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?

8. Green Hill

Green Hill

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The Old World – Near the Middenheim Road

—

Boney flinched back as an arrow nearly caught him in the shoulder. He didn't even register the words that escaped him at the realisation, only barely was he aware that he warned that the hunters had found them. Again.

There was a bark from a musket, followed by Coadmit cursing softly. The only reason that Coadmit had ever let out any curses thus far had been those so far rare moment when he missed his shots, so Boney didn't turn to assess, simply acknowledged in the back of his head that the bowmen hunting them were still there, and bows were quicker to reload than muskets.

The skink abruptly shifted the direction he was running in an attempt to throw off the aim of whoever might be lining up a shot at him. In doing so he spotted the bowman. The archer was clad in simple clothing which was then covered by a leather coat in muted colours that unfortunately blended in far too well with the mud covered fields. The storm from the previous day had at first been a boon, had made it difficult to be tracked down for the rain washed away their tracks. But the moment the hunters had managed to catch them by chance that first time, the humans had been the ones with the advantage.

Boney's hand latched onto the bicep of one of the humans that they'd rescued, pulled him abruptly to the side, spared him from the arrow which nearly hit him in the thigh.

'Do we keep for the road, or try to lose them in the hills?' Gidul asked.

'Road.' Boney was quick to answer. 'They will be drawing unwanted attention to themselves if they are seen trying to kill other humans. They cannot even claim us the villains if they kill the humans they're supposed to be rescuing.'

One of the humans gave an awkward guffaw at the thought.

One of the other skinks fired off his musket, gave a low sound of satisfaction, before he then fell to the ground, an arrow having managed to pierce though his shoulder. Boney didn't hesitate to grab the downed skink, lifted him by his good arm and half carried and half dragged the other, at least until Gidul took the other arm over his shoulders—ignored the whimper as the movement disturbed the arrow still embedded within—and helped to move the injured skink.

'Road should be just over the hill,' Coadmit called out.

'Then let's move faster!' Boney called back. 'Sooner we're safe, sooner I get to know why we're so wanted.'

As he spoke that last, his yellow eyes drilled holes into the human that these supposed Efror Guard wanted so badly. It had been made clear from then start that he was the target of these hunters, but the human had at first been reluctant to talk about the reasoning, and then as time went on it was found that there wasn't a proper chance to actually stop and explain.

At least the human had the decency to look shamefaced, eyes wide and focused on the arrow now sticking out of the skink's shoulder. He grabbed the musket that had been dropped, carried it with him, but it was clear that he didn't know what to do with it, and considering he didn't carry any bullets or gunpowder, the most use it would get would be as a spear.

The supposed final hill between them and the Middenheim road wasn't a steep incline, but from hours of non-stop movement, it felt like the steepest hill that Boney had ever climbed. His muscles were aching from the constant use, his breathing was twice the speed it aught to be, coming in rapid pants as his body tried to fuel itself with what little it could get.

Reaching the summit of the hill felt like an achievement, and the ground's levelling out was a blessed relief. For the barest of moments, Boney allowed his pace to slow, eyes drinking in the road below. Instantly, amber eyes focused on a small band traversing that road, moving in the opposite direction that the Legion was moving—unless Boney's sense of direction had been skewed by his exhaustion, or the group was just that lost.

It wasn't a large caravan, certainly not the size of the Legion. It was about half the size of the Cathayan merchant caravan being escorted by the Legion. But, and this was the detail that had Boney feel equal parts relieved and worried, this wasn't a merchant caravan and their escort, there wasn't a single part of that caravan that wasn't part of an armed force.

The relief came from the standards. None of the standards that Boney could make out shared any resemblance to the Efror Guard. The most prominent standard on display depicted a sword pointed downward with an eclipsed sun behind it, atop a halved background of blue and red. There was no sign of any boar, and no black and purple colouring to be seen.

An arrow from behind was reminder that they hadn't time to assess the potential of this caravan being a threat. With a startled oath and clenched teeth—that last arrow had been close enough that the arrowhead had successfully sliced a line through Boney's calf, though thankfully not deeply—the major started to lead the way down the hill.

#

Commander Morgan Bernhardt did not consider himself to be a complicated man. He fought for love of money, and despite his place as a mercenary, he was still loyal to Reikland. Somewhere deep inside his soul, he still held onto those dreams of his youth, those dreams of becoming a knight of the Empire, of joining the Reiksguard.

He had long since accepted that he would never join the illustrious knightly order. By now he was set in his ways, ways that were not what the Reiksguard considered acceptable behaviours and mindsets for those considered for their order. The fondness for coin was but a small part of that.

But he would always remember the wishes of his youth, even when tinged with the bitterness that reality had dealt him. By now he would not change anything, even if he had the power to go back to alter the path his life took. It had been from that disappointment that he had found his true calling, had found those men who were now loyal to him.

If you were to ask Bernhardt, there was no finer free company than his Grudgebringers. How many other free companies, how many other Dogs of War could claim truthfully to have made a difference? Twice he had fought. Twice he had saved the Empire from threats before the Emperor had a chance to assemble armies to combat those same threats. While both of those campaigns had been financially motivated at the start, thus was the reality of leading an independent company of soldiers. Honour and good feelings did not feed the men.

Planting his standard into the rotted body of the Dread King had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life, despite how had it come after a battle with no financial gain. His critics could claim that his battle against the Dread King at the Black Pyramid had been about stroking his own ego, but there had been far more to that battle than making himself feel powerful, there were less lethal means to do that.

Such campaigns were rare though. As had happened after preventing Grey Seer Thanquol's scheme to use the ancient elven artefact known as the Menhir, shortly after his glorious victory the majority of the regiments who had attached themselves dispersed, left for their own agendas, leaving Morgan with the just core regiments of his Grudgebringers, and a lapse in high paying jobs.

There was something grating about how both times that he had led the Grudgebringers to a victory which had saved the Empire, the follow-up had been to go back to contracts for peasants and ale money.

Though, Bernhardt had a feeling that they were due for another influx of high-risk-high-pay contracts in the near future. There was something in the air of late. Besides barely explainable gut feelings, there was also historic precedence. If experience had taught the commander anything, it was that the moment outsider regiments were attached the Grudgebringers was when things were going to start getting interesting.

Having a regiment of halberdiers in the colours of Middenland join his company was doubtless the mark that suggested something was coming, the kind of something that would have him need the extra hands. The only thing missing was a wizard tagging along because of portents or visions or whatever excuse that a wizard needed to feel the need to attach themselves to a mercenary company.

The job at hand was only a simple patrol along the Middenheim road, from Wouduin Tollstation down to Salfen and then back to Gorssel. Apparently the mayor of Gorssel had been hearing reports of villages and farms along the Middenheim road being raided and had decided that Bernhardt was the man for a patrol, and would be an appropriate show of defensive support for the little man.

Bernhardt's money was on greenskins being responsible. It was always greenskins. It was as if they had nothing better to do with their miserable lives than be a nuisance to the Empire. More than a nuisance to the villagers targeted.

'Hold. Contact.' The one to call out was Lieutenant Gunther Shepke, technically Bernhardt's second in command, though outside of battle that role was shared between Klaus and Paymaster Dietrich.

Bernhardt gave a shallow nod toward his fellow cavalrymen and urged his horse to trot a little faster to reach the front of their ranks, where Shepke and his infantrymen were on point. There was no need for urgency as the word given wasn't the typical "Ambush!" which seemed to happen far too often for Bernhardt's liking. But clearly there was a reason to halt.

'What's going on?' Bernhardt asked, vaguely aware in the corner of his mind dedicated to knowing where everybody under him was at any given moment that Klaus, his one-time mentor, was approaching.

Shepke held out a spyglass. 'See for yourself, commander.'

Bernhardt accepted the brass tube and held it to his eyes. He spotted the issue quickly. A little less twenty figures had just reached to peak of the hills to the south of the road. Over a dozen of them were dressed similarly, must be a uniform, and one was being carried by another two.

What gave Bernhardt pause was the distinctly less than human details marking them—they were as lizards, yet men besides. There was a definite difference between these lizard-like men and the likes of skaven or beastmen. Based on the few experiences that Bernhardt had with the beastmen and their wretched ilk, the brayherds had an aura of the unnatural to them, a testament to their origins as Chaos mutants. Skaven, while lacking that same unnatural feeling, were still similarly vile, as if their rodent shapes could not hide the rotten hearts that beat within.

No, these lizard creatures reminded Bernhardt more of ogres than of skaven or beastmen. Not inherently evil, just different. Not that the ogres weren't capable of cruelty and evil, he had heard one too many stories about their eating habits to deny that, but it was not of the same all-encompassing evil that the former races were rooted in.

Bernhardt turned to Klaus, spyglass held out in offering. 'What do you make of this?' His voice lacked its usual biting tone, Klaus was one of few to be genuinely respected by Bernhardt, one of the remarkably few for him to make an effort to be civil with.

Klaus accepted the spyglass and lifted it to his single eye. 'Huh, interesting.'

Bernhardt waited for the older man to elaborate, and when ten seconds passed without, he let out a quiet 'Well?'

'Don't think they're a threat. One of the humans is carrying a firearm. I think they're fleeing something. The human keeps looking over his shoulder, and the one being carried has an arrow in the shoulder.'

It wasn't the question that Bernhardt wanted the answer to but he wasn't about to complain, it was arguably more important. As such, a silent look to Shepke had the lieutenant organising the infantry while Bernhardt himself called for Fletcher and his crossbowmen to ready up just in case whatever was chasing these lizard creatures was hostile to humans with nothing to do these lizards as well.

The figures had reached the bottom of the hill and were now on the road proper. At that moment the ones pursuing them revealed themselves. Bernhardt watched through the returned spyglass as a trio of humans reached the peak, bows in hand. Without any pause, the archers pulled back their arrows and let them fly. One of the archers then stumbled as one of the lizards had returned the favour, pointed the firearm in hand and pulled on the trigger. The archer that was hit stumbled, but didn't fall, though was now clearly favouring one arm. And more archers started to appear at the hill's summit.

Below, on the road, the ones fleeing had started to come toward the Grudgebringer's convoy.

'They need help, Morgan. What do we do?' Klaus prodded at Bernhardt. 'They could be innocents being chased by huntsmen, or they could be the reason we're being tasked with patrolling this road.'

Bernhardt hummed out in acknowledgement. More archers were appearing at the hill's summit, lining up with clear intent to use the height to rain arrows down below. There was a part of him that wanted to say that it was none of his business and that he should therefore keep out of it. But he also recalled how offering aid had benefited him in the past, whether it was through pay, through more men joining under his banner, or even just forewarning of issues that he was going to face in the future.

He could be abrasive to those that annoyed him, but never let it be said that Bernhardt went out of his way to burn bridges that didn't need burning.

With his mind set, he looked to Shepke. 'Get over there and give them cover, get them back here. If these archers want to pick a fight with us, well... they'd be the fools who missed the cannon.'

And there was little doubt that Sureshot had already angled his cannon for the hill. Sureshot was reliable in that way.

Shepke cast Bernhardt a look in silent question of whether the commander was certain of the course of action they were to commit to. It took all of two seconds for them to have a silent conversation after which the lieutenant gave a single sharp nod.

'Move out, shields high. Protect the redcoats.'

'Hmm, catchy name.' Klaus sounded vaguely amused.

'Only works if that is actually a uniform,' Bernhardt remarked lightly, even as he eyed the hill in silent contemplation. Just steep enough that my cavalry won't reach them before being shot down, and since I still don't know the details, I'd prefer to avoid killing them.

Shepke led the charge, his men close behind, their large circular shields held overhead to protect them from any arrows that might come from above. With the positioning of the archers, that was all of them.

There was a distant shout from the archers, but they were too far for any words to be made out with any clarity. The tone was clear though, annoyance at the interference. Bernhardt could see one of the archers redirect their bow toward the majority of the Grudgebringers, whether with intent of use, or to be an unspoken threat, Bernhardt couldn't tell.

'Fire a warning shot, get them to back away.' He called the order toward the cannon.

Wolfgang Schwartzkopf, better known as Sureshot by the rest of the Grudgebringers, gave a reply. Wasn't a reply given verbally, instead it was through deeds. In this instance, the deed was a cannon blast that slammed into the hill nearby the archers. The shot rocked the land and at least one archer stumbled as the ground quaked at the cannonball's impact.

Below, Shepke had reached the group being fired at by these archers, had formed his men into a ring surrounding them whilst their shields remained aloft.

'You might have made an enemy today, Morgan.' Klaus didn't sound approving, but nor did he sound disapproving. Maybe he'd learnt not to question Bernhardt's wisdom when it came to giving aid, or maybe it was simply a case of not being worried about some time limit imposed by an enemy they were in pursuit of.

'Maybe,' Bernhardt agreed ambivalently. 'Or we just made an ally.'

Klaus snorted, his eye remained affixed to the archers. When the archers realised that they could no longer hope to hit the redcoats and the humans with them, they seemed to be at a loss as to what to do. At least they were no longer letting arrows fly, and after the warning shot with the cannon, they didn't seem interested in trying their luck with the remainder of the Grudgebringers. Thirty seconds they stood, shaking their fists in impotence before they finally vanished down the other side of the hill, out of sight of the Grudgebringers.

Bernhardt dismounted his horse, absently patted the creature on the side of his head once he was on his own two feet. 'Let's go see who we just saved, and whether they are willing to thank us in turn.'

Klaus let out a breath of air through his nostrils, and hummed in thought. 'I'll go fetch Dietrich.'

#

Boney wasn't quite sure what to make of this turn of events. At first, it looked as though the plan was starting to work out. There were witnesses, they weren't immediately hostile… and then the first arrow had nearly punctured Boney's neck. Coadmit had fired a retaliatory shot in response, but now it was clear that these hunters cared not whether they were seen.

Boney… might have just cost the group their lives. The archers had height, had clear line of sight. It wouldn't be long before another arrow caused injury. He was aware of his one hand soaked in the crimson lifeblood of his fellow skink. His leg stung with a dull yet burning pain from his own near miss.

So Boney was slightly taken aback when a group of the humans from the passing caravan began to run forward with their green and white shields held aloft. They circled Boney and his retinue and then held their position. Whether it was to prevent any escape or not, Boney couldn't say for certain. While their shields were held in defence, they could be protecting themselves more than those in the middle of their formation.

One of them, the apparent leader of this cohort, scowled at them, sunken eyes narrowed with a contemplative glimmer. 'Stay in the ring and you'll be safe.' His eyes drifted to the injured skink. 'We'll offer medical assistance if you need it.'

'You're quick to help us,' Boney remarked before his mind could catch up and say that questioning charity was a bad idea.

The human's lips twitched into a bemused smirk. 'Thank the commander for that.' Then his lips straightened back out. 'Just stay in the circle. I'm sure the commander would love to question you once you're safe.'

'You make that sound so ominous,' Gidul huffed in a weak laugh.

So it was that these swordsmen in their green and white uniforms escorted the fourteen skinks and the humans under their care back toward the apparent safety of their marching column. It was clear right away who the leader of this band of human warriors was.

He stood tall and proud, black facial hair trimmed into a neat oval shape around his mouth—the hair on his head was hidden beneath a chainmail coif—while his brown eyes glimmered with a sharp intelligence as he looked upon the skinks, before then resting upon Boney with nothing given away as to what he was feeling. He was clad in a warrior's garb, the breastplate he wore storied yet polished, not to a glossy sheen, but enough to show a level of respect that armour was due, while his arms and thighs were covered by the chainmail he wore beneath the plate. As if to mark him as the leader, he wore a long cloak of rich blue colouring, which billowed to the breeze in the air. The shield he carried had the same design as the infantry who had protected them from the hunters, a sword upon a half-and-half backdrop, but coloured blue and red rather than the green and white.

'Well well, what have we here?' The man's voice was low, almost projected a sense of bored disdain, but his eyes gave away the lie to that, even if they revealed nothing else. He was examining them too intently to be so dismissive in actuality.

Either that, or Boney was really, really bad at reading humans, which he sincerely hoped wasn't the case. A lifetime of picking up on the subtlest of cues that his kin gave away, it would be embarrassing to then not be able to read the body language of the typically far more open and less subtle humans.

Boney also took note of how the human had addressed him. Seemed that the comments about his dressing different marking him as the officer were accurate. As if that realisation was a trigger to his awareness, Boney lowered his spare hand from where it had started to fiddle at the brim of his hat, still firmly atop his head despite the day he'd just been through.

Boney opened his mouth to give an answer—hadn't yet worked out just what that answer would be—when another human appeared. This one was older and had a more worn down look about his apparel. Not a warrior, though like the leader, the eyes held a cunning, the sort that an expert hunter would have, the type that hunted through traps and trickery. Despite that cunning look to his eyes, they were more easily read than those of the leader. On spotting the skinks, he paused, eyebrows lifted, then lowered into a contemplative frown, then lifted again.

'Lustrians? Here in the Empire?'

Behind Boney, Coadmit gave a soft grunt, and he turned his head to look at the sergeant. 'We are not from Lustria any more than you are from Araby,' the sergeant grumbled, eyes rolled in exaggerated annoyance.

Boney couldn't help but blink, somewhat surprised at the comment. Coadmit noticed his attention and gave an amused wink.

The newcomer seemed similarly taken aback. 'Then what should we call you?'

Coadmit snorted. 'The other name you humans use. "Lizardmen" works.'

'Descriptive,' the leader drawled out, eyes briefly moving to the older man in silent conversation. 'So what brings "lizardmen" to the Middenheim road, being shot at by archers?'

'They were protecting me.'

As one, everybody turned to look at the man who had spoken. He was still clutching the musket he'd picked up, though by now he must have been aware that he couldn't fire the weapon. On seeing Boney's eyes rest on the wood and steel weapon, it was as if its existence was comprehended and he thrust his arms out, offering the weapon back to its owners. Boney accepted, even though he had no clue how to use one himself, lacked the means to arm it anyway.

'Protecting you?' The human continued to drawl with words, and his arms were crossed over his chest. 'From what, exactly? Brigands?' As he asked, his eyes lifted back to the brow of the hill from which they had arrived. Boney followed his gaze, half expecting to see the hunters still lingering. There was no sign of them.

'Try skaven and undead, and those humans, wherever they fall into things,' Boney answered.

'The Guards of Efror,' Coadmit reminded.

'Efror? As in the city-state? Efror no longer exists.' The older human interrupted.

'They were wearing the colours,' Boney explained while recalling the explanations on human identifying choices. 'Black and purple, and an image of a boar.'

The older human tilted his head in contemplation and then nodded slowly. 'That would match the old Efror colours.'

'Efror, Dietrich?' the leader prodded.

'Efror was a city-state, around the time of Magnus the Pious,' the older human—Dietrich apparently—explained in that slow manner that suggested he had to really dig into his brain to remember whatever he knew. 'By all accounts loyal to the Empire, but was later burnt down. No effort was ever made to rebuild.'

'Fascinating,' the leader drawled.

Another human, this one lacking hair atop his head and a patch covering one eye, cleared his throat. 'I'm less worried about a no-longer existing city sending its guards after a man, and more about the other two things you said. Skaven and undead?'

Boney looked at this human and spoke clearly. 'I was sent to check up on a farm that a nearby village was worried about. We arrived to find the farm being attacked by undead. Later, the residents of the farm told us that a small number of their people had been dragged away moments prior by skaven. We tracked them to the ruins of a chapel, maybe one of Morr, where we found skaven, their prisoners, and the warriors wearing the colours of Efror.'

He really hoped he had said that properly. He must have, the three humans gave each other significant looks. The leader let out a huff.

'We were patrolling the road due to word that villages had been raided, but no word of by whom. I had assumed greenskins, but undead and skaven?' He let a slight grin lift his lips, then on realising that he was grinning quickly smothered his expression into its neutral state. 'It has been a while since we've had to kill skaven.'

Dietrich shook his head in bemusement, then returned his eyes to Boney and his skinks, seemed content to ignore the five humans who were with them. There was a new recognition within his gaze. 'What are your plans going forward?'

Boney quickly answered with a question that he already knew the answer to. 'You didn't happen to pass by our Legion and the merchant caravan they're protecting have you?'

That recognition turned instead to satisfaction. Apparently something in Boney's word choice had answered an unspoken question. Despite that, Dietrich shook his head. 'We haven't passed any travellers going in the opposite direction. If you think we will cross paths, you are welcome to join us as we travel.'

The leader cast a scowl at Dietrich in a silent war of words unspoken, which somehow Dietrich won despite the imposing nature of the leader, something eye-patch apparently noticed, for he had to quickly hide an amused smirk behind one hand.

'Yes, you can march with us if you are going in the same direction. Safety in numbers,' the leader finally said as if he hadn't just been silently argued down and that it was all his idea to begin with. 'I'm Commander Bernhardt of the Grudgebringers.'

Coadmit let out a soft grunt, the sound one that Boney recognised as recognition, but when Bernhardt cast his scowl upon the sergeant, possibly misinterpreting the sound, Coadmit simply commented 'Sounds surprisingly Dawi for a human group.'

Eye-patch chuckled. 'It does, doesn't it?'

Bernhardt's expression didn't soften, instead redirected his gaze to the bald human, pointedly ignored the guffaws of the white and green clad warrior who had led the infantry to rescue the skinks and a few of the other men who had made no effort to disguise their listening to the conversation.

Barnhardt seemed to register the fact that everybody was listening, his scowl deepened, was redirected to everybody at large. 'Why are you all standing around? We are burning daylight, get the company moving.'

#

Solin surveyed the ruins of what had once been one of the many nameless hamlets along the Middenheim road. Beside him, Caravan Master Luao Tee made a rumbling sound in his chest as he likewise observed the damage.

'What is your opinion on this... destruction?' Luao Tee asked.

'Not skaven. Not orcs either.' Solin crossed his arms.

'What makes you think that?' Luao Tee's voice wasn't judging. The only thing that leaked into his tone was curiosity.

'No bodies.' Solin gestured the surroundings with one hand. 'Orcs aren't the type to clean up after themselves, we'd see a lot of dead bodies in their wake. They aren't patient enough hunt down each and every person either, not unless they think they'll get a fight. As for skaven? While they might drag away prisoners to be slaves, might drag away some bodies for eating... no, they'd still leave some evidence of their passing.'

'Which leaves the undead that your man...' The Cathayan paused, visibly considered the word he'd used as he tried to judge whether Solin felt offended at the choice. When Solin simply raised a brow ridge, the human continued. '...The undead that your man reported attacking Tallow Farm.'

Solin gave a slow nod. 'Depending on the undead and their reason for attacking, the absence of bodies makes sense.' He paused and tapped one foot against the ground while his tongue flicked in and out of his mouth in rapid succession. 'This was recent.'

'What makes you think that?'

'The ground is still warm and I can still smell the smoke, despite the storm two days ago.' Solin's foot tapped the ground again, though his tongue had stopped flicking. 'It's possible that the skaven attacked and then the undead finished the job, the residents of Tallow Farm claimed that the fire there was because of the skaven, before the undead showed and scared the rodents off.'

The Cathayan's arms crossed and his head bowed in consideration. 'That leaves the question of why the dead follow behind.'

A single shoulder lifted into a shrug and Solin hummed in thought. 'I can think of at least one reason.'

Tauo Tee rumbled a sound that Solin translated into a non-verbal query. The oldblood gave another look to the hamlet's ruins then turned to move back to the caravan train.

'Have you much experience with undead?' he asked as they walked. At Lauo Tee's sound of a negative, Solin continued. 'Depending on the necromancer in question, they'd be taking every body they can find, so that they can be added to their strength. Let the rats do the dirty work, then any survivors will point at them, meanwhile the undead stay unnoticed and continue to build strength.' He gave another shrug. 'That's my prediction anyway. I couldn't say for certain without knowing the motives and power of the necromancer responsible. Fighting undead is a level of misery I hate, and if Nagash is real, I really want to have "words" with the cloaca stain for his role in creating necromancy.'

The pair—and the dozen jade warriors who had been in a loose ringed formation surrounding them the entire time they'd been separate from the caravan train, not that Solin had any delusion that they cared for his safety—passed by the invisible line which marked them as being back within their caravan. Lauo Tee's posture relaxed, ever so slightly now that he was in what he perceived as a safe zone, though his eyes still darted left and right.

'How does one fight such a threat?' the human asked.

'Depends. My "man"'—Solin allowed some amusement at the term to show; it wasn't as if Reikspiel had a word that was better used in the same place, other than using the breed of the lizardman in question—'said that they encountered walking corpses, but nothing elaborate. Maybe skeletons, he didn't say. If that's the extent of the necromancer's ability, then take him out and the walking dead becomes the properly dead.'

'No word yet from the rest of that group you sent out?' Tauo Tee wondered aloud.

Solin's amusement faded, to be swiftly replaced by a sliver of worry. It had been three days since he sent his newest major out to check up on Tallow Farm. It was supposed to be a quick and easy task to ease the skink into life in the Legion. The next day, one of the skinks accompanying Major Boney had returned, injured but whole. The skink had reported what had happened and then added that Boney had elected to investigate the reported church or chapel or whatever it was that lay in the direction that the skaven had apparently skulked off toward at the appearance of undead interfering with whatever nuisances they were up to.

Now, he was torn between pride that Boney was so clearly adapting to his new role, and tanning the skink's hide when he returned for making him worry so much.

Three days since he had sent Boney out. Two days since he got word that undead and skaven both happened to be lurking in the area. Two days of everybody in the caravan being on alert, of expecting trouble which had yet to reveal itself.

Honestly, Solin doubted the skaven would cause direct trouble for the caravan, for the simple reason of numbers. The rodents were skittish even when they had an advantage. Any skaven that happened to see the merchant caravan, and the accompanying guard detail, would be seeing half of the Outland Legion. Even only half of the Legion was still not an inconsiderable number of saurus, skinks and kroxigors, never mind the thundersaurs and aggradons. So unless there was something very wrong with the Empire's latest infestation problem, then Solin couldn't imagine that the caravan would have much of a problem from that front.

Marshal Ingwel had a dream of one day having the Outland Legion number in the range of ten thousand. Not likely to happen for a long time, and once numbers hit that point the Legion would likely be split into two legions independent of each other. If that happened, Solin was already saying it: he was un-volunteering himself for the part of marshal of the second legion.

He barely tolerated the role of colonel, a position that he had found himself pressed into back in the early days. Sometimes... oftentimes... he missed the days when he was an independent agent for Tiamoxec, the days before the Outland Legion.

He quickly cut that train of thought, before he started remembering details that were better left for moments he was alone or with his spawn brother.

As Solin was about to call out for the caravan to start moving, a sound pre-emptively cut him off. It was like a roar of thunder, like that of the storm which had assaulted them the other day. But there was no flash of lightning, and the thunderous boom held a quality to it that was definitely separate of nature's own fury.

This was the fury of man. Man's fury and innovative nature in finding newer and deadlier ways to express that fury. Oh, the Dawi could make their claims to gunpowder, even the Cathayans liked to point out that the Empire of Man had based their rocket weapons off of Cathayan fireworks, but at the end of the day, the humans of the Empire had taken that gunpowder and they had worked to make ever deadlier weapons.

What was it that the one emperor had said nearly two centuries ago? The Empire was strong through faith, steel, and gunpowder. They had embraced that ideology, and Solin had utmost respect for these humans who seemed so weak to the threats of the world, and yet they endured through the combination of those three things.

Lauo Tee stilled with his hand hovering by his horse, he had been about to mount up when the sound had echoed the air.

'Was that a mortar?' he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

'Imperial grand-cannon I believe. If it had been a mortar, we would have heard a follow-up by now.' Solin gave his answer in a bland tone, head tilted as he waited for any more booms. The absence of a second blast was telling. 'Hmm, must have only the one. Not a state army then, they typically have multiple batteries to a unit.'

Lauo Tee didn't ask how Solin knew of the Empire's military practices, not that Solin felt inclined to share details about past campaigns that the Legion had gotten involved in. Instead, the caravan master looked contemplatively in the direction that the boom had erupted from.

'Whatever is going on, they are in our path.' He made the observation with a similarly bland tone as Solin had just used.

Solin nodded in agreement with the assessment. He clicked his tongue and pointed at a random skink sergeant after checking that the skink in question was a musketeer, rather than a sabre skirmisher. As he opened his mouth, another thunderous boom echoed the air.

'Get your unit, all of them. We're going to check out what's going on.'

#

It appeared that Bernhardt's prior feelings that orcs were in the area had had some validity. Bernhardt would have preferred that he not learn about the greenskins by means of a horde of the savage mongrels charging his company from the hills to their north, as opposed to the south where the Efror archers had been making themselves noticeable on and off again over the past day.

Hopefully the archers had enough sense to not reappear now, what with an orc mob making itself known.

'Orcs!' he called out the moment he saw the first hint of the green tide charging down toward the Grudgebringers.

What he didn't speak aloud was the niggling doubt at the back of his mind as he realised just how many orcs were charging them. He had little doubt as to the quality of those under his command. But quantity was a quality all of its own. Charging toward his company, that was a lot of greenskins.

He ignored all doubt; pushed it aside, packed it into a proverbial sack and dumped it into the same distant corner of his mind that he usually left his mental baggage.

'Shepke, cover the cannon.' He raised his voice as he gave his orders, steeled his tone. 'Fletcher…'

He didn't have to finish, the blonde corporal called out an affirmation and was already organising his crossbowmen while gesturing wildly toward the oncoming tide. Bernhardt was thankful for that, Fletcher had experience enough that he could be trusted to not need a fresh new order every other second, unlike the halberdier unit, who had only had a single battle working with the Grudgebringers so far, and therefore hadn't the chance to learn how best to work in cohesion.

With a rallying war cry, Bernhardt lifted his sword, the very blade for which the Grudgebringers got their name. 'Charge!'

He heard the crack of gunfire. When he turned to see the source, he took note of the lizardmen he had rescued earlier, positioned around Dietrich's wagon and not moving far. Even the ones not using the muskets refused to move more than a few metres from their ranged companions. He wasn't about to complain, a little extra protection for the paymaster's wagon was never a bad thing.

With a shout, Bernhardt had his steed gallop, joined up with the rest of his cavalry unit and took point at the tip of the spear formation, led them into a charge through a cluster of orcs who were running far enough from the bulk of the mob that there was no risk of getting swallowed by the green tide.

Bernhardt snarled, teeth bared and lips parted in an almost bestial manner as he swiped his sword to one side, managed to cleave through an orc's skull. The greenskin fell, hopefully dead, but orcs had an annoying habit of surviving wounds that really should be lethal, so Bernhardt wouldn't have been surprised if at some point in the next few minutes the orc got to his feet and continued to fight.

Unfortunately, one downside to riding as cavalry was that he couldn't exactly stop to skewer the body for good measure. He couldn't reach once the body was prone, even if he were to have his steed still itself long enough to perform such an act. Fortunately, his stallion didn't still, had been trained too well. For a mounted swordsman, stilling oneself was not conductive to surviving. Riding atop a horse made one a bigger target for anything with any semblance of brains. And while orcs didn't appear to use their brains often, they weren't lacking those brains. And if an orc knew how to do one thing, it was fight.

His horse broke free of the throng of orcs, moved almost without prompting from Bernhardt toward the nearest of his fellow cavalrymen. As the stallion galloped, Bernhardt tightened his grip on Grudgebringer, focused on that feeling of energy that rested within the sword. Using the magical properties of his weapon had long since become second nature to him, where once he had difficulty, now he nary needed to concentrate on the act of pulling upon that power from within the sword, then pushing back in so that it was expelled with fiery effect.

A group of orcish archers screamed out in surprise and pain as Grudgebringer brought fire to their loose formation, a fiery sphere which hit the first orc and split into a v-shaped cloud which washed over and captured the greenskins within a flamed shroud that burnt and seared and immolated.

His men's cannon barked as it released the iron ball held within. A group of particularly big orcs were bowled down by the passage of the cannonball, but despite the efforts of the Grudgebringers, it didn't look like they were cutting down enough of the orcs to give them a second thought about continuing to press the attack.

His cavalry smashed through the cluster of orcs, trampled them under hoof, cut them down and in short order they had emerged the other side of the small mob. With a roared command, all of the Grudgebringer cavalrymen rallied up and reformed on him. Meanwhile, his eyes scanned for another weak crack in the mob where he could best apply some pressure.

Again, he was the tip of the spear to puncture through the enemy ranks. In he went, crashing through the orcs, sword slicing and while hoofs trampled, often accompanied by his projecting a powerful sphere of flame from his blade which was launched into the thickest gathering of greenskins he could see, and then back out the other side of the still reeling orcs that yet remained from the charge.

That was the pattern, the tactic that had worked so well in the past. While the foe was still moving towards the stalwart wall that was formed by Shepke's infantry, alongside any other units picked up, Bernhardt would lead his cavalry to chip away at the tide, always careful about his angling, lest he find himself charging into a horde with no way of escaping.

Once the orcs slammed themselves into Shepke's wall, it would be a simple matter of hammering into the back of the wretched creatures while they had no escape.

Bernhardt's world briefly turned sideways, a feeling of vertigo capturing his mind. Once his wits had come back to him, he realised what had happened. His stallion lay on the ground releasing feeble sounds of pain. The source of such pain? A crude orcish arrow was firmly lodged within the horse's left eye. Doubtless the horse had bucked at the sudden agony inflected upon him before stumbling.

With a grunt, the commander of the Grudgebringers clambered to his feet, lifted his shield and blade and faced the orcish mob. On foot, there was no way he was willing to turn his back to the greenskins. Couldn't use the magical properties of his sword, no matter how practiced he got with using it, there was always a time after use where it did not respond to his efforts. There was probably an explanation for that, but knowing wouldn't make it any less true, so he had never really questioned this period of cool-down.

An orc charged at him, must have thought him weakened now that he was removed from his horse. Bernardt was quick to argue to the contrary: Grudgebringer was quite the cutting remark which had the orc lose his head at the swift rebuttal.

Another scan of the battlefield had Bernhardt curse softly. He was on the opposite side of the mob from his own men. That one cavalryman that he had been moving toward before he had been forcibly dismounted had long since charged again into the fray, unaware that the commander was nearby. That would change quickly, once the rallied cavalry noticed his absence they would no doubt seek him out. But that might be too late.

Rather than dwell on the ill fortune of the moment, Bernhardt adjusted his stance and tapped his blade against the large circular shield his men favoured. He could see a small number of orcs reacting to the sound of his shield being rapped upon, ugly faces twisted into gleeful grins as they charged for him.

Morgan Bernhardt was born to fight as a part of a cavalry unit. He led and fought on horseback. But it was a mistake to think that just because he had been forced from horseback that now he was weak.

He trained with Shepke and the men regularly. He did not shirk in his self care. On foot, there might be better fighters, but that did not mean that Bernhardt could not fight.

He charged the orcs charging him. Managed to block an overhead strike with his shield, he then swung Grudgebringer into the back of that same orc's leg, cut through muscle and tendon. Thrust his shield forward, slammed it into the ugly sneering face of another orc. His heel came down upon the ankle of another, followed up with a second shield-bash that had the howling greenskin stagger back and trip as its ankle folded beneath the orc's own weight. Drove his sword into gut of another, praised the fact that these greenskins did not wear heavy plate armour.

But it was quickly apparent that he was going to exhaust himself before the orcs exhausted their numbers. And even with the direction he was moving, he would not reach his own men for safety in numbers.

He didn't take the time to feel anything other than anger at the orcs for their attack. He let that anger fuel his next few sword swings, where flesh was cut asunder under the ministrations of his blade. When he felt the energy within Grudgebringer come back to a boil, he pulled and pushed at it, hurled the flames at the largest group of orcs he could make out.

A mace slammed against his shield, the force behind it enough to numb his arm. In spite of that, Bernhardt managed to block a second blow, then a third. Unfortunately, that third blow not only numbed his arm further, it also caused him to stagger back. With his shield arm hanging limp from fatigue and vibration-induced numbness, the commander raised his blade ready to lunge at the orc the moment he saw the opportunity.

Everything seemed to still for a moment. Bernhardt knew that it wasn't the case, but as a new sound vibrated the air, it felt as though everybody had stopped mid-action, waiting to identify that new sound.

It was... a horn?

And then, something new entered the field of battle. Bernhardt had never before seen the like that now charged down the Middenheim road toward the battle. They were definitely part of the same race as those who the Grudgebringers had picked up. They were even dressed in the same red coats. But there was also a distinct difference, these ones were larger, where the ones that called themselves skinks had a height that could be likened to shorter humans if they were to straighten their postures, these ones would tower over any man, even with a slouched posture. They rode atop reptiles that were larger still, snarling bestial creatures which charged on two hind legs.

Once they neared the orcs, who seemed momentarily stupefied by the sudden appearance of snarling reptiles charging at them, those creatures leapt, soared through the air then came down upon the orcs in a furious storm of teeth and claw and blood, while slender sabres swung with an artful care that Bernhardt, a born cavalry commander, couldn't help but admire. Swinging swords from horseback was not as easy as those who had never tried seemed to believe. Either riding atop those raptors was naturally a better fit for sword swinging, or the lizards with the sabre had trained.

One of the riders neared Bernhardt, who adjusted his stance, uncertain as to whether he was about to face a new threat. To a small measure of his relief, the rider ignored him in favour of cutting down the mace wielding orc who had come so close to ending Morgan Bernhardt's life. The raptor that the lizard-like man was riding chuffed at Bernhardt. Its orange eyes examined him before then dismissing him as a non-threat.

The lizardman atop the raptor swung his sabre at another orc and then held out the hand not holding the weapon toward Bernhardt.

'Get on,' the lizard-like man growled.

With those two words, Bernhardt made the assumption that the hand was an offer to help him mount the creature, to ride behind. With his choices being to accept or to hope to get back to his own men by foot while still suffering the numbed arm, Bernhardt chose to grab the offered hand and allow himself to be pulled up to ride behind the lizard.

It was not comfortable, the lizardman had a thick tail that tried to dominate any space that might have existed, but the lizard seemed to be aware enough of his extra appendage to move it so that Bernhardt at least had the space be seated. It was a slight blow to his pride, to be riding in such a manner, but without his own horse—likely it had succumbed to the wounds by now—if he was being offered a quick return to his own troops to rally, then he wasn't about to argue. It was better to have a slightly bruised pride but be alive to suffer it, than be too dead to appreciate the lack of bruising to that same pride.

Once he was mounted, the lizard clicked his tongue, which seemed to be the urging needed to have the raptor start running. It was very different from riding horseback. Bernhardt didn't like it. It felt nowhere near as smooth as horseback, the motions caused from the creature's running less a calm wave and more a frantic bobbing.

However, he ignored his feelings on the matter and chose to focus on swinging Grudgebringer at any orcs that the raptor came near as it moved, chose to focus on the left-side of the raptor while the rider swung his sabre at any orcs to the right.

As they circled the battlefield, charging at any groups of orcs that had splintered from the main bulk of their mob, a new choir of gunfire hit the air. This wasn't the scattered one-off gunshots of his guests. This was a full-on volley fire. Bernhardt twisted his head around and took in the sight of multiple formations of lizardmen. These ones looked more like the skinks that had joined up with the Grudgebringers prior, three lines of these musket carrying skinks, twenty gunners long, and four ranks deep. The smaller lizards fired their guns in volleys, then as they reloaded they would crouch low to let the ranks behind take aim and fire.

Bernhardt was actually impressed. When he'd spoken with Boney's subordinates, they'd mentioned that their musketeers worked best in large numbers, where they could time volleys such that in ideal conditions it was a near constant storm of gunfire. While they might not quite match the handgunners of Nuln, it certainly seemed that these lizards had taken lessons from whatever source they could.

In short order, Bernhardt found himself back at the closest thing that the Grudgebringers had to a front line in this battle. The infantrymen momentary started at the raptor that suddenly appeared in their midst, but were quick to relax as they recognised their leader riding as a passenger.

'Morgan.' The voice that called his name was easily recognisable. Klaus pushed his way forward, his single eye narrowed with concern. 'I saw you go down, are you alright?'

Bernhardt slid down from the raptor's saddle and gave his one-time mentor a stiff nod. 'I'm in one piece.' As he spoke, he peered behind Klaus to the wagon which Klaus was charged with protecting. Inside, Paymaster Diedricht would be waiting out the fight.

Klaus identified Bernhardt's concern. 'He's fine. The greenskins haven't managed to get past the infantry.' The old veteran then looked to the lizardman rider, who was surveying the battle with a critical eye. 'And I thank you for returning our commander to us in one piece.'

The lizard huffed, the sound lightly tinged with amusement. 'I was passing by.'

'And I suppose it has nothing to do with wanting to get your missing number back?' Bernhardt asked, a slight element of sarcasm leaking into his voice.

The lizard blinked in momentary confusion, then brightened. 'You have seen our missing squad?'

He pointed Grudgebringer at Dietrich's wagon, directed the lizard's attention to the smaller reptiles around it.

'That's a relief. The colonel was getting worried.'

'And where is this colonel of yours?' Bernhardt asked, feeling his lips tug downward at the idea of a leader not leading by example.

The only reason that he wasn't still out there was the absence of a horse and his retinue. To correct the latter, he Bernhardt pulled his horn from where it rested at his hip, blew a distinct tone which his cavalry would recognise as an order to rally on him at the designated spot. The designated spot was always behind the infantry's line, so that they could organise without interruption.

As if to answer Bernhardt's question though, the storm of gunfire halted as the horn reached his lips. Once he had finished blowing into the instrument, Bernhardt turned his head to find the source of the sudden absence of gunfire, and he spotted another of the lizardmen approaching, one that had just walked past the gun-lines. This was the biggest lizardman yet. While he wasn't dressed in the uniform of the others—almost looked more like some would-be adventurer—something about him gave Bernhardt pause. Morgan Bernhardt hadn't survived thus far by not getting a sense of other people and creatures, and just how dangerous they were.

While this lizardman, strolling so casually toward the battle, didn't outwardly appear like much more than was already clear upon his subordinates… he was dangerous. Bernhardt remembered the time that he had met Gotrek Gurnisson and had just known that the slayer was quite possibly the most dangerous entity he had ever met. He didn't know if it was the way the dwarf had carried himself, if it had been a look to his eye, or just some empathetic sense that had no real basis on anything other than gut instinct, but he had known that if he were to ever get into a fight with Gotrek, he would not be walking away afterwards. That feeling had become a proven fact, cemented by how Gotrek had shortly after their meeting gotten into a fight with a dragon without hesitation, and had come out not looking any worse for it.

While Bernhardt didn't quite feel that this lizardman was at that same level of danger personified as Gotrek Gurnisson, this colonel was still within the same league. This was the type of warrior that could turn the tide of battle by simply being there.

'He's actually taking to field himself?' the cavalry-lizard hissed in surprise. 'He must be annoyed.'

The lizard stopped walking and rested his left hand upon the hilt of the blade sheathed at his back. Even from a distance, Bernhardt could tell that the lizard's eyes had narrowed.

'You all want a fight? I think you're all too pathetic. You orcs couldn't fight a featherless chicken, never mind a real fighter!'

Whatever Bernhardt was expecting, it wasn't for the lizard to shout a taunt at the orcs, worded in a way that even their dim brains would understand. It was very clear that the lizard was aware of the effect his words had. Somehow, despite having no facial expression, the large lizardman was just radiating a sense of satisfaction. He knew he'd insulted the greenskins.

There was that strange moment of silence, a sensation of the very world pausing to take in what had just happened. The orcs had clearly heard the insult levied at them, most if not all had hesitated a fraction of a second, before those who were pushing against Grudgebringer infantry were forced to refocus on the fight they were already committed to. Those that weren't forced to continue their fights all turned so as to see just who had dared to question their ability to fight.

There was a cry of 'Waaagh!' from a number of orcs who then charged at the lone lizard. The lizardman didn't react, just watched them near him and waited, waited until that last moment when they entered his reach, whereupon he pulled his blade from its place at his back—revealed it to be the single largest Zweihänder than Bernhardt had ever seen, a blade of shimmering celestial azure—and he swung it in a downward arc which had the nearest orc turn into two halves of an orc. Without any pause the lizard took a step forward, redirected his blade's swing so that it never slowed but circled back up and then came down on the next orc. Again the greatsword circled back up and this time swung in a horizontal left-to-right then up and back into a downward right-to-left which cut down more orcs before they even managed to get close enough for their own weapons to reach the one that was killing them.

The entire time, the colonel, this large lizardman, never stopped walking forward. Even when no orcs were actually close enough to be cut down, his blade never ceased its movement. He just took the moment for it to pick up speed, until the platinum hue of the blade became a blurred figure-eight.

More neared, and each that entered within a ten foot radius were cut down without a moment's consideration. One orc managed to back-pedal before the blade could cut it down, and seemed to believe itself smart enough to see an opening if the grin that overtook the orc's ugly face was any clue. The blade continued its cycle, and that orc lunged forward, managed to duck beneath the blade and swung its own axe. For a short moment, Bernhardt believed that the orc had managed to cut down this lizardman, but the orc missed as the lizard pirouetted around the crude weapon and his tail slapped against the orc's gut with enough force that the sound of the impact was audible across the field of battle and over the clash of weapon and shield that originated from those orcs still engaged with Shepke's men.

The orc doubled over, no longer weaving around the still moving blade, swiftly became victim to a cleaving cut that left the head rolling away from the body. That blade hadn't ceased its motion even as the lizardman had dodged the axe with the grace of an Altdorf ballet dancer.

Even those orcs that had enough sense to try and circle around and attack from behind found their efforts for naught. If they weren't shot down by the muskets lining the background, the colonel widened his sword's arc so that it circled around him, pivoted a neat ninety degrees with the slash, cut them down and then in the swing going in the opposite direction swivelled back to his original facing. Always, no matter what variation he had to make to cut down whatever an orc tried in order to get near him, he would return back the original figure-eight afterward, always knew when all that tried to circle him had been cut down.

Bernhardt wasn't a fan of zweihänders or flamberges. He was a born and bred cavalryman, born to ride into combat with a far more sensibly sized blade in hand. It didn't help that his experiences with imperial greatsword regiments hadn't instilled much of a sense of appreciation. Even that time period when he had had a unit of the famed Carrowburg greatswords under his command, they had left him underwhelmed when compared to the reputation they held. They had been brave men, yes, but Bernhardt would have favoured Shepke's unit of sword and shield infantry any time. The Carrowburg greatswords had used their blades to great effect, he would never deny that fact, but they still swung those two-handers with barely any more finesse than a swordsman would an arming sword. They were still a cut above the rank and file of the Empire's state troops, but for all their skill, they were brute force infantry where Bernhardt had expected more.

But here and now? One didn't survive as long as Bernhardt had without at least getting an appreciation for witnessing those who had mastered their chosen style. This lizardman, this colonel, he made the zweihänder in his hands sing. He was a walking example of what the Empire's greatsword regiments aspired to.

The lizardman ceased his zweihänder's movement. The blade came to a standstill, rested upon its owner's shoulder. It was an oddly relaxed stance that he had adopted as he stared at the orcs who had yet to charge him. 'Where're the real fighters? I only see gnoblars here, no orcs to be seen.'

There was a clear bristling at the insult. Finally the orcs seemed to part and allowed passage for a large, overly muscled greenskin, who stomped forward, horned helmet slightly askew as if it didn't fit properly on its head. The warboss, for that had to be who that one was, snarled and hefted a great big axe with spikes jutting out of the bladed edge.

'Who dah ya thinks yew are, ya lizzie git? I'z Warboss Wohag, I iz da biggest and da stronkest.'

The lizard looked distinctly unimpressed. His nostrils twitched, his tongue briefly flicked out, before his head then shook in clear bemusement. 'The most unwashed as well.'

'Yew thinks ya's can fight me?'

'Well,' the lizard started, head tilted and tone amused. 'Probably. I don't have to though. Thanks for standing still, It really let my skinks get a good look at you.'

Words spoke and un-worded order given. The three firing-lines of skink musketeers fired their weapons. The warboss might have been the biggest, might have been the strongest, might have even been the meanest, but that wasn't a good shield from sixty bullets. Bernhardt couldn't help the surprised laugh that escaped his lips. He didn't know what he was expecting. A duel perhaps, where the colonel showcased that dangerous aura he carried in a face-to-face, one-on-one capacity. Instead he'd just mocked the odour of the warboss and allowed his ranged units to take advantage of the fact the orc had just stood there to exchange words.

Maybe it wasn't the most honourable way of going about things, but Bernhardt wasn't about to argue the results. If there was anything left of Warboss Wohag, he couldn't see it beneath the indignant mass of orcs who seemed to take insult at their warboss being killed off so anti-climatically. Or they were just insulted that they hadn't thought of it first, who could say?

The lizardman colonel silently stood there and stared at the orcs in silent challenge, his zweihänder still rested upon his shoulder in a deceptively casual posture. Bernhardt could see, however, the way the lizard's grip didn't ease, could just about make out the way those crimson eyes didn't stop moving back and forth to track every potential threat.

Another volley of gunfire from the lines prompted the orcs into motion. They could posture all they wanted, but the firing lines would just enjoy the easy targets. They charged, screaming that warcry that no orc Bernhardt had ever encountered hadn't taken the opportunity to scream at every moment they could.

They charged, and in reply the lizard pulled his sword free from where it was rested and readied it, allowed them to come to him without himself charging them. Not that Bernhardt felt he needed the momentum of a charge, that lizardman had proven that already. He vanished from sight as the green tide reached him, blocked by an angry green wall.

Now that he wasn't watching the lizardman colonel, Bernhardt turned back to his men, took note that even the orcs who had previously been pushing against Shepke's infantry had backed away in favour of the lone lizard who had so insulted whatever passed for honour among the orcs. Or they'd just taken the insults as an invitation for some up-close and personal brawling. His mind was already filling with glee, for he easily saw the opportunity for what it was.

'Shepke,' he called out, careful not to project his voice too loudly. 'Fan out around them and crush the greenskins.'

As his lieutenant disappeared to hiss out his orders to the swordsmen and the halberdiers, Bernhardt turned to the cavalry-lizard who had pulled him from the fray.

'Feel free to smash the orcs wherever you get the opportunity.' He worded it as an optional choice, his tone suggested otherwise. The lizardman might not have been one of his Grudgebringers, but Bernhardt was the ranking commander here, and while the colonel was in the thick of combat and unable to give commands, then he was all too happy to fill that role, even for guests.

The redcoat clad lizard looked down at him from atop his raptor, and his eyes crinkled in ever so slight humour. 'Aye, sir. Happy to oblige.'

Strange how I seem to get more respect from outsiders than I do the nobility of the Empire. Bernhardt snorted and then called loudly 'Somebody get me a horse.'

'Charge.'

'To the death!'

By the time he had mounted up a new horse, the rest of his cavalry unit had rallied up near him, gave him the chance to return to the formation. The orcs were already being smashed into by the combination of Grudgebringers and these lizardmen. It almost—almost—made him feel sorry for the greenskins when he was once again the spear point that was thrust into the slightest of openings.

Then once again Grudgebringer conjured its flames, burnt a swath away.

#

Solin didn't pant as he walked over the bodies of the dead with half an eye watching the human warband as they gathered up their injured and their dead. Surprisingly few dead, for how many orcs had been attacking. He didn't pant, he didn't show any sign of the exhaustion that he failed to feel.

An orc, missing an arm and one leg bent the wrong way at the knee, groaned. It might have been pain, sometimes Solin wondered whether the greenskins were capable of feeling pain.

Was it a mercy kill as his blade punctured the orc's head, stabbed into the brain and inflicted damage that even the hardiest of orcs could not live from? Or was it simply pest control, the same as if they'd been fighting certain overly large rodents? Orcs were certainly a form of pests that needed to be controlled and rooted out.

Too bad it felt like orcs were more stubborn about being removed from wherever they set up than even the most parasitical of insects. Just about as annoying to kill as a cockroach, to continue with that same comparison.

Another orc on the ground, wheezing with a breath that whistled with each inhale, met a similar end. Looked like that one had been hit by one of the muskets, the wound in the chest looked about right for a gunshot.

It had been an hour since the battle had ended with a quarter of the orcish mob routing as it dawned on them that they had gotten into a fight that they could not win. In that time, the Cathayan caravan had resumed its movement, along with the Legion, so even as the battlefield was scoured by those actually involved, the caravan and its protection detail were passing them by. It was a long process.

A horse trotted up behind him. Solin ignored the newcomer for a moment, checked that another orc was actually dead first. Only after he was certain that there was no chance of getting his ankles cut by a stubborn orc that didn't understand it was supposed to be dead did Solin turn to face the one to approach, finally sheathed his blade across his back as he turned.

The goateed human atop the horse was examining him with sharp, cunning eyes. It was the same kind of cunning that marked a survivor, one who knew what it took to live through the worst that could be thrown at him. Solin supposed they might have that in common.

'Commander Morgan Bernhardt, of the Grudgebringers,' the human introduced himself.

'Colonel Solin, of the Outland Legion.' Solin nodded in acknowledgement as he spoke.

Bernhardt continued to examine him, so Solin continued to examine Bernhardt in kind. It took ten seconds before the human huffed out an amused breath. 'We found some of yours the other day, a Major Boney and his subordinates.'

Solin felt tension leave his body at the comment. 'In good health?'

Bernhardt grinned. 'Thanks to us. Seems they have picked a fight the Efror Guard.'

The tension that had just left Solin returned tenfold. 'Efror?'

'That is what the colours marked them as, apparently.' Bernhardt's eyes narrowed in suspicion. 'You know something of Efror.'

There was a sarcastic laugh that couldn't be held back. 'Not as much as I should considering I was under the impression Efror doesn't exist any more.'

Bernhardt's eyes widened in surprise then narrowed again in consideration. 'You know of Efror's history.'

'City-state burnt to the ground during Leopold's reign.' Solin shrugged nonchalantly. 'Near as I can tell, they barely count as a footnote in the records of the Empire's history. Marienburg buying its independence tends to be more often remembered. And cursed.'

The human gave a low hum then changed the subject. 'According to your major, there are skaven and undead roaming the countryside.'

Solin accepted the switch of topics easily. 'The merchant caravan I'm guarding hasn't seen any of either, but there is a burnt down village a small ways down the road. It was recent, and there were no bodies, which tells me that the undead looked to bolster numbers.'

Bernhardt nodded with eyes hardening, softened only slightly by a token of gratitude. Information exchanged could save time or lives, and this human clearly understood the value of that. 'I'll have to finish my patrol route, but I'll pass on the news to the mayor of Gorssel, and anybody else we meet on the path. What of you?'

'We continue marching toward Middenheim with the merchant caravan we were hired to protect, where we then join up with the other half of the Legion.'

There was a pause from the human. 'The "other half"?' he repeated, then cast a look at the passing formations of skinks and saurus. The progression had yet to have even half of its length pass the pair, and it had been a good long while since they had started to pass the Grudgebringer's hastily erected camp.

'We didn't choose the name "Legion" because of the sound of it.' Solin allowed a touch of humour to reveal itself. 'We number as a Legion by the Tilean definition.'

Bernhardt visibly swallowed down a lump in his throat, but his eyes were glittered with equal measures respect and envy. 'How do you manage the upkeep? Even on retainer, that many regiments…'

Solin laughed and shook his head. 'Trade secret, commander. It's not easy, and I don't envy Marshal Ingwel that job.'

Bernhardt leaned forward, lip twitching. 'Very well, keep your secrets. I owe you for your timely arrival. This could have ended very poorly for my men and I.'

But Solin was already shaking his head. 'Don't worry about owing us, we would have run into those orcs ourselves even if we'd kept back. We were doing ourselves a favour, you were the fortunate collateral.'

Bernhardt actually allowed a small laugh to be heard. It was short, almost short enough to be mistaken as sarcasm, but there was an element to it that suggested to Solin that the man just didn't typically laugh, hadn't in a long time.

'Honesty? That's a rare currency. But I must insist.'

With the slightest of huffs, Solin's eyes narrowed into a grin and he internally decided that he was going to take the opportunity while it was presented and held out a hand, palm open. It would change the subject away from the idea of anybody owing favours. 'By the way, it's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Bernhardt. I heard about your campaign against the Grave Lord, I'm impressed. Not bad, for a warmblood.'

He made certain that his last line was given lightly enough that it was impossible to be mistaken as anything other than an attempt at humour. He was reasonably certain that Bernhardt took it that way, as his frown was undermined by the open amusement in his eyes. 'I see. So you've heard of me?'

'We listen out. A mercenary army who marched to a certain death, but then returned victorious, twice? Tales like that the bards love to sing of.'

As he spoke, Solin spotted a small group approaching. Fifteen individuals, fourteen of whom were those skinks he had been so worried about previously. Boney noticed Solin looking at him and there was a slight stutter to his next step, eyes momentarily widened, then back to normal as he hid away whatever it was that Solin was making the young major feel. It had been so brief, so slight, that Solin doubted the fourteen individuals with Boney even noticed. Though judging from the look Sergeant Coadmit directed at Boney, at least that one had noticed.

Solin waited before addressing them, eyes taking in their state. All were dirty, clothing so covered in mud that the red dye on the coats was barely visible. Could barely even tell what colour scales these skinks were supposed to have. Then his gaze went to the sling that one skink was sporting, the wince of pain that couldn't be hidden every time the arm within that sling was jostled even slightly. Other than the slinged arm, all were covered in cuts and scrapes, but nothing else with any seriousness, no more cause for concern.

The final detail that he chose to examine closely was the human that the fourteen skinks had formed a ring around. Though, looking at the stances of the skinks, this was only partially a protective barrier, the way that there was always at least two eyes on the human at any given moment suggested that they didn't want him to decide to leave them. So, protective custody, though the custody part of that was loose enough that he must have done something to gather a modicum of trust.

'I see you've all been on an adventure,' Solin remarked lightly, didn't move his eyes away from the odd one out.

'Undead, skaven, humans, and now orcs.' Boney recounted with a tone that was supposed to be light. Supposed to be, but it held an element that said he was forcing the calm. 'I haven't even been here a week… is it always this busy?'

Surprised by the question, Solin burst out laughing. 'Not usually. Tends to be a lot more walking to destinations with little happening unless we cause it ourselves.'

That was true enough. The protection detail with the Cathayan caravan was supposed to be a quiet job that just happened to allow them to travel to their desired destination profitably—had become profitable simply with the caravan master's advance. At most, Solin had expected maybe one encounter where the Legion would need to flex its might, the size alone was usually a put-off for mere brigands.

Too bad orcs were the types least likely to be deterred by size of the enemy force. And Boney hadn't even had the strength of overwhelming numbers to back him up for what was supposed to be a simple job.

'So, who's the human?' Solin asked.

Boney opened his mouth, was about to answer, but he was cut off when the human in question spoke.

'My name is Robert Fenchel, ward of Count Norbert von Feyerabend of Efror.'

-TBC