a method that would not work with a conscript that wasn’t actually trained in such a manner.

Von Eisling shot him a look that suggested that she didn’t feel any more qualified than Sigismund was. Indeed, the next words out of her mouth were in a tone that had even Sigismund flinching because that was not helpful, even if all that was spoken was an urge to calm down.

‘I am not a fragile waif! Do not talk down to me,’ Allison snapped, breathing picking up in pace.

‘I know you aren’t,’ Sigismund answered, careful to keep his tone as its normal self, even if it was a tone that would sound like he was pissed off—he usually was, that was normal for him. ‘Just say what you saw.’

‘What I saw…’ Allison breathed in, then let out a description of the monster that she saw during the night.

Sigismund shared a look with von Eisling. ‘Daemon?’ he wondered aloud.

‘The amount of blood would be very Khorne, but for the silence…’

‘Whatever it was,’ Sigismund said while casting a concerned look at the surroundings, ‘I think we should move. The longer we linger, the more likely we are to meet whatever this abomination is.’

Click. Click. Click.


*


Othan slowly roused to wakefulness, but didn’t immediately move, did not even open his eyes. The fact that he was alive was a good sign, but not a promise of safety. Surreptitious movements of his limbs told him he wasn’t bound, also a good sign.

‘Any sign of it?’ The voice that spoke was low, with a queer accent, softening consonants while stretching vowels.

‘No, Sharpe.’ This second voice also had an unusual accent, one with an almost melodic quality to it. The closest analogue that Othan could liken it to was the brogue of the Halflings of the Moot, but tempered and with the vaguest hints of Marionburgese. ‘Whatever it is, it only seems to hunt at night.’

There was a pause, then a sigh.

‘And we know that those things chasing mister barbarian here aren’t the same as…?’

‘Those things aren’t ripping apart whatever they catch.’

There was a moment of silence, and Othan felt a weight of disbelief press down upon them.

‘Those things are just smashing whatever gets close. Smashing with force enough to make what they hit look like overripe fruit, but still smashing, not… not tearing apart what they get a hold of.’

Another moment of silence, then another sigh.

‘Ok. I’ll take your word for it.’ Another huff, and the faintest thud of a footstep.

‘We planning to leave sleeping beauty here?’

‘He’s not our problem. He’s alive, he saw those things, so he can tell that army to keep an eye out. But other than that? We have our own issues.’

Silence again, though Othan reckoned he could hear the faint footfalls of the two conversing. Then a louder thud, one not needing the Udoses warrior to strain to hear.

‘Tongue?’ the first voice spoke up.

A new voice answered, the accent more like a typical blend of Reiklandic and Marionburgese. ‘The undead just exited the Drakwald.’

A soft utterance that didn’t hold to any words that Othan could understand, made up entirely of sibilant hissing. After three seconds of such, the hissing stopped. ‘Happy, gather everybody up. We’re moving out now.’

‘Where’re we headed?’ The second voice asked.

A pause, then the faintest sounds of footsteps slowly moving further from where Othan was laid.

‘I think we’re due a chat with Rauscher,’ the first voice commented, softer with distance.

Othan waited for a minute after the sound of footsteps had disappeared, seemingly through distance, but with his eyes shut as they were, he couldn’t be certain that such was truly the case. After a full minute, he finally opened his eyes and found no sign of life other than himself. Turned his head, then started in shock as realised that he was laid out atop a tree branch fairly high above the ground.

Though he saw no sign of life, he swore he heard the faintest echoes of amused laughing when he yelped and clutched at the branch with wide eyes.

To make matters worse, he could see his claymore. It had been left on a completely different branch, thoughtfully laid such that there was no chance of it falling outside of deliberate action from either himself or another party aware of it.

‘Oh, you cocks,’ he growled irritably, blinking away the feeling of vertigo that wanted to take over his senses. ‘You utter cock-sacks.’

A second look over the edge of the branch did not do wonders for his vertigo. Unfortunately, it looked like the only way down for him would be if he climbed down himself, there was no sign of those responsible for leaving him there, and calling for aid would do nothing for him.

Swallowing nervously, he began to plan out how to reposition himself from his lofty perch.


*


The village of Crawsfet was a hardly little village, situated not terribly far from the edge of the Drakwald. That meant that those who lived within this village were hardened by a life of constant threat. When those that dwelt within the Drakwald chose to exit with intentions of violence, Crawsfet was one of those villages most likely to be hit. And hit hard. That Crawsfet still stood, even after all this time, could be attributed to stubborn Middenlander pride, stubborn Middenlander hardiness, and stubborn Middenlander superiority.

The men of Crawsfet were tough, most had served in militias purposed specifically for ventures within the Drakwald, so they held little doubt that come anything less than the entire population of beasts within the forest, they would more than easily defend home and hearth.

To aid in the defence of this village, a wall had been built. A wall of stone, overseen by Imperial Dwarfs who had been paid a pretty penny. It was seen as a worthwhile investment, for the longer that Crawsfet could hold off the hordes of the enemies of man, the more time that Middenheim had to muster the professional fighting men to come assist, or to go aid other, less hardy, villages that might fall under threat from the foul beasts. This stone wall was a testament to the stubborn refusal of the people Crawsfet to give ground to anybody or anything.

It would almost be more accurate to call Crawset a fort, rather than a village.

So tough and hardy were the men of Crawsfet, that on occasion other towns, those with garrisons of Middenland state troopers, would send some of those troopers to this village to train up alongside the hardy sons of Ulric. It was hoped that by spending a month or two in Crawsfet with such a diligent and tough people, some of that hardiness would rub off on the state troopers.

Such was the case with a regiment of Middenlandese halberdiers. They had no clue about what was happening in the northern half of Middenland with the raiding Chaos forces, for such news had never reached the village. Even if it had, the inhabitants would have likely not cared, so long as the raiders weren’t coming towards them. All that the men and women of Crawsfet cared about was the threat that came from the Drakwald. Furthermore, should that news have reached them, the regiment of halberdiers would still have spent their time exactly as it had been without the news—without orders to do otherwise, they were to remain in Crawsfet, train some of the locals and be trained in turn.

In truth, for that regiment of halberdiers, spending months in this village was actually considered relaxing. The men of Crawsfet didn’t care to learn from anybody softer than them, and these halberd carrying men from a town far enough from the Drakwald that it wasn’t an omnipresent threat, they were soft. Point of fact, anybody not a part of their community was inherently soft, in their eyes.

So this regiment was left to enjoy what was essentially time where they were paid to stand around and look more important than they actually were.

It was two of these halberdiers that died first. The wall surrounding the village was a work of art, worth every coin paid to the dwarf builders. The problem that arose, was that the wall was designed with a specific threat in mind, a specific threat with well-known limitations. Had this wall been built in Sylvannia, the weakness that was exploited would have never been there to be exploited. As it stood, however…

The halberdiers had been standing on a wooden bridge that crossed over a small river that bisected the village into what was not quite two halves. Calling it a river was actually being generous, but it wasn’t small enough to be called a stream. But for all that it was not a terribly wide river, it was a very deep river.

‘You hear about that army that went into the Drakwald?’ one of the halberdiers asked the other, before crunching down upon an apple.

The other scoffed. ‘Hunting undead of all things.’

The first took another bite from the apple, then hummed in consideration. ‘Why would they hunt undead in the Drakwald? Just let them go. If they are in there, they aren’t a problem for us.’

‘Maybe they’re worried that they’ll come out,’ the second gave a sensible answer after a moment of consideration. ‘Better to cut down the problem before it becomes a problem.’

The first took another, final bite from the apple and then tossed the remains carelessly over his shoulder and into the river. ‘But the Drakwald… they’ll be getting into fights with more than just undead.’ His arms waved at the village. ‘If they aren’t part of the Drakwald patrol, then they’re just getting themselves killed.’

The second halberdier didn’t answer, his attention was drawn to the river. It sounded like something was splashing, but by and large, it was a still river, so unless somebody had gone for a swim, there should be no disruption to the water. He leaned over the edge of the bridge and tried to make out the source of the disturbance.

The water’s surface rippled, then parted, allowing a wraith to seemingly lunge upward and grab the halberdier’s neck with one fleshless hand, while the other hand shoved a short blade into his throat. Then the wraith allowed itself to sink again, but it didn’t relax its grip on the gargling and choking man, pulled him off the bridge and dragged him beneath the water.

The remaining halberdier noticed this and shouted out a shocked yell, then prepared to call out in alarm, but never managed to get that far. A spear punctured through his torso from behind. He dropped his halberd, which never did get the chance to be used against any enemies of man, before then he too was pulled off the bridge.

At the edge of the village, a bell was rung, an alarm warning the village that a threat was approaching the walls. There was no way for that same bell to warn everybody that the threat in question were not the beasts of the Drakwald as was to be expected, but a horde of undead. It was only as the first of the fighting men reached the walls, ready to defend home and hearth, that the watchmen were able to communicate the nature of the oncoming threat.

While attention was pulled to the walls, the river’s surface rippled. After days of plodding along under the water of that river, the undead made their move. They had finally left the Drakwald, and were marching for their next destination.

Had the undead not attacked from the river, Crawsfet would have survived long enough for reinforcements to come from neighbouring towns, and even a rapid mustering of the nearest garrisons of the Middenland army, now that Graf Todbringer was fixing the issues of the missing command staff which had plagued the state’s army.

With the attack from both outside the walls, as well as those that emerged from the river within, Crawsfet fell within hours.

 

Reunions in the Rain​

Five hundred years ago

—


Ingwel’tonl stared at the map on the makeshift table in front of him, keen eyes taking in every detail he could discern. To his side, Iycan’ceya looked through the notes he had written down throughout the season that the Temple-host had been garrisoned—for lack of a better word—within this warmblood settlement. The skink carefully sorted his notes into four separate piles, of which the oldblood would only be privy to one.

And on the other side of the desk, the skink oracle Yade-To worried at the hem of the leather skirt that fell from the waist of his cuirass, clearly still not yet used to the armour. At least Yade-To wasn’t being passive-aggressive about wearing warmblood-styled garments and armour, unlike Moretexl, who had spent the past moon sniping and making his general displeasure quite well advertised to Ingwel’tonl.

As part of his passive-aggressive protest, Moretexl still refused to hide away the sibilant hiss to his words unless he was forced to directly communicate with a warmblood, whereas Ingwel’tonl, Iycan’ceya and Yade-To had reached the point where they no longer needed to think about doing such, to the point that even in private, they now spoke the warmblood tongue with only the faintest of accents. While the non-ranked warriors and the artisans had still yet to reach that point, there was a slow progress as more and more made the effort to adapt, to conform.

The oldblood wondered if he should communicate with the priests back home in Tiamoxec, tell them to prepare any future warriors that were to join the Temple-host by teaching them to speak not just the language but also the accent.

Ingwel’tonl tilted his head, as Yade-To’s words registered. ‘——and according to the Auditore matriarch, skaven are responsible for the death of the local magister.’

Ingwel’tonl felt more than saw Iycan’ceya’s head jolt up from his notes to stare at the other skink.

‘She is certain?’ the priest asked, tone bordering on disbelieving.

Yade-To angled his head into the closest gesture that their kind naturally had to a human shrug. ‘While she didn’t see it, her offspring supposedly did, and she swears by her offspring’s honesty.’

Ingwel’tonl and Iycan’ceya shared a look, to which the skink priest let out a soft trill and shuffled through one of the piles of his already sorted notes. It didn’t take long for him to find whatever it was that he sought, a sheet of parchment was pulled free and the skink carefully read the words and reminded himself of the contents.

‘Magister DeMachivi spent the last cycle trying to organise an effort to purge a suspected vermin under-city. Two moons ago, he started to make progress, openly claiming to be in negotiations with dogs of war for the purpose.’

Ingwel’tonl considered that. ‘It would fit with what we have heard of how the vermin act in warmblood territory. Knives and whispers.’

‘So you think we should act on this?’ Iycan’ceya asked, tone flat.

Ingwel’tonl glanced to the side, peered at the window, the closed wooden shutter the only barricade against the heavy winter winds and the heavy rainfall that hadn’t eased in the past moon. Apparently, it was the worst winter that the Tilean peninsular had experienced in living memory—though snow had yet to fall, it was believed to be a case of when and not if—and while it was not unsurvivable weather, it was far from pleasant for the Children of the Gods. As much as Ingwel’tonl wanted to leave this town, to strike at the enemies of the Great Plan… He refrained from letting his eagerness dictate his actions. The Temple-host had garrisoned itself in this town for a purpose, to learn from the warmbloods who were being afforded protection during the winter season. And for all that it hadn’t been an exciting period, it was working.

Every year since that first time his brother had made the suggestion, they had found a town or village and they had taken to protecting it in exchange for learning. And while it was slow going—as willing as Ingwel’tonl was, he was fighting against centuries of established behaviours and habits to behave in a way contrary to his kind—it was still working. Slowly, but steadily. The adoption of uniforms inspired by the ancient Tileans was the latest and greatest step on that path.

‘Not now. But come the spring, we should… investigate this supposed under-city.’

Yade-To clicked his tongue. ‘We do not have numbers enough to fight with an entire under-city.’

Ingwel’tonl tilted his head, then glanced toward Iycan’ceya. ‘Do you think you can communicate with the dogs of war that the magister corresponded with?’

Iycan’Ceya blinked, then straightened his posture while he absently pulled at the leather straps of his feathered cloak, a personal effect which he had refused to part with even as he agreed to adopt the clothing of the warmbloods. He projected a sense of arrogant pride as he stared at Ingwel’tonl with unblinking eyes. ‘Easily.’



*



Present Day 

Northern Middenland 

—


Ingwel eyed the sky with disdain, even as the old memory faded back into the recesses of his mind. He supposed that the similarity was what had drawn it out in the first place—the weather was determined to prove that the summer season was ending in favour of the fall and so the sky had opened up to allow a heavy rain which slammed down with surprising force. It wasn’t quite monsoon levels of heavy but was heavy enough that not even five seconds into the rain’s beginning, Ingwel’s coat and breaches were soaked through so thoroughly as to weigh him down whilst also sticking to his scales as firmly as if somebody had used glue.

They had gotten fairly lucky, in that shortly after the rain started, but before it reached the levels that made travelling through it a challenge, they had come across what looked to have at one time been a roadside inn. It was long vacant, the road that the Legion was travelling was not nearly beaten enough that any inn would last for long. It wouldn’t have been the lack of custom, but a road such as this, without regular patrol, was vulnerable. The only sign that the hostile elements that had caused this inn to be abandoned hadn’t been greenskins was the fact that it still stood, all walls intact.

No doubt highwaymen and brigands had made the roadside respite less than hospitable.

Just about the only upside to the weather was that it would be slowing down the warhost. Nobody was marching in this weather, not even Chaos. The ground was nought but mud, slick and soft. Anybody wearing armour was destined to have a bad time if they tried to march in this rain.

But armoured warriors weren’t the only thing to struggle. Even if Ingwel were to ignore the weather and marched on the warhost intending to take the fight to them, his skinks weren’t going to be putting up much of a fight. Rain this heavy? No musket would be firing, the gunpowder would be soiled through and made useless.

That had been a hard learnt lesson in the past, back when they had first adopted the use of muskets. Rain and gunpowder, that was a bad mix. Cannons were also affected. So even if the Middenland army caught up right that moment to lend aid in fighting the warhost, they were gutted in strength until the sky stopped its torrential downpour.

As brave as the men of the Empire could be, mortal men were so… small… so fragile. Ingwel had nothing but respect for those who fought despite this fragility. That they fought when it was so easy for them to die…

Ingwel exhaled softly then looked down away from the sky and instead towards the hill which was where he had planned to set up camp before the rain fell. They had been making good time, with emphasis on the past tense. Though he supposed that even if the muddy ground slowed them once the rain let up, they would still be there in good time.

Middenland’s army on the other hand…

He heard the squelch of mud, only barely through the pattering of rain. Turned his head, eyes locked onto Iycan, who was looking particularly skin to a drowned dog. As was usual when looking upon his chief of intelligence, he was reminded of the first to have the name. This latest Iycan’ceya was wholly different from the first; cheerful even when he was aloof, more hands-on than the original, using his mastery of Ulgu to mingle unseen among the warmblood populace. The first Iycan, for all that he did care, did develop a soft spot for the warmbloods, had always kept a firm distance and never stopped looking down at the warmbloods with a haughty air of superiority.

Never mind that the humans had proven themselves to be something special when Sigmar Heldenhammer had achieved true ascension, the first Iycan never stopped looking at the warmblooded races as unlearnt children.

‘Any news?’ Ingwel asked after a pause.

‘Boney and Zak just caught up to us as the rain started,’ Iycan reported.

‘Just Boney?’ Ingwel tilted his head. ‘Was he not with Solin?’

‘He split off from Solin at some point. According to Boney, they got word that the settlement Zak was defending was being reinforced.’ A pause. ‘By one of the exalted champions, if the description has any bearing to it. Our newest major has proven himself, it was thanks to his arrival that Zak wasn’t overrun.’

‘That’s good.’ It was understating the accomplishment that the newest skink major had earned. ‘Did Zak have anything to add?’

‘That it looks like we’ve got a dedicated artillery specialist.’

That had Ingwel cast a look at Iycan, a mixture of surprise and something else, something he wasn’t quite able to pinpoint.

‘Truly?’

Iycan’s eyes narrowed into a grin. ‘Turns out he really likes cannons. He’s… besotted with them.’

Ingwel chuckled, a soft rasping sound.

‘It gets better. His role in defending the village had him rewarded. He’s replaced his bastiladon’s carronades. He was gifted some Dawi-made fifteen-pounders.’

‘Lucky sod.’ Ingwel paused, then tilted his head in concern. ‘And his bastiladons aren’t struggling under the weight?’

Iycan shook his head once. ‘No, they’re handling the weight of the cannons and the ammunition fine. Though Zak mentioned that Boney is letting them rest slightly more often than is normal, I’m assured that it is more about letting them get acclimated to the new weight than out of necessity.’

‘That’s good then. It will be nice to have a major who wants to lead an artillery battalion.’

‘It is a first for us.’ Iycan agreed, wringing his cap—not that the action was going to accomplish much while they were both still standing in the pouring rain. ‘Some logistical issues in light of Boney’s new guns, the artisans will have to make separate cannon ammo for his use specifically.’

Ingwel shook his head, ignored the way the act had droplets of water arc horizontally to the ground for a brief flight. ‘Easy enough to fix, just assign a handful of artisans permanently crafting exclusively for his battalion’s needs.’

It wasn’t as if they were lacking for skinks of the artisanal vocation. If a skink could not fight any longer, they took up a craft. And then there were those who were dedicated artisans from the start. Those skinks were all volunteers, who had made the deliberate choice to leave Madrigal rather than being tasked, those who relished the chance to explore the lands beyond Madrigal and learn to make things that were very different from what was traditionally made by Children of the Gods, it was something that naturally appealed to the minds of the more inquisitive skinks.

Iycan tilted his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the order that was thinly veiled as a recommendation.

‘Anything more?’ Ingwel asked after a moment of silence.

‘One of the irregulars came along with Zak and Boney. Anten.’

Ingwel felt a flicker of recognition. Hadn’t that name come up recently? ‘He’s the one who gave us what we know on the Dawi-Zhaar, is he not?’ But even as he asked, he knew he was forgetting a more important detail.

‘He’s also the one that Solin sent to investigate Kislev’s ongoing winter.’

Ingwel felt the recollection of that fact slide back into place even before Iycan had finished the sentence and let out a soft hum.

‘He has news?’

Iycan shrugged. ‘Naturally. I don’t know him that well, but I always got the impression he rather enjoyed the solitude of working alone in the Dark Lands. Not the type to come back to us because he missed our charming dispositions.’

‘How bad is it, if he decided to tell us in person?’

Iycan hesitated a moment, head angled so that he was looking up at the bawling skies. ‘It’s not good.’ He admitted it slowly. ‘But it’s also an outside context issue, nothing to do with the Warhost of Malice.’

‘But…?’

Iycan shook his head. ‘Well, if the report is accurate, we now know why the sky exploded, what caused the maelstrom. A god being fatally wounded would do that.’

Ingwel had to pause and assess the words spoken. Had he heard correctly, or had the rain distorted the sound into something other?

Iycan continued speaking. ‘If we weren’t busy with the Warhost of Malice, I would have been recommending we march north and east, to meet up with the Tzarina and offer our services. As it stands, we have our own affairs, so we shall have to trust that Tzarina Katarine will handle the fallout.’

Ingwel hissed softly, irritated. ‘Sounds like the events happening north are the exact thing we should be involved in. The very purpose for our being here.’

‘It was bad timing,’ Iycan said with a frown, nodding in agreement. ‘We can’t exactly ignore this warhost, nor the undead, if they’ve not gotten themselves removed yet.’

Ingwel huffed at the reminder of the other issue plaguing Middenland. ‘Have we had any word from Sharpe about that?’

‘Not since they’d entered the Drakwald.’

Ingwel let out a soft sound of contemplation, rubbing his knuckles against the underside of his jaw. After a moment, he turned and started to wade across the muddy grounds. ‘For the time being, I’ll have to assume that no news is good news.’

Iycan stared disdainfully at the mud, but after the briefest of delays, he began to follow behind the marshal.

‘We’ve gotten lucky so far,’ Iycan finally spoke again. ‘The undead choosing to skulk about in the Drakwald… we could have been fighting a two-front war. And with Middenland’s army having been stuck in limbo as it was…’

Ingwel rumbled in agreement. ‘Saying that we would have been stretched thin would be… an understatement.’

A nearby carnosaur rumbled as they neared, its head lifting from where it had been tucked beneath its tail, baby blue eyes looking dolefully at Ingwel, who paused in his stride long enough to reach an arm out and pat the large thundersaur’s snout tenderly.

‘I know, pretty girl, the rain is horrible.’

The orange and black carnosaur trilled softly and pushed her head against Ingwel’s palm, clearly communicating her wanting more of Ingwel’s affectionate attention. Ingwel huffed and scratched lightly at coarse scales before patting again, with a little more force to communicate with her that that was it. One last affectionate pat and he stepped back. The carnosaur rumbled and then tucked her head back beneath her tail, though not before giving a full-body shiver as though trying to dry herself despite the heavy shower still pattering down upon her.

Iycan had stood a respectful distance away and watched, eye narrowed in wary concern for his own safety. The carnosaur was docile and friendly to Ingwel, and to a lesser extent to his spawn-brother, but was particularly cantankerous when it came to anybody else. It said plenty that even stoic Mort wanted to be nowhere near her. Once Ingwel had backed away and was next to the skink once again, resumed the trek toward the inn, Iycan let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

‘She terrifies me.’

Ingwel let out an amused guffaw. ‘Gila is harmless.’

Iycan cast a side-eyed look upon Ingwel. ‘Apex predator of her environment, the same race that rendered the Lustrian population of dragons extinct… and you call her harmless.’

‘Well,’ Ingwel said with a narrow-eyed grin, ‘harmless to us. To greenskins and Chaos and anything we do not like, quite the opposite.’

Iycan barked out a single “hah” of laughter.



*



If it hadn’t been for the fact that his current regiments had no wagons to haul, they would have been stuck in place when the rain started. Not even any thundersaurs, just the march of saurus and skinks. As such, rain was unpleasant, it might have slowed their pace, but it wasn’t enough to stop them entirely.

That didn’t stop it from being a relief when Solin finally caught up to an encampment of his fellow members of the Legion, the thundersaurs and wagons indication that the rain had indeed been sufficient to put a halt to any momentum for anything heavier than foot travel. For a moment, Solin wondered who was leading this camp. He didn’t have to wonder for long, he spotted the black and orange carnosaur resting at the edge of the encampment. As if sensing his attention, Gila looked up and looked at him with a half-lidded gaze, then chuffed, rolling so that she was on her belly instead of her side and shuffled forward, as if trying to get closer to him without making it obvious that she was trying to do so.

A stern look at the carnosaur that seemed to believe herself as cute and subtle as a puppy had the apex predator croon and then curl itself back into a circle.

‘Halt, who goes there?’ a wary and particularly grumpy voice asked as Solin led the way to the encampment.

With an irritable hiss, Solin pointedly stepped closer to the source of the voice, close enough that despite the rain’s thickness the sentry could visibly identify him.

‘Oh, Colonel Solin…’ the saurus standing as sentry’s voice trailed off, no doubt sensing that Solin was not in the mood for standing in a downpour.

Solin hissed under his breath and cast a dour glare up at the sky, as though his irritation could be seen and understood by the gods themselves and intimidate those same gods into clearing up the weather.

He held no issue with water under normal circumstances. But rain was a nuisance he could do without. Especially in such a thick and heavy barrage as this.

Solin continued to hiss irritably, and stalked past the sentry, calling out an order to those under his command to do as they will. A quick question to another saurus, this one using the rain as an opportunity to cleanse his scales, he learnt where to find Marshal Ingwel, and moved into himself into the sheltered confines of the room that Ingwel had claimed his office.

Ingwel cast Solin an unimpressed look at the abrupt intrusion. That look quickly morphed into amusement.

‘Whatever happened to your clothes?’ he asked instead of a proper greeting.

Solin crossed his arms, his loose, ill-fitting shirt almost swallowing him whole, a spare borrowed from Captain Mex—who was considerably broader than Solin, and gifted with a few inches of extra height on top of that despite being centuries younger. ‘Incineration.’

Ingwel guffawed. ‘You managed to set yourself aflame?’

The larger saurus’s amusement was quickly washed away when Solin snarled toothily at him. From anybody else, Ingwel’s reaction would have been more violent; a quick put-down and reminder about Ingwel’s position at the top of the hierarchy compared to the one whose hissing wasn’t gentle or sarcastic but a full-on warning of violence. But because of who it was, and how rare it was for Solin to actually act on such anger, even if only verbally, Ingwel visibly paused.

‘What happened?’

‘A cultist dropped a pox on the village we’d saved. While I found it early enough for a quarantine to keep it from spreading…’ he trailed off.

‘What happened?’ Ingwel repeated.

‘A kid died in my arms.’ Solin’s tone turned bitter. ‘I got the “privilege” of holding him as he bled out of every orifice until his body failed him from the lack of blood.’

Ingwel sighed, and Solin could see his gaze soften in sympathy, even if Ingwel had never quite understood why such pain was felt so keenly by Solin. Solin was aware that to Ingwel, the death of a child was a tragedy, but it was always in an abstract sense. But at least the other oldblood understood that while he didn’t understand, that didn’t mean that Solin didn’t feel a keen sense of hurt.

As if to show his sympathy—or just his support for his spawn brother—Ingwel grabbed the back of Solin’s head and pulled while slowly bringing his own head forward until their foreheads connected.

‘Hey, we will kill every last member of this warhost. Avenge the child.’

Solin allowed a huff to escape his maw and he leaned into the embrace, his own hand coming up to clutch at the back of Ingwel’s head, just below the larger saurus’s bone crest. They held that position for roughly seven seconds, before pulling back.

It was once he had done so that Solin realised that they weren’t alone. It took him less than a second to recognise the russet-hued skink. ‘Hey, Anten.’

‘Hola,’ Anten greeted, tone politely disinterested and his attention firmly affixed to Ingwel’s desk.

‘Still prefer Estalian to Reikspiel then?’ Solin’s eyes narrowed in amusement, all previous ill feelings shelved and filed away to ideally never again surface.

Anten grinned back. ‘Estalian has a nice poetic flow to it. Reikspiel sounds like I am perpetually angry.’

‘Was meinst du denn? Ich bin nicht wütend.’ The older, more archaic dialect of Reikspiel slipped out easily.

Anten gaped at Solin, then mouthed the words to himself before rolling his eyes upward. ‘Yes, thank you for proving my point.’

Solin chuckled and didn’t argue against the observation. Compared to High Saurian, all warmblood languages felt lacking, like they were missing whole notes and cadences, making them flat in some ways, while in others it was like there was only a single emotion driving the entire language.

Reikspiel did sound like the one speaking it was trying to out-snarl an angry carnosaur. But, Solin was aware that to warmbloods, High Saurian sounded less like a spoken language and more like a predator hunting them. Technically true, but missing the point.

‘What news?’ Solin asked after a moment.

‘Oh, the usual,’ Anten said with a verbal shrug. ‘Chaos dwarfs are sadist slave-drivers picking fights with hobgoblins and rats and everything they ever see. Kislev is cold and miserable and on the brink of civil war between the Tzarina’s court and the Great Othedoxy. And Ursun is mortally wounded. You know, the usual.’

Solin cast Anten a significant look. ‘I’ll want a slightly more detailed description of those last two parts later. But my question was actually directed to Ingwel and focused on the immediate here and now, considering I was told to bring all my cohorts to rally up.’

Ingwel huffed an amused breath. ‘Anten already passed on everything to Iycan, who has no doubt already found extra details to add to everything.’

Anten nodded. ‘Iycan’ceya, no matter who it is to have the name, is a scarily competent intelligence agent.’

‘Speaking of whom,’ Solin started, looking about as the lack of the second colonel registered. ‘Where is he?’

‘You just missed him,’ Ingwel said, moving to the hearth and carefully moving a pot from where it had been suspended near the flame. The contents were poured into a set of cups, one of which was handed to Solin, another to Anten and then he took the last for himself, sipping at the liquid. Solin took a sip of the beverage, identifying it quickly with that first taste and he stepped back, nursing the cup between his hands.

Ingwel after a few moments, no doubt to give the other two a chance to actually enjoy the tea they’d been given. ‘I called you and everybody else back as the warhost has started to move en mass. With help from the army from Middenheim, it’s hoped we can cut them down before they leave the province’s border.’

‘Where we’d likely lose track of them for a time.’ Solin crossed his arms, eyes narrowed into a grimace of disgust. ‘Especially since we still have unresolved business regarding the walking dead.’

Ingwel let out another amused breath. ‘Already had that conversation today.’

Solin tilted his head in a shrug. ‘Fair.’

‘Though with this weather,’ Ingwel continued, staring at the wall as though able to see through it to the outside. He then shook his head. ‘Never mind. It might’ve slowed us, but it’s slowing the warhost just as much.’

‘Assuming the mud doesn’t dry up by the time we get to them, they’ll be more inconvenienced by it than we will.’ Solin mused thoughtfully. ‘They’re using horses for their cavalry—for the most part—and horses don’t like galloping on mud. And then their hellcannons will be encumbered.’

Ingwel grinned. ‘Whereas our aggradons aren’t so fussy about the mud, and our artillery is mounted on bastiladons, which care even less. I’d considered that.’ His grin fell. ‘But if the rain doesn’t stop, our skinks will be fighting without muskets. With the numbers we’ll be going against, it’s our ranged weapons that will be giving us an edge.’

‘Fair point.’ Solin nodded in understanding. ‘And javelins nor bolt-spitters will have enough range to make up for it.’

Ingwel huffed and scowled at the map rolled across his desk. ‘Dry skies but muddy grounds would be ideal.’ He jabbed his finger against the map, at a particular point. ‘Make the terrain work for us, make our legion have the power of multiple. Even on dry ground, it works to our benefit.’

‘Just like in the Border Prince Peninsula,’ Solin said, eyes lighting with recognition. ‘That battle against the disgraced Bretonnian duke.’

‘The first time we brought black powder weapons to bear against a Bretonnian, disgraced or not.’ Ingwel grinned at the memory. ‘His cavalry never got a chance to come near us. His foot-knights were cut down, and the men-at-arms and peasantry routed almost as soon as the duke’s attempt at a charge left him running back to them without a horse.’

Both of them laughed fondly at that memory. It felt like such a long time ago, and one of the less… urgent jobs they’d involved themselves in. Despite the usual rule of the Legion not getting involved in internal affairs, that they were not to play king-maker with the warmbloods, a Bretonnian duke attacking a border prince for the sake of a power grab, particularly a border prince that had proven himself to be an honourable sort that had hired the Legion numerous times to track down greenskins before they could truly form a “Waargh” meant that they had felt compelled to get involved.

Not mentioned was that the Legion had gotten lucky in that conflict. That disgraced duke had hoped to carve out a small fiefdom for himself on the peninsula. In his efforts, he had made the mistake of trying to play multiple princes against each other. When it had come to light, where before he had been promised support, the angry princes had turned their backs on him and not come to his aid during the battle. Had the duke been supported by artillery fire, the battle might not have been nearly so one-sided.

And the other reason they’d gotten lucky was that the cavalry that they were so busy grinning at the memory of obliterating had not been made of actual Grail Knights. Thus far, that was a fight that the Legion had yet to experience, and even Solin and his disdain for the Bretonnians did not relish at the idea of engaging with those blessed by the grail.

The last that they had heard of that dishonourable duke, was that one of the princes had arrested him shortly after his rout. Whether the prince ever followed through on the threat of having him hung for his manipulations, they never found out, the Legion had moved on, their client satisfied with the defence of his city.

Outside the building, the air vibrated with a distant rumble, had the old walls rattle from the force. It appeared that the squall was getting worse than just a torrential downpour.



*



Hoffman shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about his body.

‘Infernal Middenland weather,’ he grumbled under his breath without any true heat to his words. ‘Can’t make up its mind. Blisteringly hot one day, then not even a full day later and it’s pissing like the gods have just finished a tavern crawl.’

Nearby, another knight guffawed, having somehow caught his words even through the sound of the rain, then fanned his hand and pretended to look like he was about to faint. ‘Such vulgarity to my virgin ears.’

‘You ain’t a virgin, Schmidt.’ Yet another knight ribbed the first with a teasing grin.

‘How would you know that, Stanten? Been peering through the windows of the inns I’ve been sleeping, in have you?’ Schmidt rebutted.

‘Don’t have to, I can hear you from across the village,’ Stanten countered.

There was a general chuckle from the knights, a moment where they could forget that they were caught in a storm with no real cover to hide within. The treetop canopy of the woodland blunted the worst of the rainfall, though, with how heavily the rain was coming down, it wasn’t enough to shroud them entirely, and the wind enjoyed kicking the rain at them from a side-on angle rather than limiting it to overhead.

Hoffman shook his head, and lifted his spyglass to his eye, peering out at the distant mass that he knew to be the Chaos warhost which had kept him busy for the past month and change. Even at this distance, it was far from safe. The amount of cavalry that romped not quite alongside the warhost was the biggest threat, the ones that could charge and pursue if the Knights Panther were noticed, and the most likely to notice them tailing behind.

The biggest threat, but incidentally, not the most dangerous threat. That dubious honour went to the daemons that moved within the warhost. Vile abominations that hurt Hoffman’s mind to look upon for too long, even from such a distance. The sheer wrongness of daemons pained the minds of honest men, as though their unnatural nature caused a conflict in the minds that unconsciously tried to fit those obscenities into something that better fit the nature of the real and material world.

As much as some of the younger knights under his charge were grumbling about the nature of their current task, this was hardly menial nothingness. The presence of such daemons cut away any true bite those younger knights might have had when making their complaints.

His gaze landed upon a gaggle of warriors, complete with foul-plated armour. A part of his mind still couldn’t quite get over how bafflingly strange it was to look upon warriors of Chaos clad in such vivid white armour. It felt like an anathema to the nature of Chaos. Or maybe it was because of that that they chose to wear such; like they were deliberately mocking the idea of being pure souls. He wondered what they were talking about. If they even were talking beneath those helmets of theirs.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his extended vision had Hoffman adjust the brass tube ever so slightly to the right. His sight came to rest upon a large armoured figure, strangely bereft of most of the decorative touches that most warriors of Chaos graced their hell-forged armour. More so than the others, this one looked as though he were not some champion of a dark god, but a paragon of order and virtue from out of a theatre’s tale. Gleaming white armour with gold accents, and a dark, muted red cape. The horns on the helmet, and the foul-looking blade that he carried were the only hints that this was not some paragon of order but instead a champion of Chaos.

Based on conversations with Marshal Ingwel, this could well be the leader of the warhost. Too bad Hoffman didn’t have a Hochland long rifle. Not that it would have done him much good, he could admit that he had never felt an affinity for firearms. Carried a pistol, just in case something came up that couldn’t be struck with sword or lance, but his expertise was sorely lacking. But then, maybe one of his subordinates would have had the proficiency to both make use of such a weapon and be able to hit a target from so far and in such weather.

Were it only so easy. No doubt even if one of his subordinates was both armed with a long rifle and gifted with being an amazing shot, the Chaos warlord’s patron god would allow him to survive such an otherwise ignoble end.

His attention followed the Chaos champion, forehead creasing in irritation when he noted that the oh-so gleaming white armour did not get soiled despite trekking through thick mud. By all appearances, the armour didn’t even look like it was wet from the rainfall. It was a mockery, one of which this foul champion was likely unaware.

The champion moved through the camp, pausing at times, attention fixed to one warrior or another, at one point to what appeared to be a pair of dwarfs, though mutants if the thick tusks poking out from their lips were any indication—weren’t there rumours of Chaos aligned Dawi beyond the World’s Edge?—and the bobbing of the helmet was the only hint that Hoffman got that the warlord was speaking rather than simply leering at his subordinates.

For ten minutes the warlord just seemed to trail aimlessly. Eventually, he came to a halt near the outer edge of the Chaos camp and was approached by somebody who looked wholly different from the majority of the camp’s occupants. Judging from the build, it was a woman, dressed in fine fabrics—Arabyan silks, both in material and in style. Another that he had been warned of. A sorceress. No doubt that she was using her magics even at that moment, as there was a faint trickle of steam rising from her body, and like the warlord, did not appear to be burdened by the rain.

The two appeared to converse for a time, the woman occasionally making gestures if though to emphasise a point, but otherwise kept her body language strictly passive, subordinate, though not submissive, there were enough small gestures that could not be taken as coming from somebody who was passive.

‘Wonder what they’re chatting about,’ Schmidt said, peering through his own spyglass.

‘Nothing good,’ Hoffman grunted out.

‘Not just complaining about the weather?’

Hoffman allowed a grin to lift his lips. ‘They don’t get to complain about our weather. That is our gods-given right, not theirs.’

‘Maybe this rain is Ulric pissing on the invaders.’

Hoffman allowed himself to let out a laugh at the younger knight’s words, crass though they may be, as well as at the reminder of his own choice of words when complaining about the rain. ‘I’d hope Ulric wouldn’t be catching us in the crossfire.’

The white warlord seemed to go still, pausing in his conversation, helmet tilted back as though staring up into the grey clouds above. Then, that helmeted visage turned and lowered so that it was looking directly toward the woods where the Knights Panther had secluded themselves. Through the narrow visor, Hoffman barely made out a scowling face with narrowed eyes that seemed to match gazes with him. Hoffman inhaled sharply, stumbling back in shock. It seemed so impossible, but…

‘Damn, do you think he knows we’re here?’ Schmidt lowered his spyglass, his complexion ashen.

‘He’s talking to a sorceress.’ Hoffman let out in a low tone, then turned and raised his volume. ‘Mount up, we need to move.’

‘My lord?’ One of the junior-most knights started in surprise. ‘But with this weather…’

‘They might know we’re here, I’m not going to gamble our lives. I’d rather chance the weather than chance daemons and this weather.’

That got everybody’s attention and destroyed any good humour that might have been found. Hoffman’s second-in-command quickly rose to the moment, organising everybody.

Hoffman himself quickly mounted his destrier, who whinnied nervously, sensing his owner’s unease. Hoffman carefully patted the side of the stallion’s neck to reassure the horse.

Once everybody had mounted their horses, Hoffman led them deeper into the woodland, to hopefully avoid notice for a time



*



‘Grapeshot,’ Boney identified the cannon ammunition before him.

Good,’ the cannon operator said with a resolute nod. ‘And what is it good for?’

‘Close range,’ Boney recited. ‘Fires many smaller shots at once, which spread.’

‘And…’ the other skink verbally prodded.

Boney hesitated a moment, checking his mind for what he had been taught. ‘Not so good at penetrating armour. Still works, but if the enemy already have shields facing the cannon, coupled with armour, there is no point in using grapeshot.’

The cannoneer grinned. ‘Good. There are exceptions, but that is the general rule.’

‘Does it get much use then? I would think every army in existence have shields ready.’

The pale skink shook his head once. ‘You would be surprised. Depends on the race, depends on the targets. Witch elves do not use shields.’ The skink then paused and snorted an amused breath. ‘Do not use armour either. Not that the Legion has fought them. Not while I have been spawned.’

‘Druchii?’ Boney wondered. ‘Do they often appear in these lands?’

‘Black arks,’ the cannoneer said as if it answered the question. Boney supposed it did, Madrigal was aware of the existence of Druchii black arks, though the dangerous waters around the isle and the tsunamisaurs meant that to date never had one landed on Madrigalian shores. But with Captain Horeo ferrying reinforcing Children of the Gods to the Legion on a regular basis, it was only a matter of time before a black ark made itself a problem. If not for the isle, then for Horeo’s efforts.

It was hardly the only issue that Horeo had to deal with every time he set sail. Boney remembered the pirate attack on the ship while he himself was being transferred over to the Legion. Horeo had largely treated it as a minor inconvenience, but Boney could read his fellow skinks quite well—for all that the skink chieftain had played up the idea that it was a non-issue, Horeo had been fuming at the attack. He hadn’t liked that the undead pirates that had made themselves such a menace to their Lustrian cousins were now trying to extend that treatment to Madrigal.

Boney hummed thoughtfully, then looked at the next cannon shot that the operator briefly lifted to inspect.

‘Salamander shot.’

He didn’t need to mull over the tactical usage of salamander rounds, he had seen how potent they were. It was a creative use of salamander bile, one he wouldn’t have thought of, but seeing it in action was enlightening.

The cannoneer shook his head once, then rotated the ball enough to show a splash of red paint staining it. ‘Close. Explosive.’

Boney tilted his head, wondering about the use of a cannon shot that outright exploded. ‘Is there a benefit to salamander over explosive?’

The cannoneer carefully stored away the round shell. ‘They are specialised. Not for use on infantry. Salamander shots and even solid shots are better for that. Too limited in scale.’

‘But…?’ Boney gently prodded.

It was a different voice that answered. ‘Explosive shots work well against singular but large targets. A giant or a dragon ogre.’

Boney turned at the familiar voice, trying to stop the way his muscles tightened at the presence of a saurus so close to him, had managed to get within arm’s reach without his notice. Then a reminder of who Mort was, and the embarrassment and irritation chased away the nervousness, a reminder of that dratted nickname of “Major Adorable” ringing in his mind. Mort looked down at him with an expression of indifference, though a slight flicker of annoyance and concern did cross the ancient saurus’s eyes before pointedly looking away from Boney and to the stacks of cannon ammunition.

The cannoneer nodded in agreement with Mort’s words but also contributed. ‘The warmbloods typically only use explosive shots with mortars. Solid shots bounce off the ground and punch through anything in their path. Does not work so well with a shot coming from above, so explosive to compensate.’

Mort grunted in acknowledgement. ‘Though we don’t use mortars, so from us, our usage is to focus down and do as much damage as possible to particularly big and dangerous monsters on the field.’

Boney gave a single nod to show his acknowledgement of the lesson on the different cannon shots. The cannoneer, no longer required to educate Boney on the different ammo types for the battalion’s artillery, went back to sorting through and checking the ammo stores, occasionally pausing to scratch a note down on a nearby sheet of parchment.

Boney turned his attention fully to Mort. ‘I thought you didn’t like our using cannons.’

Mort’s eyes narrowed, his expression becoming pinched. ‘I don’t.’ He paused a moment, his gaze turning to peer out of the repurposed stables, at the dreary grey rain. ‘But I don’t have to like cannons to understand the strategy involved in them. My regiments might not use them, but I still work with the rest of the Legion, who do. I have to understand them if just to work alongside them.’

Boney let out a hum of understanding, absently looking around the stable, noting a number of armoured saurus standing at strategic points, including two at every visible entrance, or exit.

Mort continued, tone rueful. ‘And even if that wasn’t the case, we fight enough enemies who use such weapons against us. It’s prudent to understand how the enemy might use their weapons, to plan around them.’

The skink cannoneer guffawed, even while he carefully examined another iron shell, this one the splash of paint being blue, which meant that it was actually the salamander shot that Boney had mistaken the explosive shot for being. After a moment, the cannoneer carefully put the cannonball into the crate and then cast a suspicious look at Mort.

‘I heard you were refusing to leave your wagon.’

Mort’s pinched expression returned. ‘It was made clear to me that for my health’s sake, I am required to spend at least two hours a day outside of my wagon. To eat properly while sunning.’ He cast a dour look at the rain outside. ‘Apparently, this weather is no excuse.’

Boney stared at the eternity warden, trying to comprehend the idea that he was being made to do anything. Mort must have picked up on the incredulity, because he let out a sigh.

‘Marshal Ingwel’tonl set a kroxigor on me. Either I left under my own power, or I would be carried out under his arm like I am an unruly skink spawnling. I preferred that I keep my dignity.’

A trace of humour entered Mort’s eyes at that last sentence, though it was gone so swiftly that Boney reckoned that he had imagined it. For his part, Boney had to try and suppress a snort that wanted to escape him at the mental image that had emerged from Mort's description of his fate had he not accepted that he would be leaving his wagon willingly or not. Any lingering unease at Mort’s presence was successfully warded away after that point.

Mort didn’t outwardly react when Boney’s amusement finally won out and made itself heard. He rolled his eyes with thinly veiled exasperation and continued to speak. ‘The one caveat I did manage to get was that so long as I am exposed while guarding such a valuable treasure, I have an honour guard.’

That explained the armoured saurus surrounding them. Mort spared those that were visible a brief look.

‘I am not used to being the one who is under guardian protection.’

‘But you’re not the one they’re protecting, it’s what you carry,’ Boney reminded him.

‘Yes,’ Mort agreed, ‘but as the warden of this plaque, and with it not leaving my presence, they are treating me as the subject of their protections.’ He scowled at one of the saurus, who gave him an unrepentant grin in return.

For a moment, they were silent, the only sound being Mort shuffling to a nearby wall that didn’t have a stack of crates full of artillery ammo and sitting cross-legged, his back pressed against the wall. He then shot a look at the saurus guardians, a clear silent “see, I am relaxing”. The same saurus who had grinned at him let out a chuffing sound and finally stopped staring at Mort in favour of looking outward, in the direction that any threat might actually come from.

Mort spoke up after a while. ‘So, I hear that you plan to become an artillery officer.’

‘You disapprove?’ Boney asked back at him.

Mort shrugged. ‘I am resigned to the notion. Centuries of slowly peeling away and discarding the traditional ways of our kin? I was resigned to the idea that we would have a leader who embraced such.’

‘You don’t say that about Sharpe, and I hear he was the reason the Legion started using muskets.’

Mort rested his jaw against his fist. ‘For all that he encouraged that switch, he still works as is natural for his breed. He is still a skirmisher, he just uses a handgun instead of a blowgun, or bow. That goes for skinks in general, the change didn’t change much.’ Mort shrugged. ‘But you are intending to focus yourself on artillery. That’s not just the same tactics with a different weapon.’

‘Solar engines?’

‘Not even our Lustrian cousins have solar engines in numbers enough that a skink priest or an oldblood could focus themselves on being an artillery specialist.’ Mort shrugged. ‘A solar engine is a relic that is let out of the temple-cities sparingly. The fact that the legion has even one of Tiamoxec’s solar engines was a big controversy back when we first departed the isle.’

Mort huffed a deep breath and angled his head back so that he was staring up at the ceiling of the stables.

‘You disapprove of the Legion’s changes?’

‘I am old, and I am assured that I what is described as cantankerous. I have lived millennia with the traditions that have lasted our race since the days the Old Ones departed this world, that have endured through the emergence of Chaos, and the wars and every battle since those ancient days.’ Mort rapped his knuckles against his breastplate. ‘The five hundred summers that this venture has lasted is but the blink of an eye compared to the rest of my existence, and the changes have been gradual. I do not care for change, especially change that feels to me like it comes too fast, too abruptly. If I were the leading oldblood, we would still be in our traditional stylings.’

The eternity warden paused, letting out a long drawn-out breath.

‘And if I were the leading oldblood, we would have failed in our assigned duty long ago. There is a reason that Annat’corri did not assign me as the leading saurus of the temple-host that we started as, and I acknowledge that. I have made my peace with it; Ingwel’tonl was indeed the better saurus for the duty. But, so long as I still breathe, I will still be the voice that reminds us of where we came, of the traditions that got us as far as we had. I would not see us casting aside our history for no reason. Not without cause.’

Mort was silent a moment, then looked down from the ceiling and back to Boney. Must have noticed something about the skink, he snorted softly.

‘You are surprised that I can admit that?’

‘A little,’ Boney admitted easily.

‘I am an eternity warden.’ Mort said that as though it explained everything. Maybe in a roundabout way, it did, but while Boney was aware of the more well-known duties that came with such a title, he didn’t know enough to know what that had to do with the admission.

However, at that point, Mort shifted his weight slightly, and it became clear through his body language that he was done speaking, that he was now intending to spend the rest of his mandated time outside of his private wagon keeping to himself.

Boney, not one to push his luck with any saurus, stepped back and took a position next to the cannoneer, who was still slowly going through his inspection.

‘I think he likes you,’ the cannoneer said in a low hiss to avoid being heard. ‘Must be because of how adorable you are.’

Boney cast a glare at the cannoneer, who let out a soft snigger but never ceased in his work.



*



Ingwel scratched a thick line of black ink onto the map which was laid across the desk. With that representation marked out, his keen eye took in everything noted down.

‘You’re sure?’ he asked aloud to the armoured human sharing the room with him. He was one of the Knights Panther, the latest to be tasked with running a message sent by Hoffman.

The knight, an older, more experienced man who had doubtless served a long and storied career, nodded. ‘The warhost can’t easily turn now, it would leave them too exposed.’

Ingwel grunted in understanding. Once an army reached a certain size, speed was slowed to a crawl. And turning became an affair of its own, even whilst in marching columns, barring the idea of everybody doing an about-face and marching in a reversed formation to what had been started with. He would know, the Legion had had its moments of plans being changed at inconvenient moments.

Another look at the map to confirm what he had already memorised and Ingwel hummed a tuneless sound.

‘These two farms make for good strongpoints, and the hills behind them will give us a good vantage with our artillery.’ His fingers tapped the desk. ‘Of course, that depends on if we can reach them before the warhost does.’

The knight nodded his agreement. ‘I believe you’ll be able to reach the farms before they do, even without the rain, their hellcannons alone were slowing them down. With this rain? I think they’ll have a full day of not being able to move.’

Ingwel nodded once to indicate that he had heard the human, even as he continued to stare at the map. ‘Are the farms abandoned?’

‘Not to my knowledge. They’re close enough to…’ The knight leaned forward and tapped his finger on a marked settlement on the map, though his forehead creased. ‘This city that they have protection enough under normal circumstances.’

Another grunt of thought from Ingwel. ‘You might want to pass on a message to Lord Hoffman to ride ahead and warn the farmers to leave for the time being, lest they get caught in the crossfire.’

‘I’ll do that.’ The knight nodded a single sharp nod. Then the human frowned. ‘Has there been any word about the graf’s muster?’

‘No,’ Ingwel said, dragging the word. ‘I’m starting to get worried. Even if we get there first with time enough to fortify our position, we’re still massively outnumbered. Without the Middenland army, we won’t survive. Quality means nothing when drowned in a sea of quantity.’

As he spoke, Ingwel crossed his arms, his mind’s eye coming up with possible movements that could be made from both sides of the coming battle, trying to predict any possible openings that could be used against the Legion.

‘Even if we get lucky and they are unable to advance, we don’t have the numbers to prevent them from breaking off and trying to circle around us,’ he thought aloud. ‘We need to be a noose around their necks.’

The knight coughed into his fist. ‘What if we rally the free company militias in the nearest settlements to help us? It would leave openings for the marauders still roaming, but it would help pad our numbers for this battle.’

Ingwel sucked in a breath, not against the idea, but not for it either. The free companies being tasked specifically with the defence of the smaller settlements, he didn’t particularly want to pull them from that purpose. He knew how fickle the fates could be—or how much Tzeentch liked to twist events that otherwise had nothing to do with him—and it would not shock him if the moment such a defence was pulled, marauders would just happen to target the now vulnerable villages and towns.

‘I’d prefer to avoid that.’

From outside the building, there was a brief moment where raised voices were heard. Ingwel stilled, listened intently, then slowly moved toward the nearby window, pushing open the shutters a crack to better see what was happening outside. From his position, he was able to watch as a horse carefully trotted toward the abandoned inn, its dark eyes flicking this way and that, clearly unnerved by the surrounding Children of the Gods. The rider of this horse tugged at the hooded cloak that was offering meagre protection from the squall, then slid down from their mount.

‘Peace, peace. I’m a friend,’ the rider called out when the nearest saurus started to approach with one hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. ‘I have a message for Marshal Ingwel’tonl.’

The saurus paused, though his posture did not relax. ‘Identify yourself,’ he commanded.

‘I am Captain Bahnsen of the Middenheim army. I bring word from the Graf of Middenheim.’

Ingwel had heard enough, and he recognised the voice. He pushed the shutter open fully and leaned out from the window to make himself seen as well as heard. ‘Let him in, and care for his horse.’

The half dozen saurus didn’t outwardly react, other than the slightest slumping to their shoulders as they relaxed from the tension of the unknown. The human, Captain Bahnsen, wasn’t so composed, he started in shock at the sudden appearance and commanding voice closer to his person than he had any reason to have anticipated.

‘Marshal,’ the captain spoke up, but Ingwel cut off any further words.

‘Get in out of the rain. At least be warmed by the hearth while you pass on your message, lest you catch a death of cold.’

After a moment, wherein Bahnsen looked about for the entrance to the inn—Ingwel physically pointed to the corner around which he would have to go to find the door, he hadn’t approached from the road, which was likely what had caused the saurus standing watch alarm—the Middenheim captain moved, hunched over and tugging his cloak closer to his body in his effort to protect himself from the storm.

Even then, it took about five minutes before the door to the room that had been converted into his office opened to allow Bahnsen entry. The peasant-born officer had shucked his cloak, no doubt put it nearby the entry chamber’s fireplace to dry, and without it was clear how little it had managed to protect him from the elements properly, he was still soaked through to such a degree that one could easily make the mistake of assuming he had been swimming in the Sea of Claws. Ingwel took mercy on the human and gestured pointedly at the room’s hearth, a wordless “suggestion” to stand close to the flame while he spoke. The relieved sigh that escaped Bahnsen’s lips the instance that he was hit by the radiated warmth of the fire was almost reward enough.

Ingwel absently handed the human a cup of tea, still warm but untouched from when he had poured it for himself a quarter of an hour prior. Bahnsen didn’t seem to register the gesture, not until he’d gulped down half of the Arabyan blend—Ingwel chose not to be offended at the guzzling of the drink, the captain was still, despite the hearth and the warm drink, shivering, though less violently than before—after which he finally seemed to take note of the cup and then looked up at Ingwel and the Knight Panther.

‘Captain,’ Ingwel greeted, though his voice became wary as he took in the human’s pinched expression.

‘Marshal… Ingwel?’ the captain took a moment to try and remember the name. Or uncertain that he was talking to the right saurus, humans and their difficulties telling apart the Children of the Gods, Ingwel privately laughed.

Ingwel nodded, confirming that he was indeed the one that Bahnsen assumed.

Bahnsen’s shoulders slumped, then after a look at the still half-filled cup in his hand took a more restrained sip before speaking again. ‘I come with bad news.’

Ingwel breathed in a deep breath, and held it for a moment before slowly releasing it, careful not to let the action make a hissing sound.

‘Let’s hear it.’

Bahnsen grimaced. ‘The graf regrets to inform that his army has been delayed.’

Ingwel pointedly looked at the nearby window. While his view of the outside was blocked by the shutter sealed back into its closed position, it made his point. ‘Everybody is delayed, this weather is merciless.’

‘It’s not the storm. The graf was forced to turn back not two days into his march, he returns to Middenheim.’

Both Ingwel and the Knight Panther straightened their postures, sharing an incredulous look before returning their attention to Bahnsen. ‘He has turned back?’ The knight was the one to ask the question they both shared.

Bahnsen sighed heavily, grimaced, and then met Ingwel’s eyes. ‘He sends his apologies, but something came up that required not just his attention, but the Middenheim army’s attention.’

‘And what, exactly, is more pressing than the warhost?’ Ingwel asked, not bothering to exaggerate his feelings so as to be heard. In a way, his not doing so would make his feelings heard all the clearer, as the low, near monotone to human ears was similar to how some humans, when angry, would flatten their voices to such a monotone.

Bahnsen shuddered, crossed his arms across his body, but didn’t remove his gaze from Ingwel’s scarlet eyes, managed to maintain his composure despite his very apparent discomfort.

‘The undead left the Drakwald and are marching toward Middenheim with numbers enough that the city would be wholly under siege if they reach it. If the graf hadn’t turned back, the only defence would be a minimal garrison of town militia and volunteers.’

Oh… That is actually a valid reason. What is that Empire saying? ‘Oh. Das ist zum verrücktwerden.’