A/N: I'm back! Exams are over at last. I'll try and return to my normal routine from now on, but apologies in advance if I'm a bit rusty, and I hope you enjoy.
The brutish man roared gutturally as he brought his axe down to earth; the signal for those serving him to charge. He peered into the eyes of those Imperials ahead of him, who had gathered hastily into ranks, spears lowered to face the rush of zealots, and cultists, and marauding warriors of the north that opposed them. Just before the two sides met, he saw the beads of sweat dripping down their faces, and saw their polearms twitch as they shook with fear.
There was an uproar as battle was joined. The disciplined ranks of the mercenaries struggling against the strength and reckless bloodlust of those servants of Chaos who opposed them. The Chieftain marched forward. Ahead of him, a cultist was brought low by a spear-point to the throat, though his victory was short-lived as another pushed past the spear-point and tackled him, dagger in hand.
The line was beginning to buckle now. The chieftain was almost disheartened; this battle was to be short-lived. Already his followers were getting between the ranks of the spearmen, where their strength and savagery could be exploited. He grinned at his victory, swiping his axe into the stomach of a mercenary who had filtered through the battle-line. It embedded itself beneath any protection offered by the man's cuirass, and he spat red as the axe was released and he fell.
But then there was commotion above him. He and several of those around him looked up as window flaps swung open and curtains were peeled away. Barrels appeared out of each opening, like the broadside on a warship. They opened fire in sync, down into the crowds of heretics. The padded leather of the norsemen and the naked, tattooed bodies of their followers offered no defense, and immediately their ranks were thinned. The Chieftain roared in rage, but also in excitement; they were trying desperately. There would be more blood to shed. He charged, filling a gap in the line that was left by one of his fallen comrades, who had a seeping red hole in his back.
Peering down at the skirmish, Sofie sighed. "So you say we must help these barbarians?" She ran a finger along her blade to get the Banshee's attention.
"Yes," there was a cold and infuriating laughter, "If you want to get into the chapel, these brutes have one of those you need. I chose her specifically because her condition makes her an easy target." There was an echoing yawn.
Sofie bit her lips in frustration. She tasted iron, and her bottom lip felt warm and sticky. That only made her angrier.
"What," She sighed, "What do you mean 'her condition' ?"
"You shall see. Go, now. Make sure the Imperials lose in this struggle." The voice went silent, as though the siren was musing. "Another thing, My Lady..."
Sofie ignored her, watching the carnage unfold with the same care as a bird of prey watches underbrush, for any sort of movement and any opportunity for prey. There was another billowing of smoke from the houses on either side of the pavement as the handgunners loosed another volley. There were howls of pain and shock as rounds struck home.
The shots came from three buildings; one behind the crumbling line of mercenaries, and the other two on either side of the skirmish. The closest garrison to Sofie was beneath her and to the right, a modest little bakery; all wood-framed brick with a dull maroon roof of tiles. She dropped onto the building with a loud crack of shattering tiles. Nobody seemed to notice; there was still the din of battle to conceal her.
"You're going to have to get used to-" Sofie beat her fist against both of her swords, a signal for the Banshee to silence herself. She complied. Sofie then dropped down to ground-level, turning and dashing through into the bakery proper. Inside, things looked very usual - save for the eery, if expected lack of shopkeep or customer. The polished wooden counter, displaying now-moulding loafs, rolls and cakes, was unharmed by the chaos - as were the handful of paintings that framed the walls.
A candle-light from the floor above cast a shadow down the stairway and across the floor ahead of her. It was a man in a feathered cap, preparing his handgun for another round. Sofie felt haste at the prospect of her tools in the Chaos warband dying off, so she broke into a run - clearing the rest of the room and the stairs in a matter of moments.
She stopped as quickly as she had started, surveying the hall. Three sets of doors led to rooms on the left - probably the bedrooms of this place's previous owners, storage rooms, and the like. The handgunner had moved from the hallway , through one of these doors which was open just enough to let light through. Sofie turned and pushed through the nearest door, drawing her sword. The mercenary didn't even have time to turn around before she was upon him, impaling him in the back once and then twice again for good measure.
Then she cursed herself, as she felt that animalistic tug again. She dropped to one knee, drawing her flask. It was cold, and the water within it was still and full of dirt. She poured it onto the wooden floorboards with disdain, instead placing it on the mercenary's back and forking blood into it.
"What are you doing?" The Siren questioned, "Don't you realise you have a job to do? When the Count returns, and you have failed-"
There was that din again. From the left, two great explosions shot out. She heard, faintly, the quiet chorus of gunfire from the other buildings. There were more howls of pain, and a hurried scampering of heavy boots - too loud for any normal man. The marauders and heretics were retreating...
She stood up, closing her flask and peering out of the window. Sure enough, she caught sight of a pale leg, marked with all sorts of twisted iconography, escaping from view.
"Move, then, you animal!" The voice spoke sharply and angrily, "Can you do nothing right?" Sofie stood bolt upright, jumping from the window - with her enhanced body, it wouldn't harm her - and sprinting off in pursuit. The Imperials were either too slow, or too caught up in their victory, to react to her. She heard their jeering grow faint as she increased the distance. It was almost a mockery, or it felt like it; like they had victored over her as well.
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. One of the cultists was bleeding, she could smell it. The odour was inhuman, carrying with it the smell of burning flesh. No doubt it was a result of some gift. She scoffed at the thought, but it was nauseating and enticing all at once. She sniffed the air to locate her target, and with the determination of a hunting dog she followed it.