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.