Yard of Morr

The Old World - South of the Middenheim Road

—

By the time they located the husk of what had once been a chapel to one of the Empire's various gods, the weather had changed. Clouds now blotted the sun, gave an air of twilight even though there should have still been at least another two hours before the sun was due to set.

Thick, black clouds that looked ready to begin a torrential downpour with little warning. There was an energetic pressure to the air, one that suggested that the on-coming rain was to be accompanied by a chorus of thunder and lightning.

Boney eyed the clouds with a small sense of trepidation. Intellectually, he was aware that not all storms were equal. But memories, not even distant ones, brought forth the maelstroms that could occasionally hit Madrigal. Within the temple-city of Tiamoxec, it was safe, but the surrounding jungle became a far more dangerous place than usual when hit by such a storm.

'If nothing else, the storm should make us harder to notice,' mused one of the sabre wielding skinks—Hezcuc, Boney recalled his name.

Coadmit grunted from where he was walking at the back of the group, eye fixed on the firing hammer of his musket. 'Makes it more likely for us to have a misfire.'

Gidul gave a snort of amusement. 'And that's why I'm in no hurry to switch to muskets.'

'You sure that has nothing to do with almost shooting your own tail with a crossbow that one time?' Ohtix asked with a tone that suggested he was aware that he was poking a sleeping carnosaur with a pointy stick, he just didn't care.

Ohtix laughed as he ducked the dirt clump that Gidul threw at him, waved two of his fingers in a peculiar manner, a gesture to which Gidul returned the favour. Boney assumed it was a cultural thing that the Legion had picked up in the centuries that they'd been wandering the warmbloods' lands, it wasn't something that was taught back in Tiamoxec as a necessity for life outside of the temple-city.

Boney chose to ignore the teasing banter going on with the other skinks, chose instead to survey the old structure that still laid a ways ahead. After ten seconds of staring off at the ruin down the hill, Coadmit approached and held out a spyglass.

'Here you go.'

Boney blinked in surprise, not having expected to suddenly be handed the tool, but quickly nodded his thanks. He lifted the brass tube to his eye and enjoyed a clearer view of the chapel.

And took instant note of the stone markers that matched what he had been taught humans used to mark their graves, all in neat rows. He sucked in a breath, then scanned the ruined chapel and the surrounding grounds. Human death rites were varied, but what he recalled from his lessons was that in this particular part of the world, the ideal was to be buried within a Garden of Morr. Burial in such a garden offered the body some modicum of protection from necromancers.

But, as the lessons were quick to point out, burial within a Garden of Morr had a price, and not all could afford to pay that fee. The best protection a body might have otherwise was ignorance of where the corpse had been laid to rest. That, or burning the body, but some humans had strange attitudes regarding the burning of their dead, like it was a mark of disrespect rather than a practical method of protecting the body of the dead from the perverse magics of necromancy.

For all that Boney searched the grounds he saw no hint of a black rose. If this had once been a Garden of Morr, it no longer held the protection of the human death-god. The only good thing to make itself known to Boney, was that the graves looked undisturbed. The walking dead that had attacked Tallow Farm had not come from these graves.

The bad news—because the Old Ones apparently felt a need to have the good be levelled out with bad—if the skaven were indeed involved with the necromancer responsible for raising the dead, they had just found a supply of bodies ripe for the necromancer's taking.

Boney voiced his observation, and was rewarded with Hezcuc breathing out a soft 'Shit'. Boney pushed aside his confusion—if the word was Reikspiel, it wasn't one that he had been taught back home—and continued to focus on the chapel's grounds, looking for any hint of the skaven. A flicker of movement had Boney turn the spyglass just slightly, and he got his first ever look at a skaven.

It was a mangy looking creature, standing at roughly four feet. Brown fur was matted and clumped together, where it actually had any fur; large patches of its body were noticeably lacking, scarred flesh preventing the growth of new fur. It walked with a hunched posture, head twitching this way and that, as though paranoid that at any given moment it was about to be attacked and mutilated.

'Sounds like a slave,' Coadmit hummed thoughtfully. 'A wretched creature, even by skaven standards.'

'Rule of skaven, if you see one, add a zero.' Gidul crossed his arms, stared down at the chapel even though he wasn't able to see any detail without a spyglass.

'I know that much,' Boney said with a deadpan. 'I'm trying to find more...'

He trailed off as a new figure emerged, walking out from the tree-line on the opposite side of the chapel from the hill the where the skinks were watching. The skaven slave clearly noticed the figure, it twitched and back-pedalled away from the newcomer. The figure stood still and observed the lone ratkin, head tilted.

A human? Boney realised, observing the newcomer. He was dressed in a chainmail hauberk, and carried a kite shield in one hand—aren't heater shields the standard for the Empire? He couldn't quite recall—and a longsword was held in the other. Over his torso, he wore a tabard, quartered into black and purple, with the same four-box pattern repeated on the face of his shield, which also included a stylised image of an animal—a boar perhaps?

Boney hadn't seen many soldiers of the Empire. In fact, considering his understanding was that Marienberg wasn't a part of the Empire, he hadn't seen any such soldiers. But this figure went against the description he'd been given of Empire state troops. His first assumption that maybe this was a Bretonnian was quickly dismissed when he recalled that they wouldn't wear anything but platemail, while their lower classes couldn't use the longsword.

The human advanced, weapon and shield held in a manner that suggested he didn't feel threatened in the slightest.

Coadmit gave a low hiss of thought as Boney verbalised his observations. One of the sergeant's hands reached into one of the pouches at his back, just above his tail, and he fished out a small leather-bound book, which he quickly flicked open.

'Black and purple?' he asked with narrowed eyes. At Boney's hum of affirmation, Coadmit thumbed through the pages. 'How are the colours divided?'

'What is that?' Boney asked instead, gaze drawn from the spyglass to the small book. While he waited for an answer, he gave a brief description of the way the surcoat's colours had been split.

'Human politics is confusing,' Hezcuc explained in a low tone. 'The colours represent who they work for, but none of the Empire's main provinces use black and purple. I think. Could be a city specific colouring, or a noble's personal guard.'

'All sergeants are given a copy of that book so that we can puzzle through the confusion.' Gidul pre-empted the next question to come from Boney. 'Any colours we encounter from the empire, Bretonnia, even a few of the elvish peoples.'

Coadmit flicked through another couple of pages and tapped a finger upon the surface as he eyed the information on display. 'The Efror Guard?' His observation came as a question. 'Used to be a city-state within Middenland before it was razed one hundred-twenty winters back. The count of Efror was killed during the siege, shortly after he had his eldest son hung on charge of treason. The city doesn't exist any more, the Grand Duchies of Middenland and Middenheim never saw fit to rebuild.'

There was a momentary pause as the fourteen skinks let that detail sink into their minds. 'In-fighting?' Ohtix asked uncertainly. 'The Empire of Man hasn't always been as unified as it is now. That this count executed his own son is… unusual. Humans are usually close to their spawn to the point of idiocy.'

'I'm curious why a human would be wearing the colours of a non-existent city-state,' Boney said as he returned his attention to the graveyard, watched through the spyglass. 'Do humans re-use old colours?'

He assumed that humans used the colours in the same way individual temple-cities had their own sigils. If the temple-city should fall, only those who survived and those serving under them used the symbol. Not that there were many instances of such. Zhotl was one of the only instances that came to Boney's mind, though there were probably others that weren't so well known.

'Sometimes, if somebody is trying to make a statement,' Gidul answered, head tilted. 'Like a claim to be an heir or successor, or claim to be a reformation of the original bearers. It's not done often though.'

Boney hummed thoughtfully, mentally promised to ask to look through Coadmit's book at some point. None of what he'd been taught had covered the politics of the young races, other than the broadest of details one needed to get by. A book that was apparently covering some of the finer details might be worth a perusal.

In the grounds surrounding the chapel, another skaven appeared. While Boney would never consider the new ratkin to be anything other than a mangy bag of fur and filth, the difference between it and the slave was clear. The grey fur of the newly appeared skaven wasn't so matted, and it was garbed in more than a simple loincloth.

The newly emerged rat gestured at the human. Its body language was, as best Boney could tell, agitated and cautious, but not concerned. From the spyglass, Boney was able to see that they exchanged words. After whatever words were spoken, the human and the skaven he was speaking to turned, and both moved until they were hidden by the still partially standing walls of the chapel.

'What is going on?' Boney wondered aloud.

'Only way to find out is to get closer,' Coadmit answered.

Boney opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted as he felt something connect with the top of his snout. He briefly went cross-eyed as he tried to identify what had hit him, but quickly aborted the attempt when another impact landed, then another.

Soon, the rain was pouring down, heavy enough to dampen any other sound. Heavy enough that Boney had to raise his voice to be heard over the loud rhythmic pit-pat as each raindrop landed upon the ground. A glance toward the chapel revealed that the rain was thick enough to obscure their vision of the ruined husk.

'No better time than now.'

Boney led them down the hill, each footstep careful as the ground turned slick with mud, the grass and dirt incapable of drinking in the water as quickly as the rain delivered it. One misstep and Boney would find himself sliding down on his rump.

They managed to reach level ground with none of the fourteen skinks slipping, fortunately. The moment that they reached the broken stone wall which had once marked the edge of the grave's grounds was punctuated with a flash of light, followed by a distant rumbling.

Looked as though Boney had been right about the pressure in the air.

Another flash of light as a distant spike of lightning pieced through the air. Boney's eyes were instantly drawn toward movement briefly revealed in that moment, a silhouette visible through the curtain of rain. Boney quickly tapped the nearest musket-equipped skink on the shoulder, ignored the unusual sensation of the soaked wool, then pointed his other hand in the direction that the silhouette had been.

Ohtix shouldered his musket, kept the muzzle pointed in the gestured direction even while he slowly walked, his eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what had caught the major's attention. Another spear of light illuminated the grave. Ohtix adjusted his arm, and moments later pulled the trigger.

He didn't quite manage to fire at the same moment that the crack of thunder echoed through the air. But if one wasn't listening specifically for gunfire, one would simply dismiss it.

Ohtix reached for his pouch for a replacement bullet and gunpowder, but stilled before he opened the leather bag, eyes lifted toward the sky, then he shook his head and adjusted his grip on the musket, readied it for use as a spear instead of a firearm.

Boney internally shrugged at that, assumed that the rain would make the reloading process more involved than it needed to be, though his inexperience with the weapons meant he wasn't certain of the particulars of that. Coadmit had commented the rain could cause a misfire, maybe it had something to do with that?

Progress was slow, with the rain hampering their visibility and the knowledge that there was an unknown number of skaven lurking around meant that it wasn't a simple trek through the graveyard. More than once Boney had to stifle a curse as he stubbed a toe upon one of the weatherworn standing stones. The only balm to his pride was when he managed to catch the muttered barrage of vulgarity from one of the others.

#

Strat Rapidweaver watched with a disdainful interest-curiosity as the pretender warlord Snitun Deadfinger spoke with the man-thing. This was a venture destined to failure-doom, and Strat Rapidweaver was looking forward to watching the schemes of Deadfinger, soon to be Deadbody.

But despite his awareness, his knowing of how things will go-go, Strat Rapidweaver felt uncomfortable-nervous. Something felt wrong. The man-thing felt wrong-wrong, and Strat couldn't work out why. He looked like any other man-thing, weak and ugly and pathetic and stupid. But the second that the man-thing had walked around the ruined building, the air had changed.

Strat Rapidweaver had not survived this long by not paying attention. Yes, everything and everyone else was weak-weak, but that weakness meant little if they put a knife in Strat Rapidweaver's back. So Strat Rapidweaver watched and kept his back facing away from those who would harm him until such a time that they turned their backs to him.

The man-thing had stopped talking and was examining the five captured man-things from the raid earlier. It was clear he was looking for something or someone in particular, and his ugly pink face was scrunching up and becoming even more hideous-disgusting.

Yes, the raid, where the dead-things had intruded-interfered. Strat Rapidweaver tilted his head as he tried to puzzle out what had actually happened there. They had been rounding up the man-things when the first of the dead-things had appeared. At first, it had been assumed that they were an attempt by the man-things to protect themselves, to use their dead as protectors-defenders.

Such a waste. Would have been good food otherwise.

When the first man-thing had fallen to the dead-thing, the skaven had wisely chosen to leave, took with them their bounty, slighter than it should have been, but they weren't ready for a fight with dead-things.

The man-thing pointed to one of the captives. 'I'll be taking this one.'

Strat Rapidweaver flinched back. He didn't know what it was, but he knew, somehow he knew that there was a now a fresh new danger. The man-thing's eyes, something about them was cold, exuded danger in a way that had every instinct of Strat Rapidweaver crying out to run-flee. He took a step back, hands unconsciously reaching for the knives at his back.

'Yes.' Deadfinger nodded rapidly, idiot-fool that he was, hadn't noticed the danger in the air. 'Now you pay-pay.'

'No,' the man-thing intoned. 'I think not.'

The rapid nodding of Snitum Deadfinger changed to rapid head shaking, he jabbed a finger at the man-thing's chest. The man-thing stared at the finger jabbing his breast with an eye full of disdain. Strat Rapidweaver slowly circled himself so that he was behind the man-thing, slowly pulled his blades free and held them ready to defend himself.

But if it came to violence, Strat Rapidweaver was not going to stay-linger. He could feel the danger in the air, and every survival instinct he had was screaming-crying to be gone, to flee-run.

The man-thing swung his sword. The edge of the blade cut into and through Deadfinger's arm, cut it free from the rest of Deadfinger. Deadfinger howled in pain and fury as his arm hit the ground.

'You nearly cost us dearly. The agreement was no unnecessary damage, and then I hear about you trying to burn down a farm.' The human didn't raise his voice, but it was certainly cold with an anger that Strat Rapidweaver had heard only once before, and the aftermath of that anger was something that Strat Rapidweaver had long ago resolved to avoid being a part of if ever he witnessed it again.

'Not our fault-fault. It was the dead-things!'

The man-thing paused, brow creasing in a momentary confusion. During that instance of not outwardly paying attention, Deadfinger apparently got over the absence of his arm and yanked his sword free and lunged with a strangled sounding war cry—another reason that Strat Rapidweaver didn't think him a good warlord, what skaven in their right mind would ever believe him a strong warlord when his voice sounded like a man-thing babe?

The man-thing, who had never stopped looking at Deadfinger, swung his shield. The flat of the shield connected with the wild swing of Deadfinger's sword, but the motion didn't stop, until the edge of the shield connected with Deadfinger's throat.

Deadfinger staggered back, sword falling from suddenly lax fingers, a choking gag escaping his mouth, his remaining hand clawing at his throat as if to ward off a hand that was strangling him.

The man-thing apparently didn't think that the damage inflicted was enough. He took a step closer, lifted his sword and slowly pushed the tip into Deadfinger's gut. Strat Rapidweaver watched as the man-thing's lips curled in a disgusted sneer, slowly, deliberately pushing his sword deeper into the would-be warlord's gut, twisting-turning the blade as he did so.

Still Deadfinger gagged, gasped, wheezed for air that didn't seem to want anything to do with him.

Once the man-thing's sword was buried nearly to the hilt, the man-thing adjusted his grip and started to pull it upward, slowly carving through Deadfinger's body. The sound of the meet being cut through was nausea inducing, even for Strat Rapidweaver—there was a difference between cuts at speed, versus the slow, deliberately paced carving of Deadfinger's gargling body. Deadfinger was dead long before the blade finally exited out the side of his neck. No longer held upright, the body fell into the puddle of blood and entrails with a wet splat.

The man-thing stared at the nearly bisected corpse and then twisted his head to face Strat Rapidweaver.

Strat Rapidweaver did the sensible thing. He turned and he ran-fled as fast-quick as he could.

#

There was something wrong. Boney could sense it. It had nothing to do with his abilities with the Winds of Magic, no spell or invocation needed. He could sense that there was violence in the air. A tang of blood, just barely tasted upon his tongue as he breathed.

He couldn't quite tell whether the way his cohort had tensed up was because they felt similarly as he did, or if they were reacting to him. It changed little though, it slowed them further than they'd already been, a newfound paranoia overtaking them.

It almost felt like the very air was screaming at them to be cautious. A howling that had nothing to do with wind and rain. Wait, that isn't the air... It only really dawned on Boney that the air had never sounded like that before, moments before something slammed into him, sent him reeling back and slipping upon the mud. He found himself on his back staring into the terrified eyes of the pale brown furred skaven who was now laid on top of him.

He couldn't say for certain which of them was more surprised. Himself at being body-checked by a skaven, or the skaven at running headfirst into a Child of the Gods.

The skaven wriggled, pulled its arm free from where it had gotten trapped under Boney's back and started to pick itself up, then stilled at the click of a musket hammer being pulled into the ready position. How the click was so audible despite the howling wind and rain, Boney had no idea. He just wished that whoever had pulled the hammer back had waited until he no longer had an oversized rat straddling him.

'Well, well, well...' Ohtix drawled out in an exaggerated manner. 'What's the warmblood saying? Look what the cat dragged in.'

'What-what?' The skaven squeaked, eyes drifted from one skink to the next with a terrified bafflement. 'Lizard-things? What-what?'

'Yes, "lizard-things".' Coadmit looked nonplussed. 'Where are you running to?'

'No-no, not running "to", running-fleeing away-away!' The rat's head pivoted around, no longer paying attention to the skinks in favour of trying to see through the curtain of rain.

'Save the questions for when he's standing on his feet,' Boney hissed, teeth barred to show his annoyance.

Ohtix's eyes crinkled in a grin, didn't even have the decency to hide his amusement. 'But that means he can run away from us.'

'Get. This. Disease-ridden. fleabag. Off of me.'

Gidul, apparently feeling some sympathy for the major, grabbed the ratman by the arm and hauled him to his feet, while Coadmit removed any weapons from the rat's person. No longer pinned down by the weight of the skaven, Boney stood with a grimace in disgust at the mud now painted all over his clothing.

'So, rat-boy,' Ohtix began, still amused, though he now hid that amusement from his voice. 'What are you running from?'

'Man-thing. Dangerous man-thing. Must flee-run!'

The skaven lurched forward in an effort to break free of Gidul's grip. He was successful when the skink's foot slipped in the mud, released the grip so that he could use that hand to brace himself and cushion his fall.

Boney lunged forward as the skaven made to flee, fingers encircled the wormlike appendage protruding from the rat and tugged it. The skaven gave a high-pitched squeak, stumbled back, hands rubbing at his rump and eyes no longer full of fear but instead indignation as he stared at Boney. That lasted only until Boney's fist met the rat's head.

Apparently, Boney was stronger than he'd realised, or skaven were weaker than he'd anticipated. He'd only intended to stun the rat, instead he found the skaven's eyes rolling and before it then fell face-first into the mud.

'Huh,' Boney huffed in bemusement.

Hezcuc snorted. It was an amused snort, the kind that was telling of how the one doing the snort was trying to hide a laugh. Boney looked at the other skink in confusion. Hezcuc shrugged.

'Don't think anybody has ever tugged a skaven's tail before.' The words did nothing to hide the amusement in his voice.

And it really dawned on Boney that he had just willingly touched a skaven, with his bare hand. A hand that now felt dirty, like there was a slick, slimy substance coating his palm. With a strangled yelp, he rubbed his hand against his breaches, ignored the repetitive hissing guffaws of his fellows.

Once his hand no longer felt like it was coated in slime, he cast a look at the ratkin's unconscious body.

'So, what do we do with fleabag here?'

Gidul hefted his sabre, intent clear. No need to question. Had it been anything other than a skaven, Boney might have protested, something about just killing somebody while helpless felt wrong, but considering it was one of the disease-ridden fur-bag spawn of the Horned Rat, the world would only be a better place for the deed.

Gidul was interrupted when the air was pierced by a new sound. It wasn't the rumble of thunder. It was higher pitched and had nothing to do with nature.

It was a scream.

'Leave it,' Boney said, eyes darting toward the chapel. The structure was just barely visible now. No hint as to who had screamed or why. Nor was there any sign of the human from earlier. 'Think he was fleeing the human we saw?'

Even as he asked, he'd already started moving forward with a brisk pace, felt more than heard the others move behind him.

'Unless there's another "man-thing" around,' Coadmit answered.

Boney reached the chapel. It was in a sorry state, lacked a roof—long since burnt away by the orcish raiding party which had befallen the structure however long ago. One of the walls was missing, and the other three were barely holding themselves upright as nature slowly tried to reclaim the land.

But even in its current state of disrepair, the chapel's ruins blocked vision of whatever was happening the other side from the skinks. Rounding the structure, they found a cage of rusted iron. Within were four humans, all male, all dressed in the simple garb of human farmers. The armoured human who Boney had spied earlier was nearby, physically dragging another human male, though the clothing on this one was different from those in the cage, more impressive than the simple farmer's garb of the others yet still simple enough to be practical.

Judging from the terrified expression on the face of the one being dragged, and the way that the other four were still in the cage, backed up as far they physically could, this wasn't a rescue.

There was also a mess on the ground, a body laying in what Boney could only assume to be its own entrails and blood stained mud. For a brief moment, he though the body had been bisected, but a second look had him note that it was still technically in one piece, only barely though.

He didn't know what exactly was going on. Why would the captives be scared of this one human? Why was he dragging away one, while ignoring the others? Boney didn't know enough to feel any sense that letting the human leave was a good idea. He needed to know more, know what was going on.

'Stop,' he called out.

Behind him, he heard the clicks of musket hammers, and from the corner of one eye he could make out one of those weapons pointed at the human.

The human paused, head turned to take in the new threat. His eyes rested upon Boney, and lit up with recognition. That recognition quickly turned into a hostile fury.

'You,' he snarled, lip curling and teeth barred. For a moment, he looked less human, more like an angry cold one.

'Have we met?' Gidul wondered aloud, though it was spoken softly enough that Boney only barely caught it.

The warrior didn't have his sword in hand, had sheathed it so that he could grab the one he was trying to drag away. He must have realised that he was at a disadvantage, his furious glower seemed to intensify, become ever more pointed, even as he took a step back and lifted his other arm, and the shield strapped to it.

'Get out of my way, you walking handbags, and I will allow you to live.'

Even though he was in a weaker position, technically unarmed and outnumbered, Boney still felt the potency of the threat sent his way, felt the shiver that wanted to crawl down his spine.

'Not until you explain what's going on.' Boney managed to speak the words without letting his nerves reveal themselves in his tone. But it had been a close thing, he wasn't about to deny that to himself.

'This man is a criminal, charged with treason against the County of Efror.' There was a strained patience to the warrior as he spoke.

'He lies. He hides the truth behind claims of crimes that do not exist.' The man in the warrior's grip shouted out.

The warrior's eyes narrowed in a glare which was directed toward the man who started to struggle against the warrior's grip. His eyes rolled and he slammed the broad side of his shield into the struggling man's head. The man fell to the ground, eyes shut in a pained grimace. The warrior's hand, now free, went to the hilt of his sword, pulled it from its scabbard with a swift, practiced motion. He didn't move beyond that however, was content to face the skinks, shield and sword in hand.

'Are you planning to interfere with Efror justice?'

Boney narrowed his eyes, hand rested on the hilt of his sabre though he had yet to pull it free, lest it be taken as a threat. The muskets could be excused as defensive in nature, but pulling a sword free now could be taken as intent to use.

'There are four other captives of the rats, and they aren't a priority?' he asked.

The warrior shrugged. 'Not my problem.'

'He hired the skaven, he's the reason they attacked our home!' one of the captives still in the cage called out.

'You don't know what you're talking about,' the warrior snarled at the cage, though his eyes didn't rest on any one particular captive.

'We heard you talking to that rat.'

'I repeat. You do not know what you talk of.' The warrior's tone turned commanding.

It wasn't subtle, Boney could tell it was an order to shut up and never speak of the event again. But what accompanied that dark, commanding tone, was an oppressive feeling that seemed to charge the air, pressed down on everybody in a manner that the heavy rainfall could not. Boney had to shake his head to ward off the feeling of being hunted, and even then his nerves burnt with a sense of wary anticipation.

The warrior rolled his eyes skyward for the second time in as many minutes and sucked in a breath. His mouth opened, but no words were given time to leave, for a new sound pierced through the air, cut through the heavy patting of the rain against the mud. A cackling laugh.

When Boney turned his head, he took note of the skaven approaching, at least two dozen of them. No... More, the two dozen he initially spotted were the wretched looking slaves. Behind them were the ones laughing mockingly as they approached, safely behind their slave barrier, and dressed in more than ill-fitting loincloths and armed with more than just simple spears made from wood that looked half rotted and ready to snap at the slightest touch.

The human warrior adjusted his stance so that his blade was pointed to the skaven horde. 'Step aside, sewer-fiends, and maybe you won't join your warlord in death.'

Despite the fury on the warrior's face, his tone was almost that of a bored blandness. His eyes went from one skaven to the next in silent challenge. There was a brief moment where the rats did stop their slow advance. It didn't last, as a clanrat in the back began to cackle and start jabbering. Boney ground his teeth at the high pitched noise which apparently passed for a voice, wondered if his ears were about to start bleeding.

'Coadmit, shut him up,' Boney hissed.

Coadmit didn't verbally answer, but his twisted himself around and fired his musket. The clanrat who had been talking was thrown back with a strangled scream of pain as the bullet punctured through his skull, just about missing his eye. Judging from the wailing screams, the clanrat had survived. Though how long he would survive depended on whether or not the other skaven cared enough to nurse him back to health or not.

The wet schlick that came before the screams were cut short indicated that no, the other clanrats cared little for nursing their fellow back to health.

However, the effect of Coadmit's gunshot was noticeable instantly. Where their pause at the warrior's threat had been temporary, now there was a reluctance to actually advance in light of potential gunfire.

The problem, they were still blocking any exit. Boney momentarily contemplated using the winds of magic, but when he breathed in, he could feel an absence of the energies needed. The winds had changed over the past few hours, and he was left without the means for such an actions.

His gaze went back to the cage, and the captives within. 'Gidul, open the cage,' Boney ordered softly. 'We get a chance, we run, but we are not leaving them to skaven mercy.'

Gidul hissed softly in acknowledge and slowly moved toward the cage. The warrior tilted his head, enough so that it was obvious that he was aware of what was happening, but he also refrained from comment. After several moments, his attention turned once again wholly to the skaven horde.

'My men are near and if I'm not back to them soon, their orders are to kill every last one of you.'

There was a chittering from the clanrats, indecipherable to Boney. Maybe he was hearing the skaven speak their own tongue, or maybe they were just speaking so fast and at such a pitch that it may as well be a different tongue to Reikspiel. While they did so, Coadmit was slowly reloading his musket, was trying not to draw attention to himself as he did so.

There was a loud creak while the cage opened, slowly. The chittering stopped, and Boney felt the weight of about forty skaven staring. The warrior grimaced, the leather of his glove creaking as his grip on his sword tightened.

'Could you handbags be any more obvious?' he sneered.

'Wouldn't have been a problem if you'd left it open after grabbing your "criminal".' Boney hissed back.

The weight to the air pressed down as the skaven seemed to come to a decision. They started advance again, with a pace that meant that they would reach them in short time. There was nowhere to go, they had the ruined chapel at their back, and the skaven had a speed to their gait that Boney had a feeling that they wouldn't be able to outrun.

'CHARGE!'

Their salvation came when it was revealed that the warrior hadn't been bluffing. Dressed and armed identically to the warrior, a dozen or more humans appeared from the rain, charged at the flanks of the skaven horde. The slaves at the front of the horde, no longer urged forward by their supposed betters, stopped and panicked at the attack from behind.

Boney hissed loudly, and the five musket wielding skinks fired a volley. It might have only been the slaves and not the clanrats to suffer the gunfire, but it was enough of a deterrent that they didn't decide to charge forward. A few broke from passed for a rank and fled. Those that did were cut down, either by the humans or by their own masters.

The warrior huffed with a smug satisfaction to his expression. He returned the sword to his scabbard and reached down to grab the human he had knocked out earlier... Boney watched with amusement as the supposedly unconscious human swung his leg out, slammed his foot into the knee of the warrior and sent him reeling back with a pained yell.

Boney couldn't say what made him choose his next course of action. He watched as the man on the ground started to climb to his feet. He witnessed the warrior's expression twist into utter rage as he regained his baring and started to move toward the man with an obvious intent for violence. And Boney acted.

The warrior grunted, air forced from him as Boney's shoulder met the warrior's gut, then the skink priest righted his posture while hooking one arm under one of the warrior's legs. The warrior's startlement shifted to a confused yelp as his feet were lifted from the ground, his body tipped forward until he found himself dropped head first to the muddy ground.

The man the warrior had been so intent on dragging away had managed to clamber to his feet, blinking rapidly as he tried to work out what his next move should be. Boney's hand latched onto the man's collar and he tugged, not with such force as to trip up the human, but to urge him into moving in a particular direction.

'I might have just made an enemy for your sake,' Boney hissed. 'So come with us, now.'

The human didn't complain at being manhandled, allowed himself to be dragged toward the other former-prisoners and Boney's subordinates. Boney himself gave the scene another once over. The warrior was struggling to his feet, his eyes clouded with the unfocused daze that often accompanied the immediate aftermath of being dropped on one's head. They had a moment to flee without anybody noticing. The skaven were distracted by the humans, they hadn't yet reformed any semblance of cohesion, which would inevitably lead to their deaths, if they didn't break and flee without being cut down.

'Circle around the chapel,' Boney ordered the former captives as a whole. 'Sabres, protect them. Muskets, watch behind us.'

Coadmit fired a shot at a skaven who broke out of the melee and had twisted their head around to notice them. The skaven dropped without any fanfare, and the gunfire further caused the remaining skaven to panic.

Gidul positioned himself to the immediate side of the tight cluster of humans, eyes roving left and right, and back and back again. His off-hand rested on the shoulder of one of the humans, a silent gesture of reassurance maybe, but Boney noticed that it also allowed him to keep moving alongside the humans while not paying attention to them. On the other side of the human group, Hezcuc did the same.

They managed to circle the chapel without anybody seeming to notice, after which Boney pointed with his freshly unsheathed sabre in the direction of the hill form which they had initially arrived.

'Move.' With any luck, by the time anybody who cared noticed that they had disappeared, they would be hidden behind the still thick shroud offered by the rain.

They were at what Boney estimated to be about halfway through the graveyard when they hit trouble. Another swarm of skaven emerged from the rain, eyes instantly drawn to the collection of skinks and humans.

Boney hissed under his breath, turned to face them, felt half of the sabre-wielding skinks form up beside him, to form a physical barrier between the ratkin and the human captives.

'Do not let them pass,' Boney ordered. It was a redundant order, but something about saying it aloud cemented the idea that they were going to keep the line and not let a single one get by.

The clanrats—no slaves with this particular swarm—charged with chittering screeches. Boney managed to block a swipe from a chipped and jagged blade that might have decapitated him. With his sabre physically holding back the blade looking to end him, Boney used his offhand to deliver a quick jab to the rat's stomach. The rat's eyes bulged in surprised pain, the pressure pushing against Boney's sabre eased, which in turn allowed the skink to slide his blade down the length of the skaven's weapon and then cut through the forearm attached to the hand holding said weapon.

The skaven screeched in pain, the sound cut short when Boney kicked out, sent the ratkin reeling back until it vanished amidst the horde still trying to swarm them. It didn't offer any respite, another rat had already taken that space with a thrust of the sword that only barely missed Boney's shoulder.

As they clashed, Boney and his cohort took a step back, and then another. This was familiar, even if the weapon Boney was using was different. This was a concept that even the traditionally armed kin back in Tiamoxec had, and the practice carried over. A fighting retreat, they just had to keep the line intact, even as they slowly back-pedalled. They didn't need to keep the vermin from moving forward, they just needed to keep them from getting past.

Another skaven replaced one who dropped from a gut sliced open. That one lost a leg, was replaced. The next stumbled back from a knock to the head, would likely return once it cleared its vision but in the meantime was replaced. This replacement had Boney's sabre thrust through the neck. The next lost an eye. The next was tripped and then trampled by the next while prone.

Any skaven that tried to circle around were cut down by musket fire.

How many of them are there? It was one thing being taught that the skaven swarm was exactly as it was called, a "swarm", but it was another to actually see for oneself and fight against such a swarm. Calling it a swarm almost felt like an understatement.

Where were they when I was looking for them earlier? The question almost came unbidden. He had other things to worry about that how he missed spotting a swarm of oversized rats. He knew, had been told, that skaven were prone to emerging as if from nowhere, that when they weren't swarming they were good at remaining unseen. Like the scope of the term swarm, it was another thing needed to be seen in person to truly understand just what was meant that.

'There they are!'

The voice that shouted those three words had not been skaven.

It appeared that the human warriors had finished the first swarm and had caught up. The swarm suddenly had another threat from behind. Like with the first swarm, there was confusion from those at the front as those behind them were attacked. Boney took another step back in sync with his cohort. The skaven didn't immediately follow, chose to focus not on those trying to escape and only fighting to defend, and instead chose to focus on those interested in being an actual threat.

Not that Boney was going to argue against good fortune going his way.

He breathed in, stretched his mind's eye for a sense of the winds of magic. Still but a trickle compared to hours prior. But maybe, right now, he didn't need to bring forth the full weight of the wind. He wanted to buy time. And with no guarantee that the humans wouldn't chase after his cohort after they were finished with the vermin, he couldn't just rely on them.

His sucked in a deep breath, pulled in what he could of the Winds of Magic, allowed it to surge through his body and then expelled it in a similar manner as he had back at Tallow Farm. Except this time, he hadn't the energy to make it the lethal blast of the winds turned furious. There was nothing lethal about the wind's push this time. But it still had strength enough to push, to upset balance.

To bowl them down, cause those currently fighting upon slick mud to fall to the ground.

The confusion and the time that both the skaven and human warriors spent clambering back upright would be time well spent.

There were shouts of startled confusion, yelps of surprise as the winds pushed. Coupled with the rain swerving under the strength of the air's push, there was no way any of the vermin or the humans had stayed on their feet.

'Run,' Boney said with an urgent hiss.

As one, they turned and fled for the hill. Shortly after they could no longer see those they'd left behind the curtain of rain, the sounds of violence were renewed, more precious time that they were not going to be wasting.

There was a quiet thought in Boney's head as they climbed the hill to reunite with the others. The fact that the dead hadn't made a show of themselves came to the forefront of his mind. Had they gotten lucky, or... Or was this where the undead were from originally? Boney cursed internally that he hadn't thought to check for certain whether the graves had been disturbed, he'd make assumptions based on viewing from a distance. A best case scenario was that the chapel and its grounds still had the protection of Morr, despite the absence of any black roses, and that the dead would be left undisturbed.

It was a note that Boney resolved to mention when they got back to the rest of the Legion. No more detours, he resolved while eying the captives. Not when we have people to protect, not when there's an apparent interest in at least one of them.

'We need to move quickly,' he spoke up. 'We're moving back to the merchant caravan and the rest of the Legion.'

'And the humans?' Gidul asked.

Boney cast a look at the five former captives for a brief handful of seconds and then shifted his focus exclusively to the human that the warrior had been so interested in. 'Coming with us.'

Four of the humans looked relieved, though tinged with a slight uncertainty. Boney couldn't fault them. They'd been dragged from their farm by oversized rats, and now what looked to them like oversized lizards had just rescued them, but there was no debate on allowing them to go their own way. It could be interpreted as going from one jailor to another, but for the fact that the skinks had gone out of their way to protect them. That last detail should keep them from assuming the worst.

The fifth human just looked resigned, but his nod was that of agreement. He would come, and he wouldn't argue about it. Interesting.

They couldn't hear any of the violence from before, but whether that was the rain covering the noise, or was that there was no longer any violence happening, Boney couldn't tell at that moment. He breathed in through his nostrils and nodded his head in the opposite direction.

Without a word, they started to move.

#

Sigismund Auer, captain of the Efror guard, surveyed the bodies of the vermin with a dour glare. His men gave him a wide berth as they made certain that each body was truly dead. A thrust of the sword into a body's skull made absolutely certain that none were pretending death in an effort to escape or to stab the colour guard in the back.

'No sign of the Lustrians, my lord,' Sergeant Gerwin reported. He was stood a respectful distance, but unlike the rest of the men, he wasn't afraid of Sigismund.

Sigismund hummed. 'They were wearing the clothing of men.'

Gerwin hesitated, head tilted. 'I wasn't able to see them. There were vermin between us at all times. Actual clothing?'

'Red coats,' Sigismund said with a bemused quirk of the lips. 'Other than the one I assume to be the leader. It was very professional looking. I can think of a few nobles who could take lessons in properly uniforming their house guard from them. And five of them carried handguns.'

Gerwin's eyes narrowed at the description. 'That's not normal for Lustrians, is it?'

'Not those in the New World.' Sigismund tilted his head. 'But there have been tales of their kind wondering the Old World that fit that description. I believe the stories started in Tilea. Though the stories I heard don't have them in coats but in an older Tilean armour style.'

The sergeant hummed in acknowledgement. 'They are Dogs of War then?'

'A bit more than that.' Sigismund rubbed at his chin. 'Whatever they are, they took our wayward son. Send out our trackers, hunt them down.'

'Yes, my lord.' Gerwin pressed his fist to his chest then turned to pass on Sigismund's orders. He paused however, as the captain spoke again.

'While you're out searching, look into any instances of undead attacking.'

Gerwin twisted his head around to give the captain a baffled look. 'Undead?'

'Something the rodent said. Claimed that "dead-things" were the reason the farms have been burnt down. I would dismiss it as an excuse, but why "dead-things"? Greenskins would have been more believable.'

Gerwin's lips twitched. 'They gave an unlikely story, so it must have a kernel of truth?'

Sigismund let out a huff of amusement. 'In my experience, it's the less likely tales that are more likely to be the truth. Why tell otherwise?'

Gerwin shrugged a single shoulder. 'I suppose. I'll have Cruniac look into anything "dead-thing" related.'

As the sergeant retreated toward the small camp the Efror Guard had set up, Sigismund turned his eyes in the direction the strange Lustrians had last been seen moving. No doubt they had changed direction at some point. He breathed in, took in the scent of the lands around him, the sound of rain pattering against the ground. When he opened his eyes again, he felt calm, his utter loathing for the world in general eased down to a manageable level.

For now.

-TBC