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?

12. Assault on Feyerabend - Pt 3

Assault on Feyerabend - Part 3

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The Old World – Feyerabend Keep, Middenland – Year 2517 IC

Captain Kro-Loq entered the keep's main hall, his blade rested on his shoulder, mostly at ease but still alert for any threats who might have escaped the first sweep of the keep. Instantly, the Scar Veteran's eyes rested upon a trio of saurus and a skink, positioned in such a way that they looked relaxed, but also had eyes on every entry into the court hall.

More interesting was the way they were stood protectively over another skink, instantly recognised by Kro-Loq by the brimmed hat, green and yellow feather still pinned to the side. Major Boney seemed to be asleep, one foot twitching, and...

The captain's eyes crinkled in amusement.

'What happened?' he opted to ask one of the four standing watch over the slumbering major. He doubted it was actually a case of sleeping, not unless their newest major was a narcoleptic who'd somehow avoided being noticed as such.

One of the saurus answered, tone equal measures concern and amusement. 'The major miscast and then not even minutes later dispelled a sorcerer's magics.'

That would do it, Kro-Loq thought, eyes widened momentarily. 'Is the colonel aware?'

'Oh yes,' the same saurus answered again with a grin to his eyes. 'You could just see the moment that his instincts went all paternal.'

There was a shared chuckle amongst all five currently awake. As if reacting to the sound of amusement, the slumbering skink groaned, body shifted in that manner that suggested that he were no longer asleep, just clinging desperately to the idea of remaining so.

Kro-Log's amusement deepened. 'Wakey wakey, Major Adorable.'

Boney let out an angry hiss at the nickname, one amber eye opened to deliver a baleful glare, though the effect was very much undermined by the grogginess of one still half asleep.

Kro-Loq shook his head in his continued amusement. 'You can't complain about being called adorable when you are still hugging your own tail.'

Boney's eye narrowed in confusion, then his gaze lowered to take in the fact that yes, at some point in his sleep, he had wrapped his arms around his tail. With a look of absolute betrayal, the skink pushed the appendage away from him and then shifted so that he was sat upright, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

'How long was I out?' he asked.

The other skink in the hall tapped his foot on the ground as he considered the answer. 'It's been a while. Congratulations, you have managed to make the colonel, as well as everybody else, worry about your survival instincts.'

Boney mumbled something that Kro-Loq failed to pick up. The scar veteran huffed and moved closer, held out a hand in silent offer. Boney didn't register the offered hand at first, and when he did, he leaned back with a startled hiss.

Oh, right, he's skittish around saurus. Forgot about that.

Kro-Loq pulled back his hand, nodded when Boney gave a silent look of apology and pulled himself to his feet with help from the offered hand of the other skink instead.

'My instincts are fine,' Boney finally spoke up again.

'Ah-huh. I don't know much about using the Winds of Magic, but even I know that a miscast takes everything out of the one to suffer. You then used the Winds again.'

'It was to dispel, not cast a fresh spell,' Boney argued.

Another saurus crossed his arms and when he spoke it was clear that he was channelling the colonel when hearing words that were missing some key point of logic. 'A dispel is still using a spell.'

Boney also crossed his arms, though in a far more mulish manner. 'I'm fine.'

'You've triggered old paternal instincts in Solin with the amount of worry you put him through, I wouldn't be surprised if he tanned your hide as a result.'

Boney's head tilted. 'What?'

'What?' Kro-Loq repeated.

'I know those words, but not what they mean put together in that context.'

Kro-Loq's eyes narrowed into a grin. 'I'm sure you'll work it out eventually.'

Boney straightened his posture, but the wobbling as he took a step told Kro-Loq that despite the mental exhaustion induced nap the skink had just had, he still wasn't fully recovered. When a hand moved to offer support in keeping the smaller reptile steady, it was slapped asides by the major's tail with an irritable hiss.

'What's happened while I've been out of it?' Boney asked. When he registered the look Kro-Loq aimed his way, he shrugged a single shoulder while wrapping his arms around his own torso as if warding the cold. 'If the colonel was so worried, wouldn't he be waiting here for me to wake up?'

'Point.' Kro-Loq allowed. 'We've been sieged.'

Boney blinked, turned to look at Kro-Loq and blinked again. 'I thought we were the ones doing the sieging?'

Kro-Loq hummed in acknowledgement. 'Yes. But at some point somebody else arrived and sieged us.'

Boney's mouth opened and closed as he took in the words, inscribed their meaning to his mind and realised what that actually meant.

'We're being besieged after having sieged the keep ourselves?' Despite the questioning inflection to the words, Kro-Loq got the impression it was a rhetorical question, as if the major needed to say the words to truly comprehend the meaning.

He gave the answer regardless. 'Yes.'

The skink shut his eyes and pressed his palms to his temples, rubbing in a circular motion. 'I'm still dreaming, I must be. I want to be.' Then Boney winced. 'No, head hurts too much to still be asleep.'

Kro-Loq gave a sympathetic wince. 'I suppose it's a bad idea for you to try casting any magic then?'

Boney gave a disdainful snort. 'Not for a couple of days.' He turned to face Kro-Loq. 'What's the plan then?'

Kro-Loq shook his head. 'I wouldn't know, I'm still searching through the keep and letting Solin, Mort and Sharpe worry about the army outside. But unless we sally out and meet the army outside the walls, we're trapped. The rest of the Legion is a day away, and I've been told that there is an undead army between us, unless the runner we got is mistaken.'

Boney hissed something in High Saurian that Kro-Loq wasn't able to catch. After he finished, the Scar Veteran clicked his tongue to get the skink's attention.

'We never found the bodies that Iycan reported being carted into the keep. And one of Sharpe's skirmishers mentioned smelling the rotting dead to me earlier, so we know they were definitely brought here, and the skirmishers didn't see them leave.'

'You want to continue searching the keep?' Boney realised and asked in one breath.

'That's our job. Primis, Fortis and Sharpe's Chosen are the ones with the job of keeping us safe while we work.'

Boney opened his mouth, but at that moment there was a rumbling cracking sound, muffled through the stone walls, but still enough to vibrate their bones. Boney jumped and his head tilted in the direction that the sound had originated, eyes widened and coloured with a nervous concern.

#

There was a static stillness to the air, a moment where time slowed to a crawl as the fates themselves were pausing to take stock of the scene for prosperity. Dirt and shards of rubble rained down from the sky, finally pulled back to the ground by gravity after a startled pause when an eldritch bolt had laid low a previously solid and whole structure.

Happy picked himself from the ground, his ears still ringing. It took precious seconds for his mind to catch up, to recall why he was laid flat on the ground when last he'd been aware he had been atop the wall surrounding the village. His mind forced him to relive the previous minutes, reminded him that he had just gotten very lucky.

Another couple of feet to the left and he likely would not have survived the foul bolt of energy which had destroyed the gatehouse. As it stood, he'd been close enough that he had been physically thrown aside from the force of the bolt slamming down upon the stone structure. His back ached, along with everything else. But better aches and pains than the death that almost befell him.

His ears stopped ringing, and words could now be heard.

'Fall back! Fall back to the keep!'

A saurus appeared at Happy's side, hand automatically latched onto the chameleon's arm and started to guide with a side-order of pull Happy toward the inner gatehouse, which would lead to the walkway up the scarp and to the motte, and the keep atop the hill.

Under normal circumstances, Happy would have protested the treatment from the saurus, but with his head still throbbing in time to his heartbeat, he would make an exception this once. He was generous like that.

It had nothing to do with how movement caused his vision to double and blur and the ground to start spinning, no-no-no. He was letting the saurus feel useful for the retreat.

Happy swallowed back the bile that wanted to force its way up his gullet. Once they had pulled back to relative safety, then he would afford himself the time to let his body have its moment of weakness. But while retreating, best to just get on with it.

They'd barely started moving when Sharpe appeared, eyes momentarily creasing in concern as he took in Happy's state, but quickly buried any emotion behind a mask of stoicism.

'Happy, I have a task for you.'

Happy swallowed back the bile, shut his eyes for five seconds—he counted—and then looked again at Sharpe while pushing away any discomfort he was feeling. He listened to his newly assigned task.

#

Solin leapt down from the wall, his hand pulling his blade from its place at his back even as he dropped. Nearby, Sharpe was projecting his voice, urging the withdraw with a calm tone, calling out names in order to urge faster movement while also timing such as to prevent

His right hand pointed at a small group of saurus, ignored the fact that Mort was right behind him and called out.

'Ey, you six, with me!' He redirected his gesture toward one of the skinks assigned with handling the various salamanders. 'You, bring a salamander or two, come with me.'

They didn't question, they simply started to follow as Solin moved toward the breach in the wall. Mort likewise followed close behind. Even with the deliberate movement toward his goal, Solin still paused when they passed any saurus or skinks, helped get them moving in the right direction, helped those who had been thrown to the floor and still groggy get to their feet.

'We are buying time for everybody to get to the keep,' Solin didn't so much as explain as point blank tell everybody following him the objective truth of what was happening. They weren't going to try to buy time, they would buy time.

He was vaguely aware that there was an additional individual following him, one that wasn't Mort or any of those he had commanded to come with him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that the human captain had decided to tag along, was in the process of strapping a new shield to his arm as he marched—had probably picked it from the ground, still littered with the fallen arms of the previous defenders. There could have been any number of reasons for Sigismund's decision to include himself, but with the threat being a Chaos war-band, Solin wasn't interested in diving into a deep contemplation on the motives of a human of the Empire choosing to fight against the biggest existential threat to the Provinces. He could be fuelled by fanatical hatred, patriotism, or he could just be some berserker who enjoyed picking a fight against nigh unbeatable enemies, Solin honestly couldn't care about the reason, just that it would be an extra sword against the threat.

The destroyed gatehouse left a gaping hole in the surrounding wall, rubble and cracked and shattered stone left the ground uneven, but Solin barely noticed. With a hiss, he planted himself in the centre of the open wound in the defences. Mort positioned himself to Solin's left, didn't even need to think about his positioning, long experience had Mort aware of the reach of Solin's blade on a near unconscious level. If Solin were to stretch his arm, to extend his zweihänder to its limit, Mort would be a single step out of reach.

The six saurus from Mort's Primis Regiment split themselves into two trios and stationed themselves as an extension to the broken wall, held up their shields and pressed them together. To Solin's immediate right, Sigismund took a cautious step into that space. Solin slowly swung his blade to his right, hoped that Sigismund was intelligent enough to understand what Solin was trying to say without speaking.

To his credit, Sigismund did watch the blade and after a pause took three large steps to the right, furthering the distance between them, putting him outside of Solin's reach, unless the Oldblood were to take a step to the side.

'Have those salamanders burn anything that tries to get around us,' Solin called back to the handler. 'And everybody be ready to run the moment I give the word.'

There were acknowledgements, but anything further was forced to be put on hold, as the first of the Chaos warriors became visible, marching forward with a deliberate but not rushed pace. It was a common misconception that the warriors of Chaos had no concept of discipline, that they didn't march or use formations. That wasn't true, Chaos was many things, but stupidity and ignorance of how to wage war were not one of the many flaws associated to the armies of the Ruinous Powers.

Those armoured Chaos warriors that were now marching forward? They were warriors who had forsaken their lives in order to become instruments of the Ruinous Powers. Despite typically coming from the numbers of the northern tribes, these were no fools, as much as the civilisations standing against them would like to claim. Savages in their chosen allegiances yes, but they were not so stupid as to be called a mindless horde. Only the most gifted of warriors were granted the right to wear that hell-forged armour, these were no marauders, these were elite soldiers serving a great evil.

Solin lifted his zweihänder and lightly pressed his forehead against the flat of the blade, took note of the way that the silversteel almost seemed to vibrate, the azure hue almost lighter in shade than normal. With a soft hiss, he adjusted his stance, readied himself.

The first wave of the armoured warriors reached the gap in the wall and picked up their pace, charged as though the added momentum would help smash through any resistance.

Solin swung, blade coming down and from left to right. The heavy greatsword, fuelled by the strength of its swing, managed to cut through the white armour of the first warrior, sliced through the flesh beneath, but the slowed momentum was enough that the blade was prevented from cutting out through the other side, forced Solin to slam his foot into the corpse, to push it back and slide his sword free. There was a momentary pause from the other warriors, likely taken aback at the fact that he'd managed to cut through the hell-forged armour with a single swing. It was an advantage that was more than most people could boast, but not unheard of. The biggest shock was no doubt the fact that a blade had downed one of them on the first swing, had it been a warhammer or an axe they might have not been so surprised.

The saurus warriors to the sides didn't have the same advantage, their shorter and more mundane blades wouldn't be slicing through the full plate mail leaving forced to aim for the weaknesses in the armour, or rely on bludgeoning the warriors. Solin didn't spare a glance toward Mort, the Eternity Warden was experienced enough that Solin had no doubt that the other saurus knew how to fight the Chaos warriors, armoured or not.

Solin's thoughts were momentarily cut short, momentary reprieve that came from the attacking warriors pausing in surprise at somebody cutting through their armour short lived. A warrior charged forward, a great two-handed axe swung around with clear intent to decapitate. Solin ducked, let the crescent blade whistle through the air, then straightened his legs, his zweihänder swinging up with him in an upper cleave that carved through the helmet. He quickly twisted the blade's momentum, aimed the downward chop to hack through the arm of the next nearest warrior, managed to leave the warrior howling with rage and pain as the limb fell to the blood soaked ground. The vengeful screaming was cut short when Solin adjusted his grip mid swing and thrust the weapon into the warrior's neck, then kicked the still gagging warrior's body, freed his blade yet again while launched the armoured weight into another warrior, caused the other to stumble at the sudden weight thrown against him.

Solin re-adjusted his grip back to how it had been previously and was already swinging. As much as he doubted he'd get the momentum he really wanted to build up, it didn't hurt to keep trying, and he'd prefer to keep the blade cutting down anybody that approached from as far as the blade could reach under normal circumstances. Half-swording was all well and good for giving extra strength to a swing or a stab at close quarters, but it cost him the reach he preferred.

Another warrior of Chaos entered within Solin's reach, was cut down quickly, the zweihänder aimed for neck, managed to slip between the helmet and the cuirass. The headless body dropped, another obstacle on the ground for the oncoming horde to be forced to climb over, a trip hazard to make life increasingly difficult for the attackers. For the short time it would matter, the numbers were such that Solin knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was a matter of when, and not if, the Chaos warriors began to overrun the small defending group.

Sigismund was a surprise to Solin. When he chanced a quick glance to his right, he took note that the human had just blocked a blow from a large axe, and returned the favour by way of a short thrust of the longsword into the gut of the one responsible. The glimmering blade punctured through the plate with ease, such ease that even Sigismund was visibly taken aback. The human pulled the blade free, just in time to be able to block a cleaving swing from another Chaos warrior's axe, his shield arm buckling from the force, but Sigismund's expression twisted, and his stance shifted. No longer was he huddling behind his shield, only relying upon his blade to parry unless he spotted an opening to a weakness in the armour, often the joints. Now, fully aware that he was carrying a blade that was capable of rending through the hell-forged platemail, he made use of his weapon to retaliate and riposte with all the eagerness of a warrior-priest of Sigmar when faced with such foes.

There was something off about Sigismund. He fought with a blood curdling hatred fuelled with a raw fury that he didn't bother hide from his features. His fighting style reflected those emotions. Armed with the knowledge that his foes were defenceless against his blade, he would aim thrusts and cuts with a clear desire to bring pain to the warriors attacking what was once his home. A hand cut free, followed by a swing that would leave the now disarmed warrior hamstrung and laid on the ground to be trampled over by his own comrades. A gut wound inflicted, blade twisted before being pulled free, leaving the recipient of the attack to curl up and die a slow painful death. This wasn't just a hatred of Chaos attacking the keep though, this felt deeper.

It wasn't difficult to remember how single-mindedly Sigismund had attacked Boney in the court hall, despite his liege telling him to stand down. Whatever else could be said of Captain Sigismund, he was very clearly empowered by a rage that didn't seem to have any specific target. A rage that burnt but yet was cold enough that he aimed not for simply killing his enemies, but to make them feel their lives slowly drain away.

After all was said and done, Solin needed to keep an eye on that one.

From behind the Chaos warriors, Solin noted that a large figure had appeared. It towered over the warriors, its flat ugly face looked squashed and malformed with a large mouth gaping which gave it a look of incomprehension. Around this large armoured figure, the warriors hurriedly moved aside, gave it a wide berth.

'Oh good,' Solin hissed sarcastically. 'Of course they decided to bring a troll along.'

For his sarcastic concern at the large creature, it still wasn't the worst thing that could have been thrown at the Legion. A troll was an annoying obstacle, especially without good numbers to hack away at it faster than its regenerative prowess could keep up, but trolls were also stupid creatures, replacing their brains with more muscle and even then often failing to properly make use of their own physical might. Better a troll than a dragon-ogre or a giant or even a Greater Daemon of some variety.

The troll's small beady eyes locked onto the line of defenders and widened with some incomprehensible emotion, or whatever passed for emotion within the deformed minds of trolls. It hefted its oversized club, squared its haunches, and it charged.

Solin's eyes widened at the speed of the troll and barely reacted in time to avoid the wild swing of the beast. As it stood, the spiked club came uncomfortably close to Solin's face for any measure of comfort, avoided or not. The club was slammed into the ground and then dragged into an arching sweep which was hurriedly avoided by a panicked somersault, followed by a stumble once Solin's feet were once again touching the ground. He quickly stabilised himself by slamming his tail on the ground, anchored himself for the brief time he needed to regain his bearings.

It was easy to see that the Chaos warriors had achieved their goal with sending the troll. It might not have killed Solin with either swing, but now he was out position, and the warriors would no doubt be taking advantage of that opening once the troll moved and was no longer a threat to its own side. Mort and Sigismund were also moving out of position, both looking decidedly uncomfortable at the proximity of the troll. Fortunately for them, the troll's eyes were locked onto Solin and it was letting out moaning sounds that were probably meant to be some indication of anger at not killing its chosen target.

It lumbered forward, hefted its club again. Solin snarled and pointed his blade at the troll, but not with intent to get into a duel with the wretched beast.

'Salamanders!' he called out.

Though he wasn't specific in what he wanted the salamanders to actually do, unlike the troll, the salamander handler was gifted with intelligence and common sense. There was a burst of heat, the flaming bile of one or both salamanders launched at the troll. The troll bellowed, hand not holding the club coming up to its face to rub at the flames now licking away at it.

Solin watched, took note of the moment the troll decided that the flames weren't so bad after all. Despite receiving more burning bile to its flesh, it returned its attention to Solin and took a step forward, grumbling at each fresh patch of fire that started to sear its flesh.

'Aim for the eyes!' Solin shouted back to the handler.

The handler clicked his tongue and whistled. The salamanders paused in their attacks. Solin really hoped that it was because they were taking the time to aim their bile, and not because they were confused about the unusual order.

One of the salamanders hacked, a sound similar to a feline trying to remove a fur ball, and then released a stream of burning liquid. The troll let out a piggish squeal as the burning substance connected with its face. It wasn't directly upon the troll's eye, but it was close enough that the troll wasn't going to ignore it as it had resolved to do previously, not with its eye at risk. It rubbed its now flaming the brow with a panicked franticness.

While the salamanders kept the troll occupied with keeping its eye safe, Solin advanced, careful of the frantic and careless movements of the club. Once he was close enough, he swung his blade with as much strength as he dared, hacked into the troll's ankle as a lumberjack would a particularly resiliant oak. Once, twice, five times he chopped at the troll's flesh before it finally collapsed, hamstrung and no longer able to support its own weight upon that leg.

The ground shook at the troll's girth crashing down. Mort reacted quickly to the sudden nearness of the troll's face to where he was standing his ground, slammed his shield into a Chaos warrior and then twisted around and thrust his sword into the eye of the troll that hadn't been burnt to near ruination by the salamanders. Thick viscous fluid dribbled down from the punctured orb, and the troll squealed, flailed impotently, but was unable to prevent Mort from twisting the blade and pushing it deeper into the eye socket with a loud hiss.

Trolls were infuriating to fight. They could regenerate from all manner of wounds. Supposedly, even decapitation could be recovered from, the head regrowing over time. Even as Solin watched Mort's efforts, he could see that the ankle that had just been dealt a blow which would cripple any other was already knitting itself back together, it was only a matter of time before the troll was once again on its feet.

Despite the regenerative abilities of trolls, they weren't invincible, but at that moment they weren't equipped or numbered for taking out a troll, especially not when the Chaos warriors were still contributing against their efforts.

An armoured warrior managed to slip between Mort and the trio of saurus to his side, while they were all distracted. It wasn't the first such effort, Solin had been aware on the edge of his perception that dozens of such attempts had been thwarted in the precious minutes spent holding the line, through it was the first to come so close to Solin, who had been doing rather well at keeping control of his space. The warrior quickly found himself screaming in agony as the salamanders, now unable to shoot for the troll's eyes, instead burnt the warrior, his armour heated rapidly from the flames now coating him.

There was a crack in the air, the light of day momentarily blinked into darkness then returned. The next couple of seconds, Solin listened as even though the orchestra of combat, he could hear the collapse of another fragment of the wall. Clearly the warlord in charge had decided to hasten the occupation of the bailey.

'Fall back,' Solin called out.

The saurus all back-pedalled, their shields still linked. This wasn't a panicked retreat—they didn't turn their backs to the threat. It wasn't a mindless withdrawal, they were keeping themselves protected. The two trios met up, were quick to combine their defensive efforts, the shield wall now protecting their sides as well as their fronts.

Solin waited for the saurus to pass him before moving back himself, half his attention firmly affixed to the troll even while he took into account every warrior of Chaos that poured through the hole in the wall.

'Mort,' Solin called out as the Eternity Warden, 'where's the second breach?'

Mort shook his head even as he slammed his shield into a charging warrior, knocked ythe wretch to the ground, whereupon Mort stabbed down, used his weight to help puncture the armour.

'I didn't see,' Mort answered.

A group of warriors charged toward Solin. The Oldblood back-stepped to avoid a wild swing of an axe, then twisted around, swung his zweihänder using his body's momentum to add to the force of the blow, cut down the warrior who had swung the axe and knocked the axe from the hand of a second. Side-stepped and lifted his blade. Knocked another warrior's attack aside and then slid his blade down the length of the axe's haft until he cut through the warrior's wrist. Crouched low, angled his greatsword and thrust at the next warrior charging toward him, punctured through the cuirass through the combination of the strength of the stab, the keen edge of the blade and the warrior's own forward momentum. Kicked the warrior off of his blade and then jerked his arms abruptly, pounded the pommel into the helmet of another warrior.

The warrior who took the blow to the head staggered back and was cut down by Sigismund, the longsword still tearing through the armour with ease, no sign of blunting. The human twisted around looking for the next foe to face. His expression twisted, not in anger or hatred, but shock, and that was Solin's only warning. Solin barely avoided the silvered blade that came uncomfortably close to being a decapitating swing. Heard the whistling of the air as the blade's edge passed him by with inches to spare.

The curved blade was attached to a long dark steel pole, held by a tall pale fleshed man, whose face was marked with scars, eyelids torn away and his nose missing, in its place a gaping hole. His ears had been removed, and what remained of his lips was sewn to his cheeks, giving him a permanent rictus grin. Considering every other aspect of his face had been removed, it was honestly surprising he still had hair, dark and braided, reached down to the small of his back. He wore purple leggings, held up with a bone-white sash. Over his chest he wore armour in the style of those from that island nation even further east than Grand Cathay, painted upon the front was that same black and white skull that the standards bore. Tucked into his sash were two curved swords, one longer than the other.

About him, the air writhed as though unwilling to be near this entity. This was no mere warrior, this was a champion. And like the one who was in command of the war-band, this champion was of exalted status.

The champion twirled his glaive, adjusted his stance and then launched himself forward. Solin barely managed to block the blow, but block it he did, then quickly pivoted his body and twisted his zweihänder in an effort to cut through the Chaos champion's forearm. The champion released his grip on his weapon, moved his arm aside in avoidance and then crouched low and caught the glaive as it fell. He pivoted, slammed the steel shaft of the weapon into Solin's knee. Solin hissed, took a step back, ignored the throbbing pain from the impact and adjusted his stance into one of protective readiness while his eyes took in the champion, assessed everything about him that he could.

The armour the champion wore did little to hide his lithe build, his feet never stopped moving, constantly bouncing in readiness for the moment where he needed to truly move. The champion twirled his glaive with an absented minded ease. But his dark lidless eyes, they looked upon Solin the same way Solin was looking upon him. Where Solin was trying to assess this fighter for any clues about his style or weaknesses, this champion was assessing and analysing him in turn.

Solin made the first move this time, stepped forward swinging his zweihänder in a low sweep. The champion back-stepped, lifted his right leg enough that the blade slipped under his foot, and then lunged, swung his glaive up and to the right. It was a matter of instinct and prediction that had Solin lift the hilt of his weapon even as the majority of the blade remained low, blocked the glaive with the lower third of the zweihänder's length, then rotated his wrists, moved the sharped end of the sword's length in a circular motion that would cleave into this champion's upper arm, or neck, while the lower end of the greatsword continued to push at blade locked in the bind.

The champion weaved his torso to one side, dodged the blade with the grace of a dancer, then took a step back and planted the shaft of his glaive into the ground and used it to propel himself feet first into Solin. The saurus grunted, but managed to avoid stumbling more than a single step when he used his tail to tripod himself, rooted himself in place. The flying kick hurt more as a result, but his immobility also meant that this Chaos champion lost momentum he hadn't expected to lose and landed on his back with a startled grunt, but there was no time to capitalise on the champion's startlement, for he regained his bearings quickly and looped his legs around one of Solin's and rolled, tilted the saurus sideward and upset his balance. Solin found himself joining the champion on the ground.

Solin hurriedly grabbed the wrist of the champion when he made to pull free one of the swords at his hip, prevented him from switching to the shorter blade. Nearby, Mort lunged toward them, sword angled to skewer the champion. The champion took note, instantly kicked his legs out with force enough to launch him off the ground and back to his feet. Despite one hand still confined by Solin's tight grip, his other hand, the fingers of which had never released their hold upon the glaive, swung the polearm at Mort. Mort lifted his shield, and Solin watched as the glaive sliced through the protective barrier with far too much ease for comfort. The champion then slammed his heel into Solin, connected with the saurus's brow. Against his will, he released his grasp upon the champion's wrist.

The champion didn't get long to relish in his freedom, Sigismund charged him, forced the champion to weave away with a twirl and angle himself so that he could see every threat.

And Solin was at that moment aware of a loud bellow. Turning his head, he watched as a massive figure charged. He almost mistook the newcomer for an ork, so big was he, but no, his flesh was distinctly human in hue. He towered over the rest of the Chaos warriors at a seven and a half feet tall, with a broadness to match. He didn't wear armour like the warriors. Instead he wore hide boots and gloves, a simple loincloth and a thick cloak. His face was completely obscured, concealed by the large skull of a dragon-ogre that he wore as though it were a helmet.

In each hand this new arrival carried an axe, both as oversized as he himself was, and yet he didn't seem the slightest bit inconvenienced at holding the great axes with a single hand each.

His roar was borderline inhuman as he charged. The saurus warriors, still slowly retreating, paused in their movement in favour of bracing themselves against the oncoming attack. The skull-clad champion swung one of his axes, didn't even try to aim his effort around the shields between him and his desired target, simply slammed the crescent blade upon the heavy shield with such force that the shield shattered, exploded into countless fragments, and the saurus who'd been holding the shield was sent flying back with one arm very clearly broken and hanging limp.

The skull-clad champion didn't stop there, he swung the other axe, cleaved through the arm of another saurus and then the first axe swung upward, lodged itself into the chest of that same saurus. The Chaos champion bellowed and lifted the axe, seemingly ignoring the fact that the saurus's body was still hanging from the weapon. With another scream of challenge, he swung his arm, the force of which removed the body, sent the corpse flying into another saurus who was sent to the ground.

Solin hurriedly kicked himself to his feet and lunged toward this new champion, swung his zweihänder and managed to intercept the axe that would have left the floored saurus a head shorter. The champion gave off yet another roar and redirected his attention to Solin.

'Run,' Solin shouted to the still living saurus among them. 'Just run!'

The floored saurus clambered to his feet and started to sprint for the fall back point. This was no longer an instance wherein an orderly retreat was advisable, speed now was the only chance they'd have of surviving now that they were faced not with the lowly warriors, but with champions, all seemingly of exalted status. It felt wrong to see so many of such status in one place, yet here they were. An exalted warlord, and a retinue of just as exalted champions beneath him.

The skull-wearer swung at Solin with a furious flurry that the Oldblood was only able to back-pedal away from in order to avoid death. As much as he loved his zweihänder, it wasn't a quick weapon for defending against a furious barrage of attacks as he was now target to. Again he noted how the sizes of the twin axes did little to stop this champion from swinging in a blurred motion.

A small part of Solin's mind wondered whether this was what it felt like to be on the opposite side of his own flurried swings. It gave him a fresh new appreciation for just how demoralising it could be when faced with a threat that was near impossible to actually get to.

One of the retreated saurus screamed in a panicked fear. The skulled champion paused in his flurry for a brief moment, which gave Solin time to take in the sight of the saurus in question. Or rather, to take in the sight of the literal cloud of swarming insects, their buzzing inaudible over the sound of Sigismund and the first champion still fighting. Seconds later, the swarm dispersed, and the skeletal remains of the saurus were revealed, stripped bare of any meat. Nearby, a man cackled, stepped out from behind one of the buildings, dressed in faded green clothing of silks and cottons, finery that looked out of place with his face, which was mottled and twisted by a combination of age and boils and sores, his lips pulled back into a mocking smile, eyes alight with a fanatical glee.

And from behind the old man came a woman, her own flesh permanently marred by mottled scarring that looked to have come from terrible burns. The only clue that existed about where she originated from were her clothing, equally as rich in material as that of the old man, but with a distinct style that came from Araby.

The woman lifted a palm, and the embers of blue and purple flames began to spawn. A sorceress then.

With a snarl, Solin turned away from the skulled one, whipped his tail around to slam into the champion as he did so, and he moved at the sorceress and the old man. The old man's eyes widened in manic glee as he took in the approaching Oldblood, spoke words that Solin wasn't able to hear. The sorceress redirected her palm, while her burnt face gave away no emotion. Purple and blue flames shot forth, toward Solin. Solin dove, managed to slide beneath the flames, close enough that he felt the heat, but not so close as to actually be burnt by the foul magics. The moment the fire ceased, he was back on his feet, swinging his blade in an upward cut.

The sorceress barely managed to move her hand out of the way of the weapon's passage, the first expression to grace her features emerging in the form of startlement while she hurriedly backed away. The old man also looked shocked, but the gleeful mania returned quickly, and his own hands came up. The scent of decay and sickness thickened in the air, but any pestilent magics he might cast were willingly cut short when Solin angled himself so that the sorceress was between them. The old man's expression shifted, became bemusement, his hold on his foul powers faltering, before then he adopted a mocking sneer, the scent thickened again. He was planning to cast even if it caught his own comrade in the crossfire, something that she immediately realised if her own expression of disgust was any indication.

Except then the old man gagged, hand lifted to press on his temple as if to ward off a migraine. He shook his head, mouthed words silently, then gagged a second time. Finally, the grin fell from his face in favour of raw hatred. His hands lowered, and he stared at Solin and the sorceress with a hollow glare.

The sorceress glared back, but returned her attention back to Solin the moment the saurus shifted, ready to run her through while he'd thought he distracted. Her own hands came up, fingers curled, and the air felt charged and warm. The air twisted and flaming spheres appeared, hovered in place behind the sorceress, and then shot forward Solin.

Solin backed away, weaving from side-to-side to avoid the flaming projectiles, use his sword to bat aside those he wasn't certain he'd be able to dodge. Moments after the projectiles stopped flinging themselves at him, Solin felt his back make contact with a living body. A glance over his shoulder revealed Mort, looking worse for the wear, his shield so damaged that it barely counted as a shield any longer. The skulled champion was standing a small way back, heaving. Sigismund backed away from the glaive wielding champion, his own shield likewise utterly destroyed and he sported freshly bleeding cuts about his person.

'We can't win,' Mort hissed, jerking his head at the tide of warriors trickling into the scene, all watching their champions fight with jeering anticipation.

Solin grunted, eyes moved to check whether all the other saurus and the salamanders had managed to retreat yet.

'We run. Now!'

At the shouted final word, Solin turned and he sprinted for the walkway to the top of the scarp, to the motte. Behind him, he was distantly aware that Mort was close. There was a furious scream, the thunderous cacophony that was dozens, maybe hundreds of armoured boots slapping against the paved ground as the warriors of Chaos all registered that the three had bolted.

As they ran, Solin strained his senses, worked to determine how close the pursuit was behind. The majority, they were distant, and the gap between them was growing. But there was one set of footfalls that were getting closer, gaining rapidly. With that awareness, Solin rested his zweihänder upon his shoulder and slowed his pace, ever so slightly. Mort and the human passed him, but he waited, just a moment and then spun, swinging his blade with as much force as he could.

The glaive champion couldn't physically widen his eyes, but he managed to convey shock as he barely managed to bring his polearm up in time to block the strike. However, the force that Solin brought to bare was too much, and the champion was thrown, landed with a harsh grunt, the haft of his glaive bent from the massive sword's impact.

Solin didn't hang around to admire his handiwork, fully aware of the continued threat now catching up. He hurriedly sheathed his blade and he ran, perfectly willing to go on all fours when he stumbled, so long as he kept moving. He reached the walkway, and but still he didn't stop, ascended the inclined path until he reached the gatehouse at the top which marked the entrance to the motte.

'Fire!' Sharpe's voice rang out.

#

Sigismund cursed softly when the skull-wearing Chaos barbarian appeared at the edge of his vision. He stilled his run, braced and barely held back the axe that was swung for him. The longsword he had been gifted continued to endure, shimmering blade looked as pristine as the moment he had first laid hands upon the weapon.

He was starting to suspect that this was no mere master-crafted blade, but had been imbued with some measure of magic. It cut through the armour of Chaos with an ease that should not have been possible otherwise, and the more he swung the blade, the more he noted that despite being larger, longer than his previous arming sword, he was swinging it with far more speed than his previous weapon. And now it was surviving a blow that Sigismund was under no illusion about what condition it would have left his previous sword.

A muttered expletive escaped Sigismund's lips. He scrambled back, tried to put some distance between him and the Chaos barbarian. Not a moment too soon, the distance he managed to gain was such that he was able to see the other axe and react in time, ducked beneath the crescant blade and then managed to parry the follow-up swing from the first axe. Unfortunately, the barbarian then followed up with a kick that connected solidly with Sigismund's chest with force enough that even the padding beneath his chainmail wasn't sufficient to cushion the blow. He managed to stay on his feet, but was short of breath and not about to be given time to catch that lost breath.

Another flurry of powerful swings from the barbarian's axes was launched at Sigismund. Worse, the captain of the Efror Guard could see the lesser Chaos warriors approaching, looking to surround him.

He couldn't win this one. Not by himself, and he couldn't see the lizardmen anywhere. It was entirely possible that they had simply left him by choice, though if he was feeling generous he would concede that it was possible they weren't in a position to take note of him and any trouble he was in.

The Feyerabend Estate was lost. There was no recovery from this. No salvaging his home.

Sigismund swallowed down the bile that the last thought had threatened to bring up. His home was gone. That marked twice now he had lost a home.

He would survive, he would rebuild. The Feyerabend Estate was lost to him, but the people, the Efror Guard, they remained and they were waiting for him.

With a scream of fury, Sigismund lunged forward, as though to thrust at the skull-wearing barbarian. At the last moment, he redirected his momentum, swung the blade and cut down one of the lesser warriors and then ran through the opening that it had created, eyes focused not toward the outer wall surrounding the bailey, but to where he knew survival to lay within.

Behind him, the Chaos warriors were momentarily stupefied by his abrupt change from fighting a futile battle to seemingly fleeing like a coward. They recovered their wits quickly, and started to chase after him. A risked glance over his shoulder before Sigismund rounded one of the buildings showed that the skull-wearer wasn't following, was just glaring after him.

Good, that just meant that Sigismund might actually survive.

#

Happy cursed softly. It sounded like whatever delaying action had been made was no longer delaying. He carefully pushed another canvas satchel of filled with gunpowder against the underside of the walkway leading up the scarp and to the motte. Nearby, another skirmisher hissed softly as they almost dropped their own satchel.

'Sergeant,' a third skirmisher whispered. He was only visible by virtue of Happy knowing where he was already. 'Looks like Solin and Mort are retreating.'

'Then we're out of time,' Happy said with a tone of anger. 'Damned Chaos gobshites. Last charges, plant 'em and move!'

Even as he spoke, he forcefully grabbed another satchel and decided against elegance and simply shoved it forcefully into a gap in the criss-crossing support structure keeping the walkway partially elevated at a shallow incline. Once he was certain that it wasn't about to slip free, he pushed himself away, fell to the far steeper slope of the motte's scarp and dug claws and talons into the ground, climbed sideward to get himself out from under the walkway. The three chameleons that'd been with him were quick to follow his example.

From the scarp, Happy was able to watch as Solin and Mort sprinted the length of the walkway, the flying bridge or whatever it was that the humans called the wooden artificial slope.

'Fire!' Sharpe's voice was heard.

There order was followed by the sound of thunder in chorus, echoing as every other skirmisher under Sharpe's command all fired as one.

The first of the Chaos warriors to step foot on the walkway were torn to shreds by the barrage of bullets sent their way, their armour good, but not good enough to save them. Few things were capable of defending against a veritable wall of projectiles propelled forward at such speed.

Happy kept one eye firmly upon the two Oldbloods, made careful note of their progress. Once they'd reached two thirds of the way up the walkway, he tilted his head enough that the eye previously watching the Chaos warriors was instead able to look upon one of his fellow skirmishers. He held out a hand in silent request.

The chameleon handed over the end of a long string-like object which snaked its way back to the part of the walkway which had only moments earlier been where the quartet of skirmishers had been positioned. It was with great satisfaction that Happy carefully pried the pistol from the strap keeping it secured to his wrist. This pistol wasn't loaded, no gunpowder within. But that wasn't its purpose at that moment.

Happy felt great glee as he held the end of the fuse against the flintlock hammer, pulled back that same hammer and then pulled the trigger. Without loaded gunpowder, the pistol didn't discharge, didn't make any sound, but the hammer still slammed down, created sparks, and ignited the fuse. The wick lit up and quickly that small flame trailed down the length of the fuse. The moment it reached the opposite end of the wick's length was immediately apparent.

There was heat and light and fire and sound as the walkway was torn asunder from the concussive force created as the dozen satchel charges planted in the support structure detonated. The walkway cracked and splintered, was ripped it up and destroyed completely and utterly. What remained smoldered and burnt, the fires would destroy the wreckage.

Down in the village, the warriors of Chaos stopped, stared up at the motte and screamed obscenities.

Happy laughed manically, took great pleasure in seeing Chaos foiled in any capacity. After a minute of enjoying the sight, he twisted and climbed the scarp until he was back up to level ground. Only then did he allow his scales to return to his preferred vibrant shade of green.

Sharpe was quick to notice him, gave a nod of appreciation and gestured to where Happy and the other three skirmishers had left their clothes. Happy was quick to grab the discarded uniform, pulling on the breaches, even as he listened to the conversation around him.

While the green of the uniform could well have been close enough to colour of the grass growing on the steep incline, it had been decided that it wasn't worth risking themselves at that moment. Better to allow their adaptive scales to do all the work and remain utterly unseen. Setting up the explosives had been delicate enough that they really hadn't wanted to chance it.

'Well, that should buy us some time,' Sharpe commented. Despite the attempt at a light tone, there was a definite undercurrent of fear. No doubt fully aware that there was no

'You rigged the walkway?' Mort asked.

'I had Happy start planting the charges the moment that champion opened the wall.' Sharpe crossed his arms. 'But we're trapped here now.'

Mort made a sound that was barely legible. Sharpe shot the Eternity Warden a look, then shook his head. Mort stared at the chameleon in silent conversation, and then gave a low sigh. 'They have at least two sorcerers. Not including their leader.'

'Which means they can keep blasting us with magic even after we've run out of ammunition,' Sharpe snarled softly. 'We're stuck here.'

Solin, silent since he'd got to the courtyard, looked around, eyes narrowed. 'Where did the human go?'

Sharpe tilted his head. Happy, still in the middle of fastening his breeches, shook his head and answered in his stead. 'He never reached the walkway.'

Solin and Mort shared a look. Mort's eyes were narrowed in what Happy recognised as the look of suspicion and distrust. 'There was something wrong with that man.'

Happy chose to ask 'What do ye mean?'

Solin answered. 'The way he fought. I've only seen two types fight like that: Khornate berserkers, and Dawi slayers.'

'I get the berserker, but how did he make you think of slayers?' Mort asked while his distrustful gaze softened to confusion.

'He didn't fight like he cared if he survived or not. He would defend himself but only in the way that it meant he could cause more harm to the enemy.'

'Emphasis on harm,' Mort mumbled. 'I saw him inflict a gut wound when he had a clear opening to decapitate.'

Solin nodded. 'Always fatal. But slow and painful deaths.' He turned his head, was clearly looking down at the village below.

Happy followed the Oldblood's gaze while he shrugged on his under-shirt. He wondered if the colonel was trying to see anything in particular. Standing at the inner gatehouse which had granted access to the now destroyed walkway, there were five figures staring up. Happy shivered, could feel the vengeful hatred the five projected.

The armoured figure in the middle, the apparent leader, didn't give any outward sign of such hatred, not the way that the four who stood at his sides did. Where they shook their fists and were clearly expressing their hatred and anger and fury, the armoured leader just stood, strange sword rested point-first on the ground and balanced upright from the single palm rested on the pommel. He looked almost at ease, but Happy got a definite sense that the thick and heavy feeling that coated the air was mostly from that one single entity.

For a leader of a Chaos warband, the armour seemed borderline bland. The gold runes decorating his armour almost blended in with the white metal if viewed at the wrong angle, there was a distinct lack of skulls, unless one counted the sigil that was displayed upon the standards held by the lesser warriors under his command.

But Happy could still recall that moment that he had swung his sword and brought down a bolt of energy that had so utterly destroyed the gatehouse. Had sent Happy flying despite what had been a fair distance between himself and the target of the bolt.

Bland, but in that way that meant he was supposed to be unassuming. Or maybe he was just strangely frugal about decorating his armour, pragmatic in a way that Chaos usually wasn't.

Happy shivered again.

#

Boney stared, wide-eyed at the desecration of what was supposed to be a chapel dedicated to Ulric. Kro-Loq made a sound of understanding, his own eyes rested upon the banner which had once displayed the wolf, torn and covered with an image of a skull bisected in two, half white half black.

The eight-pointed star taking a place of pride was hardly a surprise at that moment.

'Say what you will about Chaos, but subtlety is not their strong suit,' Kro-Loq mused thoughtfully, prodding at the ruined banner.

Boney huffed softly, moved sluggishly toward a strangely barren part of the wall. Where nearly every surface available had been decorated by banners and iconography related to the white wolf—or they had been before they'd been soiled and perverted by the iconography of Chaos—the presence of a large six foot wide breadth of wall left completely bare had the major curious.

'Is there a reason to leave a bare patch here?' Boney asked absently, staring at the stonework.

Kro-Loq answered with a hum of consideration, and Boney was aware that he'd turned to look upon the wall himself. 'None that I know of. But nobody ever accused the warmbloods of making sense at the best of times.'

'But they still often make a twisted sense,' Boney argued, recalling everything he'd been taught about humans, particularly of the Empire. He wasn't going to claim to be an expert in the subject, he was taught second hand knowledge, whereas the Legion's senior members had actually spent time mingling. 'And human fanaticism follows its own logic, doesn't it? Follow the rules of their deities as interpreted by the priests, show faith in excess or be judged not truly faithful.'

The Scar Veteran chuckled. 'Not that different from us then. We follow the Great Plan of the Old Ones as interpreted by the slann. Annat'corri, and the Legion, is proof that even the slann don't always agree on interpretations.'

Boney shook his head in acknowledgement of that. Back on the Madrigal Isle it was just an accepted fact that their Lustrian cousins saw them as odd outliers, mostly harmless in that the Legion had never interfered with the more mainstream interpretations. Even on Madrigal, Annat'corri was one of three Slann presiding over the isle, and one of the other two was known to disagree with Annat'corri's vision of how to go forward. The third was more neutrally ambiguous, though accepted Annat'corri's project, as the Legion's existence hardly hurt the Great Plan.

Still, Boney tapped his knuckles against the barren patch of wall. It just rubbed him the wrong way to see this empty space in a sea of iconography and ostentatious religious decoration.

Boney and Kro-Loq both blinked at the sound that came of Boney's knuckles making contact. It wasn't the low muted sound of knuckles lightly tapping solid stone and rock. It was loud, the kind of loudness that came from air vibrating with the sound and echoing it back. This wall was hollow.

Both skink and saurus shared a look. The scar-veteran opened his mouth as if to suggest something, but then closed it, clearly second guessed whatever he thought to say. Instead he moved to the space where the emptiness turned to decorated, rested his palm across upon the wall and slid his hand against the rough stone. He stopped abruptly.

'I feel air,' he announced, slowly peeling his hand back and looking at the space it had previously inhabited.

Boney leaned closer to see for himself. Now that he was paying attention, he could just barely make out a line, a seam in the otherwise ordinary stonework.

'A door.' Boney spoke the word with curiosity, wondered what lay behind this hidden portal. 'How do we open it?'

Kro-Loq made a rumbling sound, eyes now affixed to the floor. 'I think it opens inward.'

'Why?' Boney asked, head tilted in confusion. Despite that, he lightly pushed at the wall, as if it would just swing open now that he was applying pressure.

Kro-Loq pointed at the ground. 'Didn't notice that before. The floor has been scratched, looks like something has been dragged across the floor repeatedly. But the wall? No scratches on the floor near it, not on this side.'

Like the seams in the wall, it was only because Boney was looking specifically that he was able to see what the saurus was talking about. Twin marks formed a trail, leading form the doors into the chapel and into the wall. But as Kro-Loq had said, there were no marks that suggested that the wall had scratched at the floor on opening.

The scar-veteran tapped at his sabre's hilt, eyes narrowed in thought, then eyed the large double doors that had led into the chapel, then looked again to the marks on the floor he'd pointed out. He looked like there was something just at the edge of his mind's awareness, a thought that hadn't quite borne into being, but was on the precipice.

Boney crossed his arms, waited for the saurus to finish whatever thought it was he was building up. After ten seconds, Kro-Loq spoke.

'Remind me, we were told it was a cart of bodies that was brought into the keep?'

Boney nodded, had memorised everything he'd been told before leaving for the Feyerabend owned estate. 'A cart full of dead bodies.' He affirmed.

'We haven't even found a cart in our search. Wasn't in the courtyard.' As he spoke, Kro-Loq held his hands out as if measuring something. Boney clocked onto his thought process.

'You think the entire cart was taken through that secret door?' he asked.

'The marks look wide enough to have been from the wheels of such.' Kro-Loq had a distracted tone as he answered. He turned, scanned the various decorative details lining the chapel. 'Look for something that looks out of place.'

Boney made a sarcastic show of examining the chamber. 'Hmm, that eight-pointed star looks rather out of place. So does that blood stain made to look like some symbol of the Ruinous powers.'

Kro-Loq didn't seem to take offence at Boney's sarcasm, eyes crinkled in amusement. 'Something not Chaos related, Major Adorable.'

Boney swallowed back the reflexive hiss of irritation at the nickname. With a sharp shake of the head he instead moved around the edge of the room, took careful note of everything hanging from the walls, every painting, every banner and every shelf that was supposed to be covered in Ulric-related objects.

He stopped abruptly at a small squared incline in the wall with an object which hadn't been torn out and thrown aside. It was a potted plant. A flower. A black flower.

'Does Morr have anything to do with Ulric?' Boney asked.

'Not really?' There was a questioning lilt to the answer, equal parts confusion at the question with uncertainty as Kro-Loq started to second guess his own answer before he'd finished voicing the two-worded answer.

Boney stared at the potted black flower. It was a real flower, a rose, the thorns jutting from the stem looked needle sharp, and the flower's petals a dark black that seemed to absorb all light. Despite the appearance, the flower gave off a pleasant scent.

'There's no reason you can think of that a black flower would be kept in a chapel of Ulric then?' Boney asked further.

Kro-Loq shook his head. 'Not that I know of, but'—he struggled a single shoulder—'I haven't taken the time to learn the relationships between the various gods of the warmbloods. I know Morr is god of the dead, that Ulric is god of war. Oh, and that Sigmar was once but a man, one who ascended through... methods?'

Boney shared a shrug and confused headshake of his own. The tales of Sigmar Heldenhammer's ascension were vague on just how the king had become a god, and surely the slann should have been able to explain in detail how a warmblood had accomplished such a feat, but no, if they knew, they'd never shared the details.

Boney prodded at the pot that the flower had been planted in, curious about why a physical symbol of one of the Empire's gods hadn't been desecrated as the decorations to Ulric had been. It didn't move, was rooted in place. The flower was real, the pot clearly filled with dirt, but the pot itself was not a clay container, but stone built into the alcove, as much a fixture as the very walls. A second prod and Boney noticed that his touch had actually pivoted it, ever so slightly. With a lack of any other idea, he grabbed the flower pot with both hands and twisted.

There was a yelp behind Boney, and when he twisted around, he found that Kro-Loq was looking at the newly opened wall, his posture shaken. It took the skink a moment to piece together that Kro-Loq had been pushing against the wall when it had abruptly swung inward and almost sent the saurus rolling down the sloped corridor on the other side.

'Worked it out,' Boney said in a light tone. 'Flower pot was a switch.'

Kro-Loq shot Boney a bemused look, though his attention was quick to return to the wide passage which had been revealed, his nostrils flaring as he took in a new scent. Boney took a few sniffs of the air himself. It took him a moment to place it. He was standing next to a black rose, so at first the scent was masked by the pleasant aroma. Decay, rot, and death.

'Smells like we're going in the right direction,' the Scar Veteran huffed out.

Boney nodded his head once in agreement, and then tilted it sideward as he considered the passageway. 'If we're going in there, I'm getting some of the cohort to come with.'

Kro-Loq made a sound of acknowledgement. Then cast a stern eye upon Boney, crossed his arms and made it clear that his next words were not for debate.

'I'm going in there, you will wait here.'

'Excuse me?' Boney hissed softly. It didn't even occur to him that he outranked the saurus and could just outright say that no, he was going in with the captain. Instead his immediate indignation had him stare at the saurus and demand an explanation.

'You're still moving sluggishly,' Kro-Loq said quietly. 'And your voice is slurring.'

'No it's not,' Boney rebutted, though he did try to listen to his voice as he uttered the words to determine the truth for himself. He couldn't make out any slurring, but while paying attention he did register that there was a pause between each word that there shouldn't have been.

Kro-Loq raised a brow ridge. 'You're still suffering from your miscast. I cannot in good conscience let you go into what might be a fight.'

Boney sucked in his protest, much as he wanted to debate the point that he felt fine. Logically, he knew that nowhere near enough time had passed since his miscast and follow-up attempt at using magic for a proper recovery. The fact that it had been to dispel an enemy's own magics was irrelevant, the fact that he had collapsed afterward meant that he had blown through his mental stamina in a way that only time could recover from. Time spanning at least a day. As much as he felt fine, he was aware of every warning ever made to every skink with a talent for utilising the Winds of Magic. How he felt was irrelevant. Apparently his feelings were a lie, if he wasn't even able to notice his own voice slurring.

'Fine,' he finally grunted in reluctant agreement. 'I'll grab a few saurus and skinks, they'll go with you. I'll go see how the majors are doing and let them know we found this... tunnel.'

Kro-Loq's eyes narrowed slightly into a thankful smile.

#

Sharpe watched the Chaos forces below. There was something unusual about how they were conducting themselves. Typically, a war-band of Chaos would be sacking and burning any towns and villages they came across. As a marauding force that didn't settle and kept on the move causing devastation, they had no need to garrison and occupy captured settlements. The village below should have been no different. Yet as the chameleon watched, the warriors weren't burning any of the buildings down. Doors were kicked in and anything of worth was taken from those same buildings and tossed into a pile for sorting at a later moment in time, but no fires.

It was remarkably restrained for the Chaos aligned.

The whole time, the leader of this war-band stood, still as a statue, helmet never looking away from the motte atop the hill. Sharpe had been tempted to fire at the white armoured figure, but restrained the temptation. If this exalted warlord wasn't killed, which was likely considering how good the hell-forged armour of Chaos had proven itself to be, then Sharpe would have only provoked the warlord into repeating his use of arcane magics with a specific target in mind.

That the warlord restrained himself from his eldritch blasts was probably only due to the fact that smashing the wall atop the scarp didn't stop the steep incline from making it just as difficult a target to rush as if the wall was still standing. This warlord knew restraint, and that in itself was its own brand of worrying. It was the warlords and champions who knew long-term planning and scheming that caused the most trouble, they were the ones that didn't burn themselves out overextending and pushing too hard.

The other four champions were nowhere to be seen. That was also worrying. From what Sharpe had seen of them, they were each an army unto themselves. Each was easily powerful enough they could have been leading this war-band—they'd survived and pushed back against both Solin and Mort when both were fighting side-by-side, a clearer picture of their prowess one did not need after such a showing. Just how capable was the warlord if he was able to have such individuals as his subordinates?

Sharpe absent-mindedly widened the space between his skirmishers upon the wall. He didn't want to chance one of those champions sneakily climbing the scarp in a space where there was no attention directed.

There was a sound behind him. Sharpe angled his head such that his right eye was able to look behind him. Major Boney approached, his gait had that stilted motion that suggested that his entire body was fatigued, though the smaller skink didn't seem to look like he was aware of his own aches, so probably some numbness on top of fatigue.

Sharpe had never envied the skink priests the risks that came from using such skill sets.

'You know, major, the amount of worry you put Solin through is triggering his paternal instincts.'

Boney paused in his approach, head tilted and eyes narrowed in confusion. 'What? Why does everybody keep saying that? What does that even mean?'

'You think the colonel doesn't worry?' Sharpe asked, choosing to ignore the slur to the smaller skink's voice. 'You're young, under his care, and you miscast and then decide to say screw it and cast again shortly afterward.'

'I wasn't thinking about myself, I was more concerned with the sorcerer throwing fire around,' Boney argued, continued to climb the stairs so that he was atop the wall. 'Not really in a position to worry about the consequences.'

'Maybe start thinking about them regardless,' Sharpe said, turning his head back so that both eyes could continue scanning the village below.

'Who are they?' Boney asked after a pause, during which time he examined the warriors of Chaos for himself.

'Chaos. Couldn't say more than that.' Sharpe shrugged in feigned nonchalance. After a moment, he re-angled his head so that he could look at Boney again. 'As a priest, you would be more educated than I on this subject. Does a skull, half white, half black mean anything to you?' Even as he described the symbol used on the war-band's standards, a hand pointed out one such standard for the smaller skink to see for himself.

Boney hesitated a moment, eyes fogged over as he trekked through his memories for anything that might be similar to the described sigil. He eventually shook his head in a negative.

'Doesn't match anything that I was taught about.'

'Damn. Here's hoping that Iycan continues to live up to his role as intelligence keeper.'

Boney chuffed in amusement, even if ignorant of just the full extent of Iycan's reputation within the Legion as the one who knew something about everything.

Movement caught Sharpe's attention and his eye focused on the appearance of the champion wearing the Far Eastern armour. The champion was approaching the warlord, steps short and deliberate. His glaive was held in one hand, no sign of the previous damage from Solin's swing earlier.

'What armour is that?' Clearly Boney had just noticed the champion's appearance.

'At a glance, it looks like the armour of the warrior caste of the island of Nippon, You occasionally see some of them in Marienburg as guards on trade vessels or as sellswords. Can't recall the name they use to describe themselves though.'

Sharpe was careful not to make a definite statement as Chaos could be prone to deception. That, and Sharpe wasn't exactly educated on the Far East beyond Grand Cathay—what experience he had with the lands to the east of the World's Edge was limited to the four years that he had spent fighting in Ind in a failed attempt by Annat'corri to establish a second force that would work the East while Ingwel and his subordinates would focus upon the lands between the World's Edge mountains and the western shores. With that failure, those who would have created that second force had instead been sent to Ingwel, and thus what had at the time been the Outland Company had become large enough to re-brand as the Outland Legion.

'Nippon?' Boney asked.

'Not a place the Legion has any experience with,' Sharpe explained. 'Though, if they fight anything like that Chaos champion, I'm not sure I want to have any experience with them.'

Boney hummed absently. 'We found where the bodies were taken,' he said after a pause, changed the subject.

'Oh?'

'Secret passage in the chapel. Wide enough that the entire cart that we were told about could fit with space to spare.'

Sharpe fully turned away from the village below to focus exclusively upon the other skink. 'A passage?'

Boney nodded a single sharp jerk of the head. 'Leading downward. Captain Kro-Loq is exploring.'

Sharpe let out a soft sound of understanding. Realisation then had his posture straighten. 'Underground tunnels... we might not be as trapped as we thought.'

At that moment, Solin and Mort approached, both arguing with each other, but voices soft enough that Sharpe wasn't able to make out the words. That was a good sign, it meant their arguing wasn't serious, likely more about throwing ideas at each other and then shooting them down.

'Colonel, major,' Sharpe called out, waving a hand at the two saurus in a come-hither gesture.

Both Oldbloods looked up sharply at the chameleon's calling. Solin's eyes then slid to Sharpe's side, drilled holes into Boney, narrowed. Anything he wanted to say wasn't released into words though.

'Good news, we might have a way out,' Sharpe said once they pair were near enough that he wasn't raising his voice to be heard. 'A secret tunnel.'

Mort blinked at the reveal. 'A secret tunnel? Leading where?'

Boney opened his mouth to give an answer, but snapped his jaw shut with a click, turned his head toward the village below. Sharpe followed the other skink's gaze and let out a sigh of bemusement.

'Hey, Solin, looks like he wants to be "sneered at twofold" after all.'

With a queer look to his face, Solin leaned over the edge of the wall so that he could observe the Chaos warrior who was approaching the keep, carrying that same white flag of truce that he'd had previously. The Oldblood examined the warrior for a period of ten seconds then pulled himself away with a shake of the head.

'Let's actually hear what he has to say this time.'

Mort snorted. 'Really? This wouldn't have anything to do with the reaction to your last display of wit towards him, would it?'

'No.' Solin's tone made it clear that this wasn't an attempt to deny the accusation but simple truth. 'This time we want them to waste time. And I want to know what they want. Specifically.'

The flag waving Chaos warrior reached the edge of the sharp slope of the scarp. Once he was aware he had the attention of four lizardmen upon him, and no thinly veiled insults were thrown his way, he started speaking.

'To the Lustrians who hold the Feyerabend Keep,'—he clearly didn't hear the triad of disgruntled groans that came from the misidentification for the second time—'the lord Skaros has decreed that he is not without mercy. There is no need for further bloodshed. Lord Skaros is willing to discuss a surrender.'

The warrior continued to speak, a constant spiel of how surrendering was in the Legion's best interest, they were in a position wherein they couldn't win a battle if violence commenced after all. Sharpe shook his head, feeling a surge of disgust and hatred at the Chaos warriors below that seemed to believe anybody could possibly take such platitudes as truth when uttered from the mouth of one who'd sold themselves out to the Ruinous powers.

Solin nodded with a quiet hum. 'Ok, I've heard enough.' He turned away from the wall, head bowed, chin rested between thumb and index finger while his eyes clouded with thought. After a moment, his other hand waved dismissively over his shoulder. 'Kindly tell him where he can stick his offer of surrender.'

Mort leaned over the wall and gave a considering look at the warrior, who finally paused in his tirade one seeing the saurus looking down at him.

'We haven't got enough room.' Mort finally shouted at the warrior. 'So we can't accept your offer.'

There was a pause, one of bafflement, which even Sharpe shared as he tried to work out where that had come from.

'What?' The warrior finally found his wits again to ask, though it sounded more akin to a stuttered "wut" than the actual pronunciation, an achievement for a single syllable word to be mangled so.

Mort began anew. 'We would love to accept except we don't have enough space for so many prisoners, so we can't accept your surrender. Sorry about that, but it was a nice offer.'

The warrior below stared, body language gave away that the man was completely lost as to how he was being told he wasn't allowed to surrender when last he knew he was offering them the chance to surrender. 'What...?' he finally choked out.

'Did you need anything else?' Mort asked in a mockingly polite tone, as if genuinely looking to help the warrior with his needs.

After a full half-minute, the warrior finally shook his head and turned, walked back toward the majority of his war-band. Solin snorted, shoulders shaking from the effort he was visibly making to not burst out laughing.

'Sometimes... often times, I think of you as a borish old coot,' Solin said to Mort once he regained his self-control. 'And then you go and remind me that you truly are a fellow Madrigallian.'

Mort's eyes narrowed in a rare grin of humour. 'I have to remind you younger whelps what it means to be Madrigallian.'

Boney let out a choked sound, wide eyes staring at the pair of saurus. 'What just happened?'

Sharpe took pity on the skink, curled an arm around his shoulders. 'It's a saurus thing.' It was the only way he could describe what had just happened. Sharpe himself would have taken Solin's command quite literally and far more colourfully, while Mort had done... that. He had no doubt that any other saurus would have done similar while any skink would have just introduced a verbal barrage of expletives.

'So, what did you work out from that verbal excrement?' Mort asked.

'They want the keep standing.' Solin answered swiftly. 'They have at least one hellcannon down there, and their warlord, "Skaros" I assume, has shown that he has the power to bring down stone structures with a gesture. They want the keep standing and undamaged.'

'Reaching a bit aren't you?' Sharpe asked. 'And they have three,' he added as an afterthought.

Solin and Mort both blinked at Sharpe. 'Three of them? I only see the one.' Solin shook his head in bemusement.

Sharpe sighed and pointed down at the village below. 'Hellcannon.' His finger drifted to the right, pointed at a second of the daemonically possessed warmachines. 'Hellcannon.' His finger then lifted, pointed out the last that he had noticed, barely visible where it had been placed mostly hidden behind what had once been a blacksmith's foundry. 'Hellcannon.'

'Solin's right.' Mort finally spoke after staring at the three warmachines. 'They easily have the means to wipe us out, instead they just offered surrender.'

'Since when does Chaos offer the chance to surrender?' Solin added with a sarcastic snort. 'Depending on the patron they'll trick a surrender out of their victims. But openly offering it? That doesn't fly with any Chaos followers. Not unless they have a specific reason. They want us to lay down our arms. Why? The keep is the only thing I can think of—the keep or something within.'

As one, the four lizardmen turned to stare at the stone structure.

'You think maybe they wanted the count?' Boney asked. 'That sorcerer didn't react well when he realised he was dead.'

Solin crossed his arms. 'Maybe?' But he didn't sound convinced with the answer.

There was a shout from the courtyard. Kro-Loq came out of the keep, eyes scanning and locking onto Solin and Mort. 'We have a problem.'

Sharpe sighed, turned away from the approaching captain with a dismayed 'Oh what now?' but he otherwise resolved to let the Oldbloods worry about whatever new development had arisen.

#

Mort stared around the vast cavernous hall that had been at the end of the sloped tunnel from the chapel, ignored the foul stench of rot that came from the dark depths of the many branching tunnels. There was an empty cart nearby.

'Catacombs?' he repeated incredulously.

'Supposed to be.' Kro-Loq sounded troubled. 'There were certainly enough black roses growing at one point. However...' he trailed off and pointed to a nearby vine, the flowers withered and long dead.

Solin snorted in disgust. 'The sanctity of this place has been fouled. You found no bodies?'

Kro-Loq shook his head. 'I've seen signs that there were corpses and remains laid to rest, but nothing remains. I think our necromancer found his supply of bodies here.'

'The question now is whether the count was aware that this tomb beneath his keep was desecrated in such a way.' Mort glowered at nothing in particular. 'How does one come to have catacombs under their home?'

'And supposed to be blessed by Morr at that?' Solin added on. He turned to Kro-Loq. 'How far do these catacombs go?'

'Far.' The single syllable answer was given in a tone of concern. 'And I've seen no sign of any remains still being here.'

Mort tilted his head. 'There has to be another way out of here then.'

Kro-Loq looked to the major with a questioning gaze. 'Why do you think that?'

Mort waved a hand at the empty cart. 'We haven't seen any undead in the keep, nor have any left the keep since this cart of bodies came here. But the bodies it brought have to be somewhere.'

'So, either they're hiding somewhere deep within the catacombs, or there's an exit.' Kro-Loq nodded his understanding of Mort's thought process.

Solin made a sound of contemplation. 'If there is, that means Chaos wasn't responsible for the undead, or they'd have known about another way in and wouldn't have had to start a siege of the keep.'

Mort huffed out a breath of air from his nostrils. 'I was hoping that stopping one would stop the other.' Despite the dour tone, he wasn't disagreeing with the colonel's logic. There was still a possibility that they were wrong, that the Chaos war-band were indeed responsible for the surge of undead, but Mort wasn't going to get his hopes up.

Solin rubbed a palm against his temple. 'Now the question I ask myself: is that war-band aware of the undead presence? If so, are they allies?'

Mort shook his head. 'The Ruinous forces aren't exactly fond of the undead. And didn't Iycan once mention that the various necromancers have aligned themselves against Chaos?'

Solin shrugged. 'So what was the sorcerer's role here? He was definitely Chaos aligned, he mutated one of my saurus into a pink horror and another into a spawn. An effort to control?'

'Let's not think about it until we're no longer threatened by the war-band,' Mort spoke after a pause of consideration. 'Not like any ideas we have will magically give us an advantage against them anyway.'

'True,' Solin muttered. 'Iycan went to check out nearby caves?'

'That was what he told Sharpe.' Mort answered automatically, but then straightened as he registered what that potentially meant. It was another point in favour of the idea that there was another exit to the catacombs. He looked to Solin who nodded, had clearly had the same realisation.

'I'm going to go get everybody into these catacombs, and I'm going to set the keep to the torch,' Solin resolved, steel in his tone. 'If Skaros does want the keep intact, I feel obligated to disappoint him. If he wants the catacombs? He's going to have to dig for them or search the hills for the other entrance. Captain, with me. Mort, you get started on finding us another way out.'

Mort didn't question Solin's order, and at that point it was indeed an order. This was the superior on the hierarchy, this was Solinaraxl, and Mort felt no need to question him. He turned and looked to the six other saurus and the dozen skinks within the chamber, who'd been listening to the conversation between the three without any input. They weren't Mort's usual, but at that moment, that wasn't important. He started giving orders.

#

Skaros stood, staring at the keep atop the hill. Though he had given no outward reaction when he learnt of the answer that his generous offer had been rewarded with, he felt a simmering of two emotions well up and fight to be felt within him.

The obvious emotion was rage. Rage against those creatures who would defy him. Even when being generous, they spat in his face. They weren't his true enemy, they were an obstacle that at that moment happened to be in his path, blocking him from his goals. It was only because they weren't his true enemy. They weren't the ones that he had long since dedicated himself to the erasure of, that he had been willing to give them mercy. They had spat in his face, whether they knew it or not.

On the other hand, there was a not so small measure of respect that he felt for their response. They had to know they were in an unwinnable situation, and yet their response was to make it clear that they would prefer to fight and die on their own terms rather than trust the mercies of a Chaos warlord. Admirable. Die free rather than live to regret it.

Naturally, he would have to grant them their request for death.

Around him, his followers scurried around, scavenging through the buildings of the village for anything of worth. They likely wouldn't find much of value. This was a pitiful village of no name, only ever referred to as an extension of the keep that hovered over them which itself was only named after the family that had owned it since it had been built. A no-name village for a count of no real worth that was only gifted that title because of a marriage generations back but never got close to the level of respect and glory that those that called themselves the Elector Counts claimed.

Oh, Skaros knew of Count Feyerabend, and his charming title among the real powers of the Empire as the "Count of Farmers". Fools—he counted Feyerabend himself as one of those fools. It seemed that nobody knew what he had. Except somebody else had apparently found out and made moves upon the Count of Efror.

It was irrelavent though, whatever other designs were being made upon this land. Skaros had come for a purpose, and no tales of necromancers or strange Lustrians pretending to be men of the Empire would get in his way.

An argument could be heard. Skaros considered ignoring it, but once he heard the screech of the Incubator he knew that he had to intervene.

The old man was still screeching when Skaros approached. Strangely, it wasn't Fatesaw he was arguing with—that would have made the most sense considering how he had almost killed her as collateral to kill that one lizardman, would have had Skaros not imposed his Will upon the disease-ridden old bastard—but he was instead in a shouting match against Valnar the Everwrath.

It would be more accurate to state that the Incubator was screaming at the Everwrath, than it being an argument. The Everwrath, despite his name, was calm, stood silent in the face of the hate filled tirade being levied at him, arms crossed and the eyes of the skull he wore angled to convey a sense of dismissal, which knowing the Incubator was only fuel to the fire. No doubt that the Everwrath was fully aware of that fact.

Skaros projected his Will, and both men screamed in pain as he made his displeasure known. None of the lesser warriors around them reacted to two of the exalted champions in their midst suddenly screaming in a pain that normally only came from torture. Skaros continued to make his displeasure known for about two minutes before he pulled back his Will.

The Incubator, panting, turned to look upon Skaros. 'My lord...'

'Shut up.'

Skaros didn't want to hear excuses, didn't want to hear any form of justification. He had four exalted champions under his command, too bad they fell prey to the typical self-defeating nature of the vast majority of Chaos and feuded amongst each other like the cats and dogs of the southern realms. It took a firm grasp and a strict mindset to keep them under some semblance of control and restraint.

When they were allowed to lead individual war-bands, far from each other, all was fine. It was whenever they were in near proximity to one-another that the constant need to bicker and feud and try to kill each other arose. Fortunately, the times they were in close contact with each other also meant that Skaros was nearby to force the matter. He needed them alive.

Nearby, Kranax Soulshriver looked away from his naginata—not a glaive, he was very specific about the name of his weapon. The mutilated Nipponese warrior rested the ruined weapon against a wall and approached, shot a look at the Incubator which was probably supposed to be scorn, but even with a near lifetime of knowing Kranax, which even extended to before he had been mutilated, Skaros had a hard time truly reading the champion's expressions when he had no eyelids, no lips, even his brows were torn and scarred in such a way that they didn't rise or furrow.

'Our warriors haven't found any other way up the hill to the keep.' Kranax spoke with a rough voice, an indication that while his throat looked unmarked outwardly, the mutilation was still there, but hidden on the inside. 'The only way we're getting to the keep is to climb the hill.'

Skaros didn't vocalise any sign of his feelings on that news, just spoke with a bland tone as he answered. 'I suspected such would be the case. It would make for a poor defence otherwise.'

He angled his helmet to face the keep. Something about the walls surrounding the plateaux atop the hill felt off, there was something different. Unseen, Skaros narrowed his eyes as he considered the wall.

'If I were to task you to climb the hill with a band of your own choosing, could you get over the wall?' His tone was no longer bland, now it was coloured with a dangerous undercurrent.

Kranax tilted his head to look upon the walls for himself. 'Easily.'

Skaros continued to consider the wall. 'Do it. Clear out the scum.'

Kranax nodded a single sharp nod and then turned to gather his chosen warriors.

#

Sigismund slowly climbed the hill, half an eye constantly turned toward the place which had been his home. It was home no longer. First it had been conquered by the lizards, then the count had died, and now Chaos had come to defile what lingered.

A small part of him felt like a coward. He had spotted an opportunity, one only afforded for him if he ran by himself. So he had left the lizardmen to battle Chaos and keep the army of the Ruinous Forces distracted while he made his escape. He was now in a position to get back to his men and organise a proper counter-attack.

The sun was beginning to set low. It was the gradually darkening sky that allowed Sigismund to first take note. An orange glow was starting to make itself seen in the keep.

'Did those reptiles start a fire?' He wondered aloud. More quietly he wondered about the reasoning if they had indeed started a blaze. Were they trying to deny Chaos their prize? Surely they'd wait until the last minute before doing so, the keep allowed them to rack up a body count when the slaves of Chaos inevitably made their attack. Wait until the last moment before giving up your defensive advantage, surely?

Then there was a crack of thunder, and one of the walls of the keep crumbled.

Looks like the fire was in the gunpowder stores. Gunpowder that had largely been useless without the mortars, destroyed so soon into the lizardmen's own assault on the motte and bailey.

A second explosion of fire. Sigismund amended his previous assessment. It looked like the lizardmen had chosen to spread the gunpowder to better bring down the walls around them. Unless...

Sigismund wasn't certain how to feel about the idea that entered into his head. Had the lizards found the old mines? The ones which had been converted into catacombs wherein all deceased within the county could be interred at no cost? The Feyerabend family's final kindness to those living under their lands, a cheaper alternative to the Gardens of Morr, blessed by the priests of the same.

Few knew of the catacombs.

Sigismund felt like he should have been annoyed at the idea of these strange creatures walking through the final sanctity of the peoples of the county. But on the other hand, if they were destroying the keep... that lessened the chances of the army of Chaos from stumbling across those same catacombs.

Another explosion sounded the air.

#

Kro-Loq cursed softly. That first gunpowder deposit had detonated prematurely, and the corridor leading to the chapel had collapsed. There was another way around, fortunately, just a bit of a detour.

'Are you alright?' Solin's voice called from the other side of the rubble.

'I'm fine. I'll have to go around.' Kro-Loq replied quickly. 'You go on ahead, colonel, I'll catch up.'

There was a sound of reluctant affirmation from the other side of the blockage. It was hardly like Solin was able to change reality just because he wasn't happy with getting split up from the captain. With a bemused huff, Kro-Loq turned and hurriedly moved, aware of the heat from the many fires that the pair had started in their effort to deprive the Chaos war-band of anything of value from the keep.

Let it all burn, let them have nothing but heated rocks and scorched earth for their troubles.

Left turn, right turn, follow the corridor... Duck the swing of a great axe!

Kro-Loq hurriedly unsheathed his sabre and parried a second swing then reposted, managed to stab the point of his blade beneath the white armoured figure's left shoulder, into the armpit. The warrior gargled and fell, leaving Kro-Loq wondering just how he'd gotten into a short bout of violence with the warrior that should by all rights still be in the village below the keep.

There was a shout, Kro-Loq didn't wait to find out who it was that had yelled, whether it was a call to mark out where he was or anything else. He needed to move. Get to the secret tunnel to the catacombs.

One corridor away from the chapel, another Chaos warrior appeared. This one managed to put up a better fight than the previous, swung the huge axe quickly enough that he was making it difficult to even see where any weaknesses in the armour lay, never mind acting upon them. With a rough exhale, Kro-Loq chose against elegance, waited for the next swing of the great-axe and then charged, slammed his left shoulder into the torso of the warrior, wrapped the arm of the same around the torso and didn't stop his forward charge. They only stopped moving once the warrior's back slammed into the wall beside the large double doors that lead into the chapel. Kro-Loq released the warrior and used his left arm to press against the right arm of the warrior, pressed it against the wall in order to prevent the warrior from swinging the axe again.

His sabre was carefully positioned so that the edge was pried into the gap between helmet and cuirass. Kro-Loq felt no remorse as he slid the blade sideward, carefully cut through the tender flesh of the warrior's neck. There was blood dribbling from both the wound, and from within the helmet itself. Experience with neck wounds meant that Kro-Loq knew that it was normal, that the extra blood was being drooled form the mouth of the warrior. Meant that the warrior was dead without magically assisted healing, something that Chaos was not known for, even amongst their more talented sorcerers. He let the body crumble to the ground and pushed his way into the chapel.

The secret passage was shut again. With a slight groan, the captain moved to the potted flower that was the secret lever and twisted it, watched as the wall opened up. It would have been easy for him to just step through and shut the wall behind him, but Kro-Loq's eyes trailed to the massive pile of black powder, one of several which Solin and he had positioned throughout the keep. Of all of them, that was arguably the most important one to detonate, it would bury the entrance to the catacombs, maybe even collapse the tunnel further hindering any effort to unearth the labyrinth bellow.

Ideally, the fire would spread and be the catalyst for the gunpowder to detonate. But with an unknown number of Chaos warriors already within the keep...

Kro-Loq grunted softly and moved to the gunpowder and grabbed the improvised wick with one hand while the other carefully fished out a block of flint from his coat's pocket. With that, he could use his sabre against the flint and start the fuse. That would make absolutely certain that at the very least this particular explosion happened.

One swipe of his sabre was enough, as he'd predicted. He stood, admired his work and then turned... and threw himself back frantically as a scarred man in Eastern armour swung a curved sword at him. It was a near miss, so near that there was a large gash where the blade had sliced through the wool of his coat and even through to the linen of the shirt beneath.

The sword was swung a second time, this one was intercepted by Kro-Loq's sabre. The Chaos swordsman tilted his head and adjusted his stance. He seemed to flex his fingers before firmly securing his grip upon the sword's hilt.

Kro-Loq was not the swords-master that others in the Legion could claim. He knew enough to survive against most threats, but when even a number of skinks were capable of besting him in one-on-one duels more oft than not, Kro-Loq knew his strength didn't lie in swordsmanship. But he considered himself knowledgeable enough to recognise those who were talented.

This swordsman before him, while the stance and the weapon were foreign to him, he knew, just knew that he was looking at a master of comparable skill to the tailor Marz, to Mort, to Iycan, maybe even to Solin and Ingwel.

He couldn't win.

But he was a captain of the Outland Legion, he was a Child of the Gods, and this before him was a wrech who had sold himself to the Great Enemy. He might not win this fight, but he would not be found lacking in his resolve.

With a snarl, Kro-Loq lunged, stepped forward and swung, put everything he had ever learnt throughout his one hundred and seventy summers into his efforts. Skipped back as his initial swung was intercepted, avoided the attempted counter, took into consideration the speed of the swing, the angle and the force behind it. One hit and Kro-Loq knew it would be the end. Unfortunately, he was a large target, arguably the worst thing about being a saurus as opposed to the skinks: big builds, big bodies, big targets.

Forward again, wrist pivoting, his sabre flashing in a flurry of blows that would hopefully prevent the Chaos swordsman from countering.

Slash, thrust, slash, slash, slash...

Kro-Loq stumbled when the swordsman parried one swing in such a way that the saurus was momentarily thrown off balance. The swordsman lunged, but before his own sword swing was able to reach the Scar Veteran, Kro-Loq's tail whipped out, struck the swordsman's leg with such force that he staggered and had to regain balance, during which time Kro-Loq's offhand was quick to grab one of the swordsman's arms and tug.

The swordsman turned the fall from the sharp yank into a rolled tumble, came up on his feet and already lunging.

A roar escaped Kro-Loq's maw as the blade pierced through his flesh, just above where his kidney lay. A clawed foot lashed out, connected with the swordsman, sent him stumbling back. Ordinarily, Kro-Loq would have followed up with an attempt to cut down the enemy while unbalanced, but the moment he tensed in preparation to lunge after the swordsman, his chest flared up with a burning pain at the stab wound. His hand automatically moved to the injury, pressed against it, felt the warm blood spilling from the opening.

Noticed the swordsman tense up in readiness for another strike. Kro-Loq hurriedly lifted his sabre, met the blade... and watched in dismay as it was wrenched from his grasp, clattered to the ground and slid out of sight. Didn't dwell on the weapon he no longer had, leapt forward and slammed a fist against the swordsman's throat, managed to actually connect, felt some grim satisfaction at the pained gasp. Followed up with a second punch, this one aimed at the leg, hopefully enough to cripple or at the very least reduce him to a hobble. Made it a point to aim his fist for where his tail had connected earlier, to work upon what had already been dealt. He felt a crunching sensation beneath his knuckles on impact, had to assume that it was enough.

Wick was nearly burnt down. The explosion would happen soon. Needed to leave before he died.

Burning, blistering agony. A scream escaped Kro-Loq as a line of fire scored itself across his chest. His hand automatically pressed against the new injury, despite it being large enough that a single hand would never cover its entire length. Spun around, felt his tail connect with the swordsman but didn't linger, dove through the still open passage in the wall, only barely had the sense of mind to press at the level on the other side to have the passage seal itself behind him.

At that moment, he lost the balance he barely managed to maintain, and he felt himself hit the ground and then keep rolling down the length of the tunnel to the catacombs. Behind him, there was a sound of reality burning in a fiery fury as the wick finally burnt out.

If there was any mercy, the swordsman was dead.

#

Boney felt the ceiling of the catacombs shake, accompanied by a rumbling. Whatever Kro-Loq and Solin had done back in the keep, it was making him question the structural integrity of the catacombs. A morbid part of his mind felt the need to tell him that at least if they were to die from the tunnels collapsing, at least they'd be dying within catacombs meant for the internment of the dead. A more ideal place to die one couldn't find.

Boney also really, really hoped that there was actually another way out from the underground labyrinth. That it hadn't just been wishful thinking on the parts of Mort and Solin. Dying of starvation wasn't on the list of ideal ways to go.

There was something absolutely unnerving about traversing this labyrinth. Maybe it was the knowlege that it was supposed to be a resting place for the dead. Would it have been so unsettling if the dead were still there in their final slumber? Was it only because the dead had left that their resting place was so disquieting?

He lost track of how long they traversed the catacombs. Mort and Sharpe both led them, seemingly at random, but their occasional whispered conversations meant that they were choosing which turns to make. There was no way to tell the passage of time, but Boney got the sense that they were travelling for a long time before Sharpe made a sound of celebration.

After what felt like an age, they trickled out of the catacombs, felt fresh air upon them. They found themselves upon a hill, a distance away from the keep. Time had certainly passed, for the sky that greeted them was dark, the sun long since set and the twin moons visible in the sky. But there was a light. The keep was in flames, burnt brightly as the orange fires licked and devoured all they could touch.

'Oh?'

Boney started in surprise, turned to see Colonel Iycan nearby, was sat a ways away having apparently been watching the keep collapse and burn. The other skink had a perturbed look to him.

'I didn't realize that the caves were connected to the keep,' Iycan said, cast a look at the opening that had just allowed them exit. Iycan's eyes were clouded in concern.

'Catacombs,' Mort said. 'As Solin said earlier, the catacombs have been fouled. We think the necromancer got their initial wave of thralls from here.'

Iycan nodded slowly. 'Ok.' He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the remains of the keep. 'What happened there? I came out from my exploring and saw the keep in flame.'

'A Chaos war-band decided to siege us. We don't know what they were after.' Sharpe was the one who explained.

Iycan shook his head and gave the major a look that Boney wasn't immediately able to identify. 'Chaos? Ok, I had assumed undead, but... that's even more concerning. You think it was a war-band?'

'Why would you think otherwise?' Mort asked.

'Where's Solin?' Iycan asked instead of answering, concern flickering across his eyes.

'He should be a short distance behind us,' Mort answered after a grimace of annoyance at not getting his own question answered. 'He and Captain Kro-Loq were the ones to set the fire.'

A shuffling sound from the cave they had exited from had a number of Sharpe's skirmishers twist around and face the entrance with muskets shouldered, hammers pulled back. Their weapons were lowered as they recognised the form that exited as Solin. Boney knew instantly that something was wrong—the Oldblood's eyes were a storm of fury and grief in equal measure.

Solin lowered himself to the ground and gently rested the corpse of Captain Kro-Loq. The wound that had felled him was clear, a gash from hip to shoulder, entrails only kept within the body by the hasty bandaging from Kro-Loq's undershirt until all that remained were scarlet stained linen strips. It hadn't been enough to save the captain. Maybe if they'd had access to magically gifted healers, he could have been saved. But even that would have had a low chance of actually being enough with such a wound.

'You suggested this was not a war-band?' Mort asked with a disgruntled tone.

Iycan didn't verbally answer but instead pointedly looked toward the keep. Boney, and likely everybody else on that hill, followed his attention. It took Boney a while, but he eventually realised what it was that Iycan was looking at.

When Boney had left the Temple-City of Tiamoxec to join the Legion, he knew that there would be days he would feel worried for his safety, days that he might question if he'd survive. There would be cause for concern, for his safety, for those he would work alongside. He thought himself prepared.

He didn't expect to ever feel the deep bone chilling fear he felt at that moment.

Only barely visible in the light of the flames, he could see that Iycan was right. That wasn't a mere war-band of Chaos. The numbers stretched as far as the light of the flames could reach, warriors and giants and Daemons. This was no war-band...

This was a full fledged Warhost, the likes of which were only spoken of in hushed whispers. Thousands of the slaves to darkness stretched out, and more besides not revealed by the flickering light of the flames.

#

Through the thick overgrowth of the Drakwald he trod. He didn't let the night's darkness hinder him, he moved with purpose. He entered into a glade, a wide space barren of trees, of even the slightest of plants. A small pond and a long dead stump that had once been a tree were the only things within that large clearing.

The man stopped his march, eyes scanning the surrounding trees. He waited. One hour. Two hours.

One the third hour, there was movement, and he was no longer alone in the glade. He turned, looked upon the newcomer.

The newly arrived figure wore dark armour and a heavy cloak, hood drawn as though it would hide the absence of a face beneath but instead just highlighted the lacking. Glowing blue novas stood where the eyes would have been, were there a face beneath the cowl. Those glowing orbs fixed themselves upon the man, examined him just as he looked upon it.

'Captain Sieger,' the man eventually spoke.

For a moment, the dark figure didn't react. If the man was worried, he refused to show that weakness. Finally, the wight bowed low.

'My lord.' The voice came as a whisper, but was clear as though it had been shouted at volume. 'It is good to see that you have escaped even without our success.'

The man grimaced, didn't enjoy the reminder that he had almost been chained to a servant of the Ruinous Powers. But for a single mistake, he would have been lost, forever held in confinement. He chose not to voice his feelings about such.

He didn't speak an answer. He just stared expectantly at the wight, waited. The wight straightened itself and pulled from its back a blade. It was a broad bladed longsword, the dark silver crossguard decorated with a skull. The metal of the blade was blackened as though it had been overheated and left to burn in flame, but when the man grasped the offered hilt, it was frigid to the touch, but despite the freezing temperature of the weapon, he felt no unease at holding it.

'This body won't last, it will serve the purpose for now, but the sooner we get the one that won't reject me, the better. Good news on that front, he believes himself safe.'

'Where?'

'He now lingers in Middenheim. We aren't ready to provoke the full fury of Todbringer, and even if we were, I don't want to attract the attention of the rest of the Empire, so we'll have to be subtle.'

'What would you have us do, Count Adelbreckt?' As the wight asked the question, more undead entities marched into the clearing, ordered themselves behind the wight whereapon each dropped to a knee in a mark of servitude.

The man whose body used to be Cruniac gave a grim smile.

-TBC