The Outland Legion

by J.Logan

There is a mercenary company roaming the land. An entire legion of sellswords, but they don't ask for coin, typically. No, they ask for knowledge of events, even if only in the form of rumours, they ask for raw materials, and they ask for use of facilities with which to work those materials. In that order of preference. They are armed. They are professional. They are... lizardmen?

16. The Siege of Bealivun – Day One

The Siege of Bealivun – Day One

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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 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 that 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 then taking those children that might actually have some small semblance of untapped strength, few as there will 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, urged it ever faster. Behind and to his sides, his fellow knights followed his example and laughed in a mocking cackle.

Korild only stopped laughing when his horse's head exploded in a shower of blood and 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, left 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 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, allowed time for the rest of the horde to catch up. That would include the other half of the horde's knights, 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 shock, but that shock was quickly replaced with 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 his 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 had quickly learnt that the creatures had been packed into a tight formation, spears braced in anticipation for 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 to 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 into 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 semblence of skill to use properly, unlike those abominable guns—where it was literally a case of point at the target and pull a trigger. 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 warriors 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 that so chose to do what they could to prevent a proper fight.

The challenge was answer 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, amour 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 calvalry 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 surrounding 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 from 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 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, examined it intently. It was one of three that surrounded the village, out in the open so it was impossible for any 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 the 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 started to move 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 pole-arms 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 spotted daemons, and that those daemons 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 a threat of daemons attacking. Panicking them, losing them 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. Had been built with stone as if for the sole purpose of preventing him from simply ordering the buildings be 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 Korild 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 man 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 gimace, 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 the Korild.

'For all their weakness,' Rutgar spoke slowly, but with a deliberation that suggested he was choosing his words specifically, '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 warrented 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 at 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 he stared at Korild, and it took all of Korild's restraint not to snap at the thuggish looking warrior, a small part of the knight's mind insistent 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, took in the war-band in its entirety. Specifically, his gaze wondered 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, and 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, instead were serrated blade-like pincers that could cut through even hell-forged armour with an ease that was terrifying to behold, 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, examined the daemons with an almost disdainful eye for three and 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 to his eyes. 'I can work with that.'

Korild snorted disdainfully. 'Of course you will.' He didn't add on the "because I told you to", there was only so far he could push the larger warrior. But the other man certainly caught the unspoken addition, his eyes narrowed 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 held in check 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 was brisk in returning to the scene.

With a practiced ease that came from a youth spent climbing trees and pretending to be a hunter rather than a priest in what spare time he's had before leaving Madrigal, he 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 made an assement on 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 regiments-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 one charge was no doubt under the assumption that Zak had not changed his formations after the first wave fended off. Zak narrowed his eyes in a ever so slight grin.

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

The gun-lines fired as a single entity, created 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, didn't turn 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 sideward and escaping, 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, spewed 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 that they were protecting, 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 entitles, 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 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 which 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 ranks had finished reloading.

'Second rank, fire!'

The fifth choir 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 practiced over centuries, the phalanx formations of saurus stepped forth and braced, met those that charged at them with snarls and 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, looked to be finding 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, lifted that same hand and launched 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 korxigors 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 that 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 aimed into 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 trained 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. Didn't bother with dropping to street level, called out a command for his captain to take command in his absense and then leapt to the nearest rooftop and sprinted, used the tops of the buildings as a road exclusive to his use. 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. But 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 that 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 over-confident 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'd had weapons to have the large thundersaurs carry? They did as they'd already done in every other aspect, and 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, tracked the other warriors who had been approaching this particular bottleneck, hummed 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, hissed the singular word in Saurian. The word was echoed by the crew riding atop the second bastiladon seconds later.

The heavy weapons fired again, caused 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-pedal, 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 practiced 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 itself adhered 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, left it 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 daemons 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 spear 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.

-TBC