Right then. I've been trying to read up on how magic works in GATE, and let's just say I like Warhammer's system better. Easier to explain and all that.

Also, I've been playing siege battles to help me visualise how this upcoming battle goes. No, the battle will not officially start in this chapter. I've been worrying that the plot is starting to feel far too rushed for my liking, so this chapter is also my way of slightly slowing down so I can focus on characters a bit more once all the massive initial story events are out of the way.

And I still don't own GATE, Warhammer Fantasy, or Total War: WARHAMMER II.

Chapter IV
The Storm Approaches

There was a rumbling noise in the darkness, followed by the creak of an ancient door opening. Light flooded in through the open portal right in front of Duran, which forced him to raise his good arm to shield his good eye against the glare.

He's here again, he thought.

Duran was not sure how long he had spent as a maimed captive. Most of his time was spent in the absolute pitch-darkness of his stone dungeon, in oppressively dry heat and maddening silence. His wounds had been cleaned and dressed while he slept, and powerful drugs reduced the burning pain in his venom-laced veins to an occasional throbbing in the limbs he could ignore most of the time. He also noticed that the needs of his body had been slight – disturbingly so. He felt no hunger or thirst despite his circumstances, and his bowels had not bothered him at all. He also noticed that his breathing and the very beating of his heart had slowed down, and he spent much of his time in a state of partial wakefulness, with his mind active but his body being too heavy and sluggish to move. The undead were behind this somehow, he knew, and the thought rocked him to his core.

The king also knew that his double prison – that hot, dark cell and his own body – could drive a man mad. He was confident in the strength of his will, but even he could feel himself slipping. In a last-ditch attempt to hold onto his sense of self, the king occupied his still-active mind with thoughts: thoughts of how the Empire had damned all of Falmart, as well as thoughts on his kingdom and its governance in his absence.

Eldan is probably rejoicing at the news of my death, the king remembered thinking to himself. That he was born before Duran was a mistake of the gods.

The rhythmic stamping of footsteps on the stone floor drove the king's thoughts back to the present. He felt that mental fog that dominated his waking moments slightly clear up, all but confirming his thoughts that his captors had something to do with the slowness of his body. He brought down his hand, his eye already having adapted to the admittedly dim light carried by one of the leading skeletons, and watched as his they slowly – almost reverently – marched towards him.

Duran noted that there were five of the undead creatures, as there often were. Four were guards, all more ornately-decorated than the average skeleton warrior. All four of them bore tall tower shields which were rounded at the top and had exotic-looking curved swords sheathed at their waists, but only three bore spears. The fourth bore an oil lamp of ancient make, though Duran was almost sure that light was for his benefit, not theirs. It was almost laughable, the king thought, that Arsor would even bring guards to meet a one-eyed, one-armed, legless prisoner on the verge of death.

Either he really cares about appearances or there's something here I'm missing, Duran thought.

The four skeletal guards marched in pairs, moving with a level of synchronised discipline he only ever saw in his own troops, with Arsor, staff of office in hand, walking between two pairs. As always, the creatures stopped several steps in front of him, with only the priest and the lamp-bearer continuing to walk onwards. The other three skeletons stood at attention, still and unmoving, and disappeared into the darkness. The lamp-bearer also stepped aside, just out of Duran's field of vision. For all intents and purposes, he was alone in the dim half-light with the undead priest.

'Hail, King Duran,' Arsor rasped as he formally bowed.

'That time of the day again, huh,' Duran replied, trying as he always did to sound as nonchalant as he could. It was less of an effort as it was in the past few days, the king noted. The old priest's withered, lipless visage seemed less horrifying when he first saw it, but Duran seemed to have become less bothered by it. That thought both relieved and disturbed him.

'Indeed,' the priest simply answered.

Duran grimaced but said nothing for the moment. The priest just confirmed one of the sneaking suspicions he had, which was that these visits were a daily occurrence. That meant it had been around a week since he awoke in the cell, though he still did not know how long he was unconscious.

'What do you want this time, then?' the king asked.

'It was my presumption that Your Majesty might appreciate some form of company,' the priest answered.

Fat chance, Duran thought. The old priest had always been chatty during his daily visits, either speaking of the victories of his dead realm of Nehekhara and its kings and gods or asking question after question regarding the Empire, Elbe, or the gods of Falmart. The king outright ignored many of those questions and only vaguely answered others, but it did not seem as if he was straining Arsor's patience at all. Not once did he show any sign of impatience or even of gloating or condescension, and not once had he mentioned that offer he made when they first met. The king admitted to himself he would have found Arsor's company tolerable at the very least had the circumstances been different.

Another cursory glance at Arsor's appearance and a consideration of the nature of his continued existence quashed that line of thought in Duran's mind.

Get used to him now, and you'll be seriously considering that damn offer later, he reminded himself.

'Seems like you have plenty of free time,' the king said. 'I'd expect the right-hand-man of a conquering king to be busier.'

A harsh, grating noise that sounded somewhat like something crawling through gravel – an amused chuckle, possibly – emanated from the priest.

'I act when his majesty King Wakhaf believes I am needed,' Arsor explained. 'What meagre talents I can offer are not yet necessary in the field of battle this early in the campaign.'

So he does take to the field, Duran thought as he listened, though he had little idea what to do with this discovery.

'How long has it been since you crossed the Gate?' he asked, not out of curiosity but out of a desire not to be the one giving away any answers. 'A month, maybe more? I'd have thought King Wakhaf should have sent his armies surging forward after your victories. Judging by the number of legions the Imperials said they called up for their campaign, you may well have slaughtered about half of-'

Duran suddenly stopped speaking. Yes, explain to an enemy leader how thoroughly their armies routed your own, he thought, berating himself for his words. You'd better tell them how long it would take for the Empire to assemble another army from their remaining legions as well.

'His majesty the king has decided to use this time of Saderite weakness to send his scouts forth to study the lay of the land,' Arsor said. 'His stalwart defence of the Great Land during his mortal lifetime has taught him the value of knowing the land as well as the enemy, and he has used those lessons to great effect after his glorious reawakening.'

Self-directed rage boiled within Duran as he listened in silence, teeth gritted. The priest did not comment on him giving away information that can make or break their war effort, but he knew that he did notice. And when he thought about it, he realised that him actually stopping himself mid-sentence all but confirmed the truth of his words.

'But know that your thoughts are not too dissimilar from my king's,' Arsor continued without missing a beat. 'He has said that our scouts have already painted for us a sufficiently complete map of the region. He now sends his legions forth.'

Duran narrowed his eyes. His heart, already beating more quickly than it usually did thanks to his agitation, started hammering within his chest. The fact that Arsor was telling him these details so openly only meant one thing.

'To Elbe,' Duran hissed, his frown turning into a full-on glare at the priest. 'And you'll next tell me that you will spare my people if I accept your king's offer and join you.'

'I am afraid you are only partly correct, Your Majesty,' Arsor said, sounding as irritatingly unperturbed as he ever was. 'While several of our legions are indeed headed south, their aim in your lands is not the wholesale slaughter of your people. My master has judged such an act to be contrary to his goals for the moment.'

Why would you send an army of skeletons to Elbe if slaughter is not your aim, then, Duran thought as he stared at the undead priest's decayed face.

'If not that, then what is your aim?' he asked.

'We seek to bring the fight to the Empire,' Arsor answered, 'to contend with them in ground that is precious to them and to overthrow their places of strength. And we are to begin with that centre of Saderite power in the region: that walled settlement you know as Italica.'

'Construction is going well so far,' Grey reported, as he looked towards Italica from atop the gatehouse of the South Gate.

Pina also looked at the activity beneath them, where soldiers stripped down to their tunics and trousers worked alongside citizens pressed into service in putting the finishing touches on the wooden barricade they had been building for the past few days. The barricade was to serve as a second defensive line once the gatehouse was taken, which was something the princess accepted as an inevitability. It was a crude structure, little more than a large fence made of logs and tied together with rope. The fence closed off the gatehouse from the rest of the city, and two large insulae anchored the structure and served as makeshift fortifications. Similar barricades were also being built at the East and West Gates, and Pina knew they looked as flimsy as the one whose construction she was watching.

They do not have to stop the enemy permanently, she insisted to herself, only hold out long enough until the rest of the Rose Order arrives. She then looked past the construction work and further into the city. And if they cannot hold for that long, there will be other barricaded points in the city.

'Any complaints so far?' she then asked, keeping her eyes on the workers.

'Besides the usual grumblings about lunch being hours away?' Grey asked in response. 'Nothing you won't expect from an army forced on the defensive. There had been a few incidents between imperial and allied soldiers here and there, though, and you'll have to deal with those before they worsen.'

'Incidents?' Pina asked, turning to look at her retainer. She saw clear signs that old Grey, once a mighty and celebrated knight of the Empire, was truly beginning to show signs of age. His complete baldness was one sure sign, but there were more subtle ones: the beginnings of crow's feet at the corners of his still-bright eyes, the increasing plumpness common in the old men of House Aldo, and the permanent furrows on his beleaguered brow. The predicament they found themselves in just made him look older.

'Have there been fights?'

Grey shrugged in response. 'Not yet, thank the gods,' he explained, once more looking at the working men below. 'But there have been rather heated shouting matches. The allied soldiers are accusing ours of cowardice for breaking and running after the defeat at Alnus, which our own soldiers obviously take some umbrage over.'

'What do you think we should do, then?' Pina asked.

'The legendarily stubborn Princess Pina asking an old soldier for his opinion?' Grey replied with a wry smile. 'I never thought I'd see the day.'

'Stop being clever and answer.'

Grey chuckled at the princess's curt response, shaking his head all the while. His jovial mien turned serious once more, and he turned to regard Pina directly again.

'Per Imperial military regulations, such accusations may range from slander to outright calls for violence within the ranks,' he explained. 'Punishments range from ten lashes to death by castigation. I can give you names by luncheon, but I imagine you may not want to go down that route for this case.'

'You're right,' Pina replied. 'I don't want to reduce our troops' morale and fighting capacity right now.'

And the allied soldiers are not entirely incorrect, she thought with a grimace.

'I can still identify the worst offenders,' Grey then offered. 'Given our circumstances, I think the best we can do is a temporary pay reduction, or perhaps cutting their wine for a few days.'

'I'll leave the particulars to you, then,' Pina said. 'But be sure to punish both sides, Imperial and allied, equally. I don't want to be seen to be favouring a small portion of our troops over the majority just because we share the same sovereign.'

'Yes, Your Highness,' Grey replied with a bow. 'Do you have other instructions for the troops?'

The princess once again looked at the barricades, her brow furrowed in thought. She then turned her gaze towards all of the soldiers present, from the watchmen atop the gatehouse to the workers below.

'Double today's wine ration given to the men stationed here, save for those troublemakers you mentioned earlier, as a reward for being the quickest at building their barricades,' Pina said after some thought.

The princess then turned to glance at the wide grassland outside the walls of Italica, paying special attention to the wide road that stretched from the gate. She imagined that if she squinted just right, she could see the dark form of an army, shapeless and malevolent, approaching the city.

She shook her head. There was no army to be seen from the walls of Italica, and there had not been any for several days. Common sense told her that any force composed predominantly of marching footmen should take at least two weeks to travel from Alnus Hill to Italica on a forced march, or at least ten days if they forwent all forms of rest.

'And keep watch over the horizon,' she said. 'Our sentries' reports will be the only warnings we will have of when the enemy arrives.'

'If, Your Highness,' Grey pointed out.

Pina looked at Grey with a raised eyebrow.

'If the enemy arrives,' Grey repeated for emphasis. 'Given our lack of knowledge about this enemy, it's best if we don't assume anything about their actions.'

'Where else could they head but Italica, then?' Pina asked.

Grey simply shrugged. 'They could decide to head south to Elbe,' he pointed out. 'The Tubet aside, it would be a much easier conquest than the Empire. And we aren't sure if they even know where they ought to be going.'

Pina frowned at her retainer's words, and her gaze turned hard.

'What, then?' she asked. 'Will you tell me now – now that the barricades are almost up – that we're wasting time here? That the enemy might suddenly decide against attacking the Empire or get lost along the way?'

'Not at all, Your Highness,' Grey replied, his face bearing that knowing smile he often had when he was about to remind Pina of something she forgot. The princess's glare softened a bit at her mentor's expression.

'In fact, I should commend you for your preparedness here,' he said. 'But since we know so little about our foes, it is best if our commander does not assume she knows anything about their actions. That would leave us completely flat-footed if the enemy decides to do something else entirely.'

Pina sighed in defeat, suddenly remembering those times when she and her friends sat inside an indoor theatre they had commandeered as their nascent order's headquarters, listening to a much younger Grey teaching them of military matters.

'A good commander factors multiple considerations into her plans,' she said, reciting one of Grey's old lessons. 'She must not assume that the enemy will do exactly as she thinks they will, or she risks reducing her force to rigidity.'

'And an army reduced to rigidity is reduced to defeat,' Grey continued with a grin. 'As expected of my best pupil.'

Pina chuckled without mirth, shaking her head all the while.

'I thought you hated teaching,' she said.

Grey shrugged again. 'I guess it grew on me,' he said. He then looked below, where the soldiers were cheering at the completion of the barricade.

It wasn't a particularly joyous kind of cheer, Pina noted as she followed the direction of his gaze. The men seemed to be more relieved than happy that their work was done. She could understand why. Despite that lack of joy, Pina still saw a sense of accomplishment in her troops as they congratulated their fellows and officers went about telling their men what a good job they did.

She frowned despite herself.

One ring of barricades nearing completion, three more to go, she thought. If Italica does see combat in the coming days, how long would they hold?

The province of Italica was a picturesque land. Stretching from the northernmost end of the Roma River to the south bank of the mighty Rho, and from the east bank of the same Rho to the western foothills of the Dumas Mountains, it was a land of wide, green plains, rich farmland, rolling hills, majestic forests, and sparkling streams. Several towns and villages dotted the territory, though they remained small and homely, with only the capital growing to more than ten thousand people. The climate of the region was naturally mild, with warm summers and cool winters but nowhere near the extremes of heat and cold found in the continent's north.

The natural beauty of Italica belies its bloody history, however. The region had long served as the crossroads of kingdoms, and conquering armies had marched on its plains time and time again. The Empire of Sadera was the latest of its conquerors, having swept westward from the Dumas more than three centuries prior to wrest control of the region from the Elbans. The overwhelming strength of the Empire and the even-handed rule of House Formal brought centuries of tranquillity and prosperity for the province, but it was clear that such a state of affairs would only last for as long as the Empire remained strong.

When the Empire's eastern armies were shattered on the plain surrounding Alnus Hill, peace in Italica was shattered as well. A new invader had arrived, and he brought the wrath of the desert with him.

A great sandstorm swept northwards into Italica, with great clouds of sand borne aloft by unnatural winds. The storm swiftly made its way across the plain, devastating the lush greenery by its sheer ferocity. The desert sands blotted out the sun and darkened the day, and the winds howled like thousands of entombed spirits as they swept aside anything that came their way. And amidst the howling of the winds was a yet another sound: a chorus of a thousand spirits, all reciting the many names and titles of the Lord of the Desert Wind.

All that the great sandstorm touched – villages, fields, refugee caravans, camps – were swept aside by the winds. Before the storm lay the lush greenery of Italica. Behind it lay sandy devastation.

The sandstorm bore more than the sands of Nehekhara. Within those ochre-coloured clouds marched the legions of Wakhaf, given supernatural swiftness by the magic-infused winds. Skeleton warriors marched in serried ranks, their discipline made perfect by death. Squadrons of the king's swift charioteers rode at the head of each column, their untiring skeletal steeds moving at a steady yet greatly accelerated trot. Alongside the ranks of the dead strode the war-constructs of Nehekhara: the mighty Ushabti bearing bow or blade, the Sepulchral Stalkers with their sinister glaives and even more sinister gazes, and other dread engines of war given form by the Necrotects' art.

A few priests of the Mortuary Cult were sent alongside the army, both to empower the legions and to maintain the storm that drove them forward. They rode upon their own skeletal steeds and chanted long, atonal incantations to Khsar the Faceless as they moved at the centre of the formation.

At the head of this army was a detachment separate from King Wakhaf's legions. Ten thousand strong, they were undying warriors marching under golden standards that bore Settra's own personal sigil of the double-headed hawk, and their turquoise shields were also decorated with the same sacred image. They were warriors belonging to the storied Hawk Legions of Settra, the conquerors of kingdoms and slayers of kings, and chariots from the Great King's own Royal Chariot Guard rode with them.

At the head of this host was the Herald Nekaph, commander of this army, proudly carrying his liege-lord's personal standard as he stood on his mighty chariot. Loyal in death as he was in life, the Emissary of Settra was driven by a single overriding purpose: to bring the rule of the Khemrikhara to this new world by word or by sword.

With Nekaph at the lead, the army of the undead kept up their tireless march at the speed of the desert wind, implacably striding their way northward.

They were headed straight towards Italica.

Tristan had only visited Italica once, when the army stopped there on the way to the Gate. The city was bustling with life back then, with farmers driving produce-laden carts across busy streets and traders from all across the southern vassal states displaying their wares on colourful market stalls in the city forum. He also saw plenty of demi-human species roaming around, living and working alongside the men as equals. Even the warrior bunnies of the north, so recently brought to civilisation by the Empire, had a place in Italica as independent farmers and workers. It almost resembled Sadera in miniature to his eyes, without the slums and barely-restrained crime that characterised the capital.

As he walked beside the Reaper along the main street of Italica, the young soldier noticed that the city was still quite busy. It was, however, busy for an entirely different reason.

Tristan saw men loading carts with timber for the barricades. He saw all the citizens of Italica, including the old men and women, dragging logs from their wagons or tying them into place with rope, putting up crude palisades, or boarding up the windows of particularly large and sturdy insulae. Instead of being filled with travelling merchants or other such folk, the streets were instead filled with long queues of weary families on carts pulled by exhausted horses and oxen. They were refugees from the surrounding towns seeking shelter in the best-protected city they knew, Tristan knew, and it was likely that these were simply the remnants that bandits and deserters had not managed to prey upon. He could see the nameless fears in the eyes of everyone they came across, the worry among the citizens of this new foe, and the more concrete terror of the soldiers who had seen the dead.

So this is the price of our failure, he thought.

The soldier and the Reaper reached the city square, where an Imperial soldier was training a company of new recruits. He noted that all of them besides the drill instructor were lacking in proper armour, and they were mostly armed with farming implements. He briefly looked down guiltily at his own complete and well-fitted suit of Imperial segmented armour and the finely-made sword hanging from his baldric. The helmet he wore also began to feel stifling, as if it did not truly belong with him.

When he turned his eyes at the recruits again, he noticed that the Reaper was looking at him.

'You know one of those men?' the Reaper asked.

Tristan shook his head, which elicited a short chuckle from the Apostle.

'The way you were looking at them, I thought that one of them owed you money,' she said.

Tristan again shook his head.

'It's just that…' he began, noticing that the recruits and even their drill instructor were staring at the Reaper with undisguised awe. 'Look at them. They're armed with pitchforks and daggers. And I'm almost certain that bearded one's kettle helm used to be a true kettle at some point.'

'Princess Pina did mention that as one of the army's problems, yes,' the Reaper replied with a shrug. She resumed her walk, choosing to ignore the recruits who were being berated by their equally-guilty instructor for staring at her. 'The old count's records seemed promising, but they turned out to be from before the Gate expedition. The count, ever the forward-thinking man, made a generous contribution of his own men and materiel for the expeditionary force.'

She chuckled again, this time without any humour.

'Look what that got him.'

She then looked at Tristan with a sly smile.

'But as my attendant, I made sure that you're armed and armoured with the best our armouries can provide,' she said.

'And I'm quite grateful for that, Your Holiness,' the soldier replied.

Tristan only learned about his new status as the Reaper's personal attendant when he regained consciousness. That event was a shock for him for more reasons that one: suddenly waking up in one of House Formal's guest rooms was one such reason. And as the Reaper's attendant, he received other privileges no other common foot soldier would have, including care from the best doctors House Formal had available. That medical care was the reason behind his rather quick recovery from his many injuries, though he still had to spend several days in bed. He also still had bandages around his arms and legs as a precaution, and he knew the scars on his face would be permanent.

This new privilege was almost overwhelming for Tristan, whose heart still stung at the fact that he deserted his post during the first battle. He admitted as much to the Reaper when they first met and during one of her visits to check on his condition, but the Apostle assured him that his knowledge of the enemy was essential to her. She had asked him plenty of questions on these skeletal enemies whenever she visited, and she figured out that he saw more of the foe than even the allied soldiers sent after the Imperial army's defeat. He accepted that line of reasoning, having no other choice, but he still knew that he did not deserve this honour.

Tristan and the Reaper continued their walk across Italica's main square in silence, content to allow the recruits' call-and-response drill chants provide the background noise for their aimless walk. The soldier could not help but steal a few glances at the Apostle beside him, who marched on with her usual small amused smile.

Despite having spoken to her multiple times, Tristan could still not fully accept the fact that the young-looking woman, who was not even tall enough to reach up to his shoulders, was the infamous Rory the Reaper. He grew up hearing tales of the Reaper, the immortal Apostle of Emroy who could laid low the greatest warriors of the age if they grew overly proud or who massacred entire companies of soldiers as a sacrifice to her god. In none of those stories was she described as a whimsical girl who picked up stray deserters betrayed by their companions or dragged said deserters to leisurely morning strolls in a city preparing for a siege.

Still, Tristan had already seen this woman in action. The way she made use of the halberd she seemed to take everywhere with her – including in this walk – left no room for doubt: she truly was the Reaper of legend.

The Reaper raised her hands and waved, which led Tristan to turn to look at whom she was waving at. He saw a trio of figures approaching, all of them dressed in ornate Imperial plate. He immediately recognised the leading figure: Princess Pina Co Lada, fifth daughter of the Emperor and commander of the Imperial Order of the Rose.

That was the first time Tristan saw Princess Pina or any other member of the royal family in person. She cut a fine figure in armour, the soldier decided, and moved with the practised poise and confidence he would expect of one the greatest bloodline in the Empire. She was beautiful, that Tristan did not deny, her well-formed limbs honed by her military training. The feminine breastplate she wore also gave a clue of the shape of the body it protected. Her complexion was fair, much like most citizens of the Empire, but also had a healthy ruddiness to it that spoke of her outgoing and tomboyish lifestyle. Her face was one of noble elegance, and her famous wine-red hair was arranged in a simple braid that flowed to her back alongside her cape of Imperial crimson. Her eyes, which were of the same deep red as her hair, and they showed the promise of an intellect sharp as a well-honed blade.

It was not Princess Pina's lovely appearance that surprised Tristan the most about her, thought. Her beauty and that of her mother, Lady Nell, were already well-known throughout the Empire. What truly captured the soldier's attention was how naturally she seemed to fit into the role of commander. The knightly order she founded was, after all, not treated too seriously by most in the Empire. It was little more than a spoilt princess's toy legion, he had been told, composed only of pretty noblewomen playing with weapons or veteran knights who could not get worthier appointments.

She doesn't look like she's playing around, he thought as he watched the princess discuss something with the short-haired woman at her left.

The bald, pudgy old man at her right, whom Tristan recognised as the knight Grey Co Aldo, saw the Reaper and point her out, which caught the attention of the princess and her companion. The three then quickened their pace, stopping a few paces from the Apostle. They then bowed in the manner of a supplicant before a clergyman of the highest rank while the Reaper formally curtseyed to the princess in response.

'Good day, Your Holiness,' Princess Pina greeted. 'I must say this is a pleasant surprise.'

'I am simply getting a bit of fresh air,' the Reaper replied, her eyes squinting slightly as her ever-present smile grew. 'The atmosphere in Formal Manor was getting a bit stuffy.'

'I'm afraid the mood out here is not any better,' the princess admitted, though she kept her neutral mien. She then turned to Tristan.

'I see that your chosen attendant is well enough to join you,' Princess Pina told the Reaper, though she was looking right at Tristan. 'Well met, Sir…'

'Tristan, Your Highness,' the Reaper replied for Tristan's sake as he raised his arm in salute. 'Tristan Em Sarka.'

Tristan Co Sarka, he thought, but he decided against speaking up. His god-name was, after all, merely inherited from his family. He had always worshipped Emroy above all the other gods ever since he decided to enlist for the Imperial Army, so his name being changed by an Apostle was little more than an acknowledgement from his patron deity.

'Legionary of the first rank, eighth cohort, Fourteenth Legion,' he added with a click of his heels. 'If it still even exists.'

'It sadly doesn't,' the princess replied, briefly glancing at the Reaper before returning her gaze to him. 'But I see that you have found yourself a new master to serve.'

It took all of Tristan's willpower not to visibly flinch. Not only was he being accused of abandoning the Imperial Army, which was true in a sense, but he was also being accused by a member of the royal family, of the bloodline of the Emperor whom he pledged to serve.

He was about to protest, but a sudden burst of laughter from the Reaper interrupted him. The attention of the princess and her companions were all drawn to the Apostle, whose unrestrained belly laugh also distracted the other people in the square.

'Oh, perish that thought, Your Highness,' the Reaper said after her laughing fit, rubbing a tear off an eye. 'Tristan here takes loyalty so seriously it's almost ridiculous. Didn't I tell you that I found him after he tried to fight off a group of deserters who had turned to banditry? The man was true to his oath of service even in defeat.'

Princess Pina looked at Tristan again, this time with something resembling respect.

'I… I see,' she said, almost hesitantly.

'I serve the Empire,' Tristan simply replied, 'and I will fulfil my oaths to the gods and the Emperor in whatever function I am needed.' He then thought he saw a small smile in the princess's face, further brightening up her already beautiful features. However, the smile was gone after a mere moment, and he doubted whether he truly saw it at all.

'Don't worry, Your Highness,' the Reaper said with a wide smile. 'I'll give him back to you once I'm done with him.'

'And I'm certain the Imperial Army will have a place for him then,' the princess said, nodding at Tristan as a show of respect.

Sir Aldo suddenly tapped the princess's shoulder to get her attention. Princess Pina turned to regard her subordinate, who whispered something Tristan did not quite hear. The princess nodded and asked something, and the old knight pointed a finger somewhere behind the Reaper. Curious, both Tristan and the Reaper turned to see what he was pointing at.

There was some commotion among the recruits drilling in the middle of the square, with the drill sergeant speaking with a newly-arrived man who held onto the reins of a horse. They seemed to be arguing, or at least talking animatedly about something, when the instructor seemed to notice the princess and point to her. The other man looked at their general direction, and Sir Aldo raised a hand as if to get his attention.

The man then jumped on his horse and urged his horse onward, seemingly trying to urge his horse to a full gallop.

'Oh my,' the Reaper said, 'some problem with the preparations, I suppose?'

'Possibly,' Sir Aldo replied, sounding as if he too was not sure of what was going on. 'We've been having shortages of rope for the barricades at this stage.'

Tristan turned to see the knight rubbing his chin in thought.

'But a mere shortage shouldn't really prompt that kind of haste…' the knight muttered.

The entire group simply watched the horseman, whose horse neighed in protest and stood on its rear legs when he suddenly bade it to stop.

'News from the South Gate, Your Highness,' he said after getting the horse under control. 'Our sentries report a large cloud of dust approaching from the south-west.'

'A cloud of dust?' Sir Aldo asked, responding for the princess's sake.

The princess and her other companion exchanged confused looks, and Tristan noted that the Reaper's smile had turned into a concerned frown.

'If you'd allow me to make a comparison, my lord,' the man said, to which Sir Aldo nodded. 'It's like that dust cloud kicked up by a stampeding herd of cattle, but larger. Much larger. It's a full blown dust storm, if such a thing can happen here.'

'Could it be the enemy army?' the princess asked, seemingly calm but with agitation evident in her voice.

'Impossible,' her female subordinate said. 'How could they have gone here from Alnus in less than a week?'

'I don't know,' the princess admitted, 'but we best be prepared for anything.'

She turned to the messenger.

'Lend him your horse,' she ordered, pointing at Sir Aldo. She then faced the old knight without waiting for the messenger's response. 'Head to the South Gate, and put our forces there on high alert. Hamilton will head to Formal Manor to alert the countess. I will rally the reserves and head to your position.'

While the princess was explaining the particulars of her orders, Tristan took a moment to look at the Reaper. A chill ran up his spine as he saw her make an expression he had not seen her make before.

The Reaper was snarling in anger.

'Do you hear that?' she hissed, her words grabbing everyone's attention.

'Hear… hear what, Your Holiness?' Tristan asked.

The Reaper did not respond, instead tightly grasping her halberd with both hands as she grit her teeth. Whether in anger or in frustration, Tristan did not know, but all he knew was that the situation had to have turned truly dire for her to react in this manner.

It was then that he noticed the wind starting to pick up.

That does it for this chapter. Nekaph is the storm that is approaching. I decided not to start the battle here so the next chapter can contain all of it. Or maybe most of it. Most likely most of it since there's this once scene I really want to end a chapter with.

Khsar's Incantation of the Desert Wind is really only supposed to be an augment spell in-game, but it's also a sandstorm. I could probably have other uses for it. I'm also not sure how many Liche Priests should accompany a Tomb Kings army. They only need a lord and a hierophant on the tabletop, but some a small bit of lore in the 8th edition army book seems to imply that there were several of them in a battle. I decided to go with a few of them being there. About three of them.

Austin: At least some part of the allied army managed a somewhat orderly retreat under Prince Duran and his men, so they had no time to think about banditry.

Drgyen: That's true. Duran suddenly just agreeing to become a mummy would be pretty out of character for him. And as for Tuka, she did have some reason to exist in the original story, which was to give Itami the motivation to fight the flame dragon. Besides that, though, she doesn't really have much going for her. She'd have less going for her in this story, where there's no Itami and I'm slowly putting Pina into the spotlight as main hero.

gama71: I have some plans for both Rondel and Bellnago, especially Rondel. And Bellnago would be a big, juicy target for the Tomb Kings if they ever learn of its existence since it houses the main temple of one of the gods of their enemies. As for the demihumans, more on them after the Battle of Italica.

Chosen-One-92: They might be close to useless, but at least they're not Carrion in Total War: WARHAMMER.

Monshroud: I've been trying to read up on GATE magic, and it seems like it's quite foreign to its world as well. The gist of how it works is that a magician implements a 'false principle' of magic upon the 'true principle' of the world using energy from alternate dimensions and whatnot, but it's also not very well-understood even in-universe. Considering that the liche priests cast magic by manipulating the Winds of Magic (initially) without knowing they exist and getting the gods in the Realm of Souls to do much of the work for them, I think their magic won't be any more or less stable than they were in Nehekhara. Their magic is among the most stable and reliable in Warhammer anyway.

Don Orbit: That's pretty much the plot of the story, yes.

Well, that's it from me again. Up next: the Battle of Italica.