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?

19. Shadows From the Forest

Shadows from the Forest

—

Five hundred and seventy years ago

—

He clawed at the ground, dragged his battered body, ignorant of the way he tracked his blood along the dirt, granules of sand and debris stinging as they were granted entry through his open wounds. It didn't matter that his legs had shattered, the bones turned to soft putty while every jolt, every motion, gifted a pain akin to a hundred heated needles being stabbed into him.

The heat of the flames kissed at him, left their mark. Fine clothing had melted and fused with his flesh. He was a corpse, but reality had yet to catch up and realise that detail.

He let out a pained grunt, forcibly dragged his body another few inches down the sandstone road. Bit down on his tongue as his ruined legs were ground against sharp debris. A small part of his mind mused at how lucky it was that the destruction of the palatial building hadn't left the rubble raining upon his beaten form. Small mercy, surely being crushed beneath a chunk of rock larger than he would have spared him the pain, but then again, he refused to surrender to the inevitable. He had not survived his entire lifetime just to roll over and die.

If only that interloper had just minded its own business. That filthy wretch! That foul abortion of nature…

His internal cursing cut itself short as he became aware of the shadow that blotted the Arabyan sun. His eyes lifted and his breath stuttered at the entity that leered down at his broken form. It wasn't the one he held responsible for his ruination, even though it had been involved. Its involvement had simply been... incidental.

The Lord of Change had a narrowed gaze. Its violet orbs were burning with hatred and fury while vivid purple ichor leaked from the myriad of wounds that it sported; dripped to the ground, whereupon each drop would start to sizzle upon contact with the sun-baked sandstone. Its vibrant blue plumage looked mottled, sported patches where the feathers were torn completely free, leaving barren flesh that looked out of place. Dotting the entirety of its body were deep, gauging wounds that were clearly painful, such that upon a mortal man, there would be little doubt that the life of the injured party was forfeit. Its wings were drooping, as though the effort of holding them to a comfortable posture was beyond the daemon's power to do.

All in all, the daemon only looked to be in better shape than the broken man because it could stand under its own power. But the longer it towered over him, the less steady it could keep itself. Clearly had to fight to keep itself upright.

The greater daemon rumbled a sound of disgust. It leaned forward, hand reaching for the broken man. In turn, the man whimpered in pain. His hand searched fruitlessly for a weapon that was no longer at his hip. Where the blade had gone, he couldn't say. Had it fallen from the tower? Been buried beneath all that rubble that surrounded him? It wasn't important where it was, so much as just the fact that it was not at hand to be used.

Even if in his current state he held no chance of defending himself from the greater daemon—even in its own state of brokenness and clearly on its last legs, it was better able to push through that state—surely going out fighting, defiant to the last, surely that was better than simply laying there and allowing this abomination to kill him?

The daemon's hand stilled but an inch from the man's head; he chanced a look up, turned his attention to the daemon's beaked face. The daemon was no longer looking down upon him, but had instead turned its own gaze upward, eyes widened in momentary confusion.

The man followed its attention, and his own orbs widened in terrified revulsion. The blisteringly bright yellow sky was how dotted with dozens of eyes. As if sensing his attention, those eyes all turned and focused upon him, examined him with an intensity which formed a physical weight that pressed down on the man's head, migraine spiking and threatening to split his mind into two fragments.

Bile forced its way up his throat. He barely managed to roll, expelled the former contents of his stomach to the ground, but was too weak to roll away, found himself falling into the foul-smelling puddle, felt what remained of his doublet soak up the liquid, staining both cloth and the flesh beneath.

The Lord of Change let out a trill, faint and barely heard. Its head tilted, turned its attention back to the broken man. Its gaze was still burning with raw hatred, but now there was something else, something that the man was incapable of deciphering.

The daemon's hand came down and gave a mocking caress, one that spoke without words that the man was at the abomination's mercy, that it would take only a twist to end his life.

'For what you did, I would make even Slaanesh's favoured look gentle in comparison.' The avian-formed daemon spoke with an echoing voice, its tone barely veiling contempt. It leaned closer until it rested its beak but a hand-span from the broken man's ear. 'It seems that your role is not yet finished, oh-weaver. There is more yet to your role.'

The man tried to speak, to utter something, but the daemon's mocking caress was swiftly turned to vice-like grip, its fingers encircled his head and gripped tight enough that the man fancied for a second that his skull would just shatter under the force.

'Consider yourself lucky. The eyes of change watch you. That alone has spared you this day.'

The daemon released its grip and straightened its posture, head turned again to the eyes in the sky. There was a moment where the dozen eyes turned to gaze at the greater daemon before blinking and fading from existence. Once the last orb was gone, the man realised that the daemon had likewise vanished, the only evidence of its previously having stood there was the pile of moulted feathers which were briskly carried by a wind that should not have had the strength to scatter them.

The man's head didn't stop hurting. Even after his vision turned white and consciousness left his body, the pain remained. That pain would linger for the remainder of his days.

#

Present Day

—

Wind and snow buffeted at his face as he leaned against the balcony's outer wall, eyes fixed down at not just street level, but at the courtyard of the Bokya Palace. From his balcony perch, he could watch the procession below. Yet despite the force of the flurry of snow impacting him, his eyes did not blink. He merely continued to watch as the Kislevite army formed up and stood at the ready. Tzarina Katarin took a position before the formations of the Tzar Guard alongside her personal ice guard, while streltsi stood nearby, though not quite as still as the troops of the two guard regiments.

This was an army that he watched. An army formed of the veterans and the elite. No doubt once the tzarina began her campaign, she would bolster her army's numbers with kossars recruited from the towns and villages that she passed. It was the smart thing for her to do, add some quantity to her quality.

The watcher hummed in amusement, and his eyes shifted to take in the odd one out. Trailing behind the tzarina was an older fellow in modest robes, noteworthy only in that he was carrying a heavy tome. The watcher huffed, shook his head slightly as he recognised that tome and what it meant for the one carrying it. To his amusement, the old man had a slightly blue hue to his lips, as though he had recently been victim to a blizzard, though he certainly seemed to hide any shivers. No doubt he had run afoul of the tzarina's increasingly shortening patience. Her patience was a casualty of the slander and dissatisfaction spread by the church of the Grand Orthodoxy. How easily the little person fell victim to the whims and desires of those in power, caught up in the storm of public opinion formed by the rantings of a fanatic.

And the various nations of the Old World wondered why it was so easy for Chaos to find supporters.

He continued to watch from his perch, head tilting as he assessed everything that he knew about what was happening. The old man had arrived not so long ago, had somehow secured an audience with the tzarina, and according to the watcher's sources within the Ice Court, had spoken of Ursun being alive but captive.

A captive of Be'lakor.

The observer couldn't help the slight sneer that tugged his lips downward at the thought of the First Prince. How fortunate that this man with his cursed tome had convinced the tzarina of the truth of his words.

At the Observer's side, a wiry framed man also watched, though he wasn't so capable of ignoring the weather, constantly rubbed at his arms to fend off the Kislevite chill. Even by the standards of the past seven years, this was a cold summer's day.

'I imagine the tzarina will prioritize mustering a force and getting the Boyars and Atamans to support her before she does whatever it is that the old man claims she needs to do,' the Observer said, but it wasn't with the expectation of an answer, just thinking aloud.

'The old man actually advised that she do just that,' the wiry man said after a pause. 'Do you think they actually plan to go into the very realms of Chaos?'

The Observer absently looked at the sky. While it was no longer visible, the Winds of Magic were still in a maelstrom from what he now knew to be the fatal wounding of an actual god. An impressive feat. It was just painful that it came from the machinations of the First Prince.

'It'd be quite the achievement with the maelstrom,' he mused idly. 'Right now, I don't think anything less than the direct intervention of one of the Four will allow passage.'

There was a lengthy pause, the two continued to watch the tzarina and her inspection of her army. After another minute of observation, the Observer turned and removed himself from the balcony, left behind the chill of the cold Kislevite summer, and into a cosy warmth of a fire-heated study. The wiry man followed and seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief at the warmth that now blanketed him.

'What news do you have?'

'Down south in the Empire, a Chaos warhost has apparently made an appearance.' The wiry man reported this with a dull tone, as if the idea of a Chaos warhost appearing out of the blue was just a mundane weekly occurrence.

The Observer blinked in surprise, because that was the sort of thing that he would usually have had some form of forewarning about. 'A warhost?' he eventually repeated with a questioning lilt to his voice, wanting to be absolutely certain he hadn't just misheard. At the other man's nod, the Observer blinked again. 'What warhost?'

'The Warhost of Malice.'

The Observer felt a slight chill that had naught to do with the Kislev winds. After a moment of thought, he shook his head. 'Concerning. Though it's likely to be a short-lived issue, the Four are actively seeking their next Everchosen as we speak.'

This time it was the wiry man who blinked in surprise. 'I had heard rumours, but...'

The Observer shook his head. 'They have a potential champion already, but time will tell. Anything else?'

The wiry man paused, then inhaled a soft breath, as if bracing himself. 'I heard a rumour that a rat was researching a name that you have an interest in.'

The Observer cast a side-eyed glance at the wiry man. 'A rat is researching a name?'

'Pugna Textrix.'

The Observer stilled, then slowly turned to fully face the wiry man, who backpedalled at the piercing eyes fixed upon him.

'And you say a skaven is looking into that name?'

The wiry man nodded once.

The Observer stared at the wiry man. 'Curious. And concerning.'

'My lord... what is the significance behind that name?'

The Observer hummed thoughtfully. 'I've met the one who bears that name before. Closest I ever came to death and the first time I ever felt fear. I had hoped to never hear the name again...' He turned, looked to the skies with unseeing eyes. 'Interesting timing... I wonder...'

'My lord?'

The Observer shook his head and absently brushed his shoulder of the snow that had piled up and not yet melted away in the heat of the study. 'I think I am due a trip to the Empire.'

He punctuated that declaration by grabbing a heavy cloak from where it had previously been draped across a nearby chair and threw it across his shoulders with a slight flourish.

#

The difference between Kislev and the Empire was apparent very quickly. While the transition from frigid winter weathers to the pleasant warmth of late summer/soon-to-be fall wasn't so stark as to be different the moment one crossed the border, it became very apparent not even a day's journey from the border and into the Empire that the curse which had taken the northern realm did not pass into the lands of the Empire of Man. Anten was able to shrug off the excess clothing and stow them away within his horse's saddlebags, glad to free himself from the leather spats and the overly heavy hide cloak, back to his favoured and far more fashionable (in his modest opinion) black and purple cape. Ostland still had a chill compared to other Empire provinces, its proximity to Kislev meant even when the northern realm wasn't in the throes of a multi-year winter, it still had a naturally colder climate, but at least now Anten was back into a climate that felt like the time of year that it was supposed to be.

Within a quaint little village within Ostland, Anten found a tavern that sold alcohol that actually tasted like it wasn't watered down—a rarity for the thrifty Ostlanders, who were so renowned for getting the most out of the least, so watering alcohol to increase the amount consumable if at the expense of potency was not uncommon—though even then it was still a very cheap ale. He settled at a table in the corner, his brimmed hat pulled low to better hide his snout from wandering eyes, and he sipped at the tankard while considering his next move. He could have just sent a letter by messenger bird to the colonel, or the marshal. But with what he had learnt up north, he had a feeling that this was a report better made in person.

Just had to work out where the Legion was at the moment.

A voice from the other side of the tavern had the skink tilt his head, listening. The voice was slurred, and the owner was swaying gently on the spot, a wooden tankard of cheap ale in hand.

'Oy, oy... ya'll been hearing th' rumours?'

'What rumours are ye talking about, Heinz?'

'Th' trouble in Middenland roight now...'

'Middenland? In trouble? That's not a rumour, Middenland is always in trouble.'

Most of the tavern's patrons guffawed. Anten took another sip of his ale and hummed with his own faint amusement. I see the Provinces still have their petty rivalries.

'Right, right, right...' the drank chanted out the word a few more times before pointing at the one who'd made that comment. Or at least, he tried to point at them, except he was actually pointing about a foot to the side of the individual in question, who grinned widely in amusement at the drunk's failure. 'But aaah'm talkin' somethin' dif'ent. Th' rumours... th' rumours... th' rumours... right the rumours... 'pparently Middenland has an infestation... Chaos.'

'Chaos? In Middenland?' one of the sober patrons repeated, face twisted in bemused exasperation. 'That's a laugh. They'd have to get past Nordland, and I ain't heard nothing about Nordland being invaded by Chaos.'

'Is true!' the drunkard shouted out, obviously displeased at not being believed. 'An' get this: the Middenland army ain't movin'. Old Todbringah, 'e's missing and 'pparently none else can order the troops.'

'If that was the case,' another sober patron began, 'then Middenland would already have burnt down, and this supposed warband would have made its way to us.' He paused, then shrugged. 'Or to Reikland.'

'Wait, no hold on,' somebody else said in a contemplative tone. 'Even if there isn't a Chaos warband in Middenland, there is something going on.'

'What are yah talking about, Ritz?'

'Well, the Knights of the White Wolf have been out in force. They were right up against the acknowledged border between Middenland and Ostland,' Ritz explained. 'The way they was moving, it's like they was hunting something, but then the way they turned and went back into Middenland proper, they spread themselves, like they were hoping to net something.'

There was a moment of silence as everybody considered the words coming from somebody who was not drunk.

'You think it has anything to do with the sky exploding weeks back?'

Anten stopped listening from that point, slowly finishing his cheap ale. Even if the rumours weren't true in their entirety, it was clear that there was something going on. Unless it was a civil dispute, one being kept under wraps, it sounded like something that Marshal Ingwel would try to involve the Legion in, especially if the part about a Chaos warband was accurate.

Drink finished, he stood and made his way to the exit, careful to move in such a way as to minimise the odds of his tail being noticed despite his cape. When the barkeep looked his way, Anten paused just long enough to bring his fingers to the brim of his gaucho before continuing lest his features get noticed.

He managed to leave the tavern without incident and moved toward where he had hitched the horse he had "borrowed" from Kislev. Rounded the corner of the building and stared in baffled annoyance as a pair of humans—looked to be youths not even at their second decade—worked to free the stallion from the post it had been tethered to.

'Excuse me, mi amigos,' Anten called out, not even trying to prevent his preferred warmblood language from slipping into his words. 'Might I inquire as to what you are doing with my horse?'

The youths started in shock, with eyes widened in startlement at being caught. Then they noted Anten, saw that he was by himself, and that wasn't as large or as broad as most human males, and they seemed to reach the conclusion that this meant that he was somehow weaker for it, and the pair pulled free daggers from their belts and pointed the short blades at him.

Anten exhaled softly through his nostrils. 'Sólo una vez quiero pasar un día sin soportar una estupidez a sangre caliente.'

There was a pause. The two youths frowned as the unfamiliar language was uttered, so smooth and soft compared to the gruff and guttural sounds of Reikspiel. They didn't pause for long. Once they got over their confusion, they started to advance. Whether they actually intended to harm him, or were simply trying to intimidate him, he didn't know, nor did he care. Anten grabbed the end of the coiled length of braided leather at his hip and flicked his wrist. The whip cracked against the air with a thunderous sound, and it was enough to startle one youth badly enough to drop their dagger. The other didn't scare so badly, but their bravado was no shield against a near lifetime of practice with the unusual weapon of choice. A second crack, this one aimed deliberately, had the youth scurry back in fear for his eyes.

Not that Anten would have gone that far. He was practiced enough with the unusual choice of weapon that he knew its reach and how to control the distance it would traverse.

The skink angled his head such that the two youths could see his reptilian features beneath his brim, and that was the final straw that had them retreat in fear, screaming about a daemon. Rude. He didn't bother coiling the whip back up, simply unlooped the reins of his horse from the post and mounted up. Best not to overstay his welcome.

He was due for a visit to Middenland.

#

Witch-hunter General Matthius arrived at the latest village that looked to be in the direct path of one of the marauding Chaos savages. His horse gave a nervous whinny, something that he couldn't begrudge the poor creature. It felt like he was moving nonstop, and if that was how he felt, he didn't want to imagine what the horse was feeling.

Four villages had been reached, and a militia mustered up in time to buy time for reinforcements to arrive. And unlike that first instance, the fact he had arrived at each with time to spare meant that the hurriedly formed militias were given a chance to be given proper training and arms. Well, as properly armed as peasantry in a village in the middle of nowhere could be. It wasn't for lack of desire, or even the apparent means.

Matthius wasn't stupid. He could see the pattern forming by the second village. By the third, he was certain he had cause for suspicion, and not his usual method of suspecting everyone and everything of potential worship of Chaos and witchcraft. One village having no spare arms despite a smithy was unfortunate. Two was concerning. Four villages not even with a spare bow to use? That wasn't just a pattern, that was sabotage.

No matter what nobility reigning over their little fiefdoms might believe, villages had a share of hunters. It was essential for their survival. They needed to hunt for wild game if they wanted to survive, especially after paying off their taxation. A village that didn't have any spears or swords despite a smithy taking place of pride in the centre of the village? Worrying. Those same villages lacking even a single bow to use in their defence against marauders? Something was inherently wrong with that picture. Wrong enough that Matthius made an effort to tone down his usual persona and instead adopt a quieter attitude, put on a more caring face—time and place, as much as his enemies liked to claim he lacked empathy or the ability to care for the working class of the Empire, he did know when to pull back on the vigilant inquisitorial mindset and instead be a supportive authority figure, and it just so happened that this was the moment for such. Questioning the villagers had painted a picture that he was not liking one bit.

The question that he now had, which no number of questions to villagers would ever manage to produce an accurate answer to: was it deliberate or not?

The picture painted, which had warranted such a question to form in the witch-hunter's mind: Middenland state troops had arrived at each of the villages and taken away all their means of protecting themselves. Apparently, it was a tithe to be paid to benefit the army. The same army that was still standing behind the walls of larger settlements and cities, waiting for the word from the graf, who was apparently still yet to return to Middenheim.

The graf's absence itself could potentially be from sabotage efforts. By now, he surely should have gotten a message via falcon or courier and made haste back to his capital to take control of the situation. Emperor Franz would hardly begrudge Todbringer's absence in light of a Chaos incursion in his province.

More concerning than the graf's absence was the absence of anybody else with the authority to mobilise the state's army in protection of the province. Where were all the generals? Todbringer was many things, but incompetence—especially to the point of taking every single general with authority to act on his behalf with him to meet with the Elector Counts—was not one of those traits he carried.

It was fortunate indeed that those running affairs in Middenheim had the brains to work around their limitations and task those who didn't answer to the graf with the protection of the province's minor villages and towns until the army could be mobilised. Even if it did mean those reptilian menaces, the mere thought of which had Matthius's lips tugged downward in a grimace. The Knights Panther, the free companies, the Knights of the White Wolf; they were all tolerable, but the redcoat lizards? Matthius couldn't help but dislike them. It had nothing to do with the still throbbing reminder of the fist he had taken to the jaw, and everything to do with the fact that they were creatures who did not walk in the light of Sigmar. Hoffman's admonishment about the Colonial Marshal in Lustria rang through his mind, and Matthius made a mental note to investigate Wilderei Geirherz to verify for himself just how trustworthy his word should be considered.

There was a static feeling to the air as he entered the next village, a feeling of anger that saturated the very air within the village's palisade. For but a moment, Matthius wondered if he had arrived too late, that a Chaos band had beaten him to the village. That thought was proven false quickly. He spotted villagers swiftly enough, though all had a look to them that suggested they weren't happy. And this wasn't the usual unhappiness that came from people realising that he was a witch-hunter. This was a different unhappiness.

#

Sergeant Walter Schiffer had started to feel decidedly uncomfortable. Unlike a lot of his comrades, he had enlisted, chosen to join the Middenland army, with every intention of dedicating his life to protecting his home. He didn't begrudge those who hadn't chosen to enlist, those who had been conscripted, who ordinarily would have their own roles to play in the running of the province. Farmers, crafters, they all had a vital place in keeping the Empire of Man stable.

But his discomfort had arisen with the orders of his captain, another lifer who had enlisted long enough ago that Schiffer was likely still suckling at his mother's breast. Captain Oddone Falck was...

Schiffer knew his place. He was not supposed to think ill of his superiors, especially those so old and experienced as Captain Falck was, because for a soldier of the Empire to reach such an age meant that they were survivors, they had experienced brutal warfare and come out alive. Their experience was a boon to any they commanded. Or it was supposed to be.

Schiffer couldn't help but feel like his captain was only a survivor because he had people in front of him when the fighting began. He had a particular look about him, a perpetual upturn to his lips that didn't make Schiffer feel he was looking at a self-confident and assured leader, but that the captain was constantly sneering at his subordinates. His eyes never brought comfort, quite the opposite. Schiffer hated it when Falck looked his way, felt like he was being weighed on some scale that determined his place in life.

But his latest source of discomfort came about from these past few weeks. Ever since the call had been made for all of Middenland to muster the troops and levies, and to standby at a state of defensive readiness, Schiffer had gotten an ill feeling, one that had naught to do with the rumours of a Chaos incursion within Middenland, and everything to do with Captain Falck and the way he was constantly chatting with the mayor of their home—who was himself a sleezy figure that nobody dared utter an ill word about for fear of his reaction. The way that Falck had spent the past weeks taking them to nearby villages, not to lend aid, not to protect, but to tax them of anything they could feasibly use to protect themselves. Supposedly, it was to better arm the troops, make up for shortages in equipment that came from the sudden influx of levied men.

It did not escape Schiffer's notice that everybody that Captain Falck had taken with him, to form this regiment of glorified taxmen, were city boys, those with no connection to the villages they visited.

It might not have unsettled Schiffer so much, if it hadn't been for the fact that they weren't just depriving the villages of the surplus equipment their smithies had crafted but not yet been sold or tithed to the larger cities that housed a garrison of state troops. When Captain Falck ordered them to go through every home and take anything of use, including such items as the personal and well-used bows of the local hunters, that was what really itched at Schiffer's mind and conscience. Surely, they were not supposed to outright steal personal effects? How were the villages supposed to protect themselves from the threat, be it the rumoured Chaos marauders or greenskins or whatever else dared to strike within Middenland?

This was the sixth village they had come to deprive of all means of defending themselves. And Schiffer was not yet feeling numb to the thought that they were indirectly killing these villagers. He felt cold, his nerves being scraped at with a woodcrafter's chisel. All he could do was look at the angry and scared villagers with an apologetic look as the captain argued with the village's mayor.

It was the same argument that it always amounted to. The moment any argument against them made logical sense, Captain Falck would shoot it down with a counterargument that amounted to "what do you plan to do about it, fight official state troops on official state business?" That was the sort of argument that only the suicidal would dare contest. None had been brave enough, or suicidal enough, to call Falck out on his bluff, which Schiffer wasn't certain was a bluff. He gave a thanks to Ulric for that, at least. He wasn't sure he had it in him to cut down villagers who were just scared and rightfully angry. He wasn't sure he was brave enough to go against the orders of his superior. Being executed for treason didn't appeal to Schiffer.

Schiffer shook his head in disgust as Captain Falck shoved the village's mayor, an elder man, to the ground, screaming obscenities, spit flying from his mouth, and giving orders to the state troops to start ransacking the village for any weapons that can be used.

That was when something new and against the pattern happened. A new figure walked into the scene, a tall man with long stringy black hair coming down from a large wide-brimmed hat, the same shade of brown as his long flowing overcoat. A bandolier crossed this newcomer's chest, four pistols carefully strapped to that bandolier, angled such that he could grab each one and fire it with a single motion if he so desired. And sheathed at his hip was a longsword. And then Schiffer saw the newcomer's eyes as he angled his head enough that they could be seen from beneath the brim of his hat, and sergeant Schiffer felt his throat dry up at the cold hard look to those dark orbs.

Falck quickly noted the newcomer and the equipment that he carried, and the captain got a greedy look to his eye, blind to the aura of thinly restrained contempt.

'Well now, who do we have here?' Falck asked with a honeyed tone.

The newcomer's eyes locked onto Falck, flicked up and down, took in everything about the captain, from his uniform, which was to Falck's credit immaculate, to his hat and the three feathers pinned to it.

'You are the captain of this company?' the newcomer asked, ignoring the question directed at him.

Falck's expression twisted into an annoyed grimace at his own question being ignored, but quickly smoothed his features and answered him regardless. 'That's right. Captain Falck, doing my duty for graf and province.'

The newcomer's gaze shifted, took in the two large wagons and the stockpiles of weapons confiscated from other villages. The way that his gaze lingered on the wagons, Schiffer felt the air thicken as what restraint the newcomer had on his contempt was slowly eroded.

'Your duty, you say?' Despite the questioning lilt, there was a definite sarcastic note to the words uttered.

Falck somehow missed that sarcasm, despite the lack of any effort for it to be hidden.

'That's right. Taxing the villages for anything to better arm and equip the troops who will be protecting them. There's a Chaos warband on the loose, don't you know?'

The newcomer's eyes finally pulled away from the wagons, started to assess the troops under Falck's command. Schiffer tried to nonverbally communicate that he wasn't happy with his actions, that he was following orders that he could not deny. The newcomer's eyes dug into Schiffer's soul, silently judged him. Then his gaze returned to Falck as the captain resumed speaking.

'In fact, I believe you need to pay us the tithe. Those pistols and that sword. Give them to us, so we can put them to proper use.'

The newcomer's eyes narrowed into an angry squint. 'I don't think so. You will remove all weapons that you have illegally procured and give them to the villagers here. Then you will help train up this village's militia. If you do so, maybe you will be spared judgement.'

Falck's attempt at acting like a reasonable figure was abandoned and his face twisted into a snarl. 'Who the devil do you think you are?'

The newcomer matched the snarl with one of his own. 'Witch-hunter General Matthius.' He identified himself with a growl.

Schiffer swallowed and his eyes widened with some small terror at the realisation that he was in the direct path of the righteous fury of a witch-hunter templar. Worse still, this wasn't a moment where anybody could rightfully say the harsh nature was being directed wrongfully. There was a stillness that overcame everybody in the area as that fact solidified within their minds.

A brief flicker of panic flashed across Falck's face, but it was masked by an attempt at confidence. 'We're following our legally given orders to better protect the people. You have no right to order us otherw—'

Falck's words were cut off when the witch-hunter, in a single fluid motion, pulled one of his pistols free of his bandolier and put a bullet in the captain's head. The gunshot echoed loudly, but it could not cover up the startled shouts of everybody watching the scene. A few of the Middenland troops reached for their weapons but stilled as the witch-hunter cast a sharp look toward them, dropping the pistol he had just fired and resting his hand on the next one on his bandolier, while his other hand rested upon the hilt of his sword. His gaze silently dared them to give him just cause.

'On charge of sabotaging efforts of Empire citizens to defend themselves against the Ruinous Forces, I charge you with death.' The witch-hunter post-humorously judged the dead captain, before he then turned abruptly toward Schiffer. 'You, sergeant, you are now in command of this company. And I am commandeering your services henceforth. You men and your wagons are now under my command.'

There was a moment of silence as Schiffer had to take in what had just happened. Eventually—after a pointed cough from the witch-hunter—the sergeant nodded frantically. 'Yes, my lord. What would you have us do?'

The contemptuous glower didn't ease up from the witch-hunter's features, but his posture relaxed ever so slightly. 'You will distribute the weapons you confiscated from the other villages you have sacked. You will then help train up a local militia and prepare them to defend their homes. And you be thankful that I managed to help those other villages defend themselves long enough for reinforcements from a number of free companies to reach them, else I would be charging all of you with their destruction.'

'Free companies, not state troops?' One of the other swordsmen mustered the courage to ask.

The witch-hunter glowered at the one to speak. 'No. And that is something that I will be investigating… quite… thoroughly once the threat has passed. I'm certain the graf will be doing the same once he learns that his entire command staff has seemingly vanished the moment that he left Middenland on business. You are the first state troops I've seen outside of defensive garrisons of major towns and cities.'

'That can't be right...' Schiffer blurted in surprise. 'You're saying that there isn't a single regiment out protecting our land?'

'No, there is not. Middenland is currently being protected only by sell-swords, free companies and the local chapters of the Knights Panther and the Knights of the White Wolf, none of whom follow the state army's chain of command.' There was a grimace to the witch-hunter as he admitted that, when he mentioned the sell-swords in particular. 'And we can be thankful that we have even that much. Where is your garrison and who commanded you to sack our own villages?'

Schiffer quickly gave the witch-hunter the name of his home city, barely large enough to be classed as a city, but still enough that it could and did garrison state troops. He quickly followed up. 'The mayor is the one who commanded us. We don't have a general, we only have the captain.' Schiffer glanced at the corpse of his now-deceased captain. 'Had,' he quickly amended.

The perpetual downward tug of the witch-hunter's lips became more pronounced. 'Sounds like some rot has taken root. A rot that I will be removing in the future.'

Schiffer shivered at the proclamation, and the realisation that his words had just invited a witch-hunter to his home city. He wouldn't mourn the mayor if the bastard died as a result, but witch-hunters were not known for restraint. He only hoped that nobody else got caught in the inevitable purging.

'Now, I believe I tasked you with preparing this village to defend itself,' the witch-hunter none-too-subtly reminded Schiffer, who straightened and spun to the rest of the company, hurriedly bellowing orders.

#

It hadn't taken Anten long for him to find confirmation of the rumours of trouble, though not necessarily the source of the trouble. There was little reason for a knightly chapter—Knights of the White Wolf if Anten wasn't mistaken, the banners with the image of an angry white wolf brandishing a warhammer was quite the giveaway—to be combing the lands in such a way. He took to avoiding the knights, chose to take the path of caution and not try to introduce himself. He had wondered whether they had been simply seen doing training exercises while also flaunting their might at the Ostland natives when he had heard that they'd been seen near the border, but no, watching them from a distance, he could tell that there was none of the revelry that came from a training exercise, there was a grimness that said they were performing every act with a seriousness that meant they considered their actions important.

Half of the week passed by without incident. That changed when in the early hours of the morning he spotted a band of warriors who were obviously aligned with Chaos. For as much as the Ruinous Powers embodied Chaos, they certainly seemed to enjoy a uniform look to their warriors. What was unusual was the white colouring to the armour, which didn't match up with any faction of Chaos that Anten was familiar with. Still, Anten mused as he watched the warband marching, he wasn't about to question the colouring decisions of a faction serving a malignant force that called itself "Chaos".

Worked out quickly which direction the warband was travelling, and managed to ride ahead of them, was faster by virtue of being alone, found their intended destination. An Empire village.

He had to debate with himself whether he should warn the villagers of the impending threat or not. He didn't have a cohort at his back if his appearance was taken poorly, and it was harder to avoid notice when directly conferring with somebody. It was easy for things to go poorly for a single individual skink.

Further investigating the village in question revealed that there were Middenland soldiers within the palisade, and the distinctive figure of a witch-hunter barking orders. Seemed that they were aware of the approaching threat, the soldiers were teaching the villagers tactics to better fight off an attack. That was good, saved Anten time, he could go back to his search for the marshal.

The skink shivered, a chill brushing at his spine. He wouldn't be looking back, there was something about the village that was unsettling to him. Like a shadow lingering over the streets, despite the sun not being hid behind a cloud. Maybe it was the villagers being scared from the looming threat of Chaos marauders.

Anten's eyes locked onto a woman who was listening to one of the soldiers that was teaching them how to best defend themselves. Her expression was pinched, the look to her eyes was...

Anten tilted his head, tongue unconsciously flicking. Like many of his kin, he was quite adept in reading what the warmbloods considered to be subtle body language. Subtle for the warmbloods was an open book for the Children of the Gods. Which was why, outside of the openly pinched expression, he was rather taken aback to find himself unable to get a sense of what the woman was truly feeling. He expected fear, nervousness and desperation, maybe a little forced bravado as she learnt the best way to set up a barrier which would block the street but still allow her to thrust her spear at the threat.

But nothing. A void of emotion.

More unsettled than before, Anten slipped out over the palisade, left without any within the village aware that he had ever been there. He quickly darted to where he had left his horse, and then stopped when he caught sight of the stallion. Or what was left of it.

He had left it tethered not too far from the village. Close enough that had anybody looked in the right direction they could have spotted it. Anten had even made a point of keeping half an eye upon the animal, and yet in the span of minutes at most, something had found his horse, and torn it to shreds, and yet there had not been a sound. No panicked wails from the horse, no growling of wild animals, no sound at all.

The horse's intestines were scattered around, the head was... Anten had to look around before finding the horse's head impaled on a tree branch. One leg was nowhere, period. It seemed like a lot of effort to go to, mutilating a horse that had been tethered to a tree a small distance from the thick forest terrain that loomed menacingly over so much of the Empire.

Was there some other threat, lurking within this forest? The horse had not died by some wild animal. A hungry wolf would not have mutilated the horse in such a manner, and certainly not opted to impale the head like so. Orcs? Thuggish brutes though they may be, mutilation of a creature like a horse didn't quite seem like their usual methods. Goblins? Maybe... they had the cruel streak that their larger cousins had traded away for thuggish brutality. But it still didn't feel right. And could a goblin have managed to throw or carry the head up the tree for the sole purpose of stabbing it onto the branch of a tree?

Maybe, but while it was a cruel thing to do, what was the cunning aspect of it? What was the endgame? Deprive a traveller of his horse and mock him? Great, that traveller now must walk only a short distance to the village literally right over there.

Anten hummed, irritated. He'd started to get attached to that horse and now he had been deprived of his mount. His eyes drifted to the forest. If there was another threat in there, making moves while a Chaos band approached, it might be best to investigate, to make certain that they weren't about to compromise the village's ability to defend itself.

Decision on his next move made, Anten moved forward, clambered up the first tree that was within the forest itself, and then started moving from tree to tree, eyes open for any threats.

#

Matthius was used to being suspicious. It was a perpetual state of being for a witch-hunter. Nobody was above suspicion, though certain peoples were exempted from that suspicion being openly displayed toward them—it was considered bad taste to look upon any Elector Count and openly express suspicion, that was the sort that was best tempered and hidden behind a mask of civility. Even other witch-hunters were looked upon with a critical eye, all while they gave the critical eye back.

Corruption and sin could be found everywhere, even in the most unlikely of suspects. Matthius had long ago come to terms with that fact, and when he was not reflecting inwards to make certain that he hadn't fallen for some subtle temptation, he was judging everybody and everything that he encountered. It didn't endear him to many, and fewer still tolerated his presence any more than they were required to.

So, the apparent friendliness of the villagers was a red flag being waved in his face. The closest person he had to considering an actual friend was less friendly to him than these villagers were being. A small part of his mind was quick to rationalise that they were thankful and were seeing him as some saviour figure for intervening with the attempt to loot them of every usable weapon that they had to their name.

But this was too much. And after the first hour of it, he had gotten over the novelty of being treated like some famous travelling minstrel and reverted to his default mental state of examining and second guessing ever act and word that crossed his senses. Critical eyes would glower, take in every detail that could possibly be perceived. There was something missing though, a detail that was escaping his notice only through its absence. What was it? What was he missing?

It took him longer than he would care to admit before it finally registered. It was when he and the sergeant that he had given a battlefield promotion to were peering over the village palisade at the nearby sight of a mangled and brutalised horse, ripped apart by something, that his attention was drawn back into the village when one of the Middenland state-troopers had called out to one of the villagers.

'Missus? Are you alright?'

Matthius had turned away from the outside of the village to observe as the soldier had approached a woman, the bulge of her stomach indicative of her pregnancy. She was very far along, far enough that Matthius would admit to not being surprised if her water were to break and she needed to give birth right that moment.

'Oh, I am fine, ser.'

The soldier's expression briefly twisted into amused surprise at being addressed such. No doubt he was no higher in social station than the woman herself, so being addressed as "ser" would have taken him by surprise.

'Are you certain, missus. I am sure that we could have you taken to another village that is not in the path of the horde. If we use one of the wagons, we could get you and any children and the elderly safely to a garrisoned settlement until the danger passes.'

Matthius hummed as he heard the words, silently commended that one soldier for the thoughtful act—and quickly hushed that positive thought with suspicion that the soldier likely only suggested it with the hope that he'd be the one to take the wagon full of the vulnerable to said safe place—and had been about to return his attention to the mangled body outside the village when the words repeated themselves in his head and his eyes narrowed.

Where are the children? A village this size, there should be at least a handful of children. For that matter, I haven't seen any villager older than their third decade, aside from the mayor. Again, village this size, even with the mortality rates of settlements like this one, there should be at least a couple of elders.

He ran his mind through every second of his time in the village, watched his memories like a hawk, but he had never seen any indication that there were any children or elders existing within this village. It was that detail that had been missing.

As the soldier and the woman continued conversing, he leaned forward, observing the woman. Her expression was... bemused, as she refused the soldier's offer with a declaration that she would not be chased from her home. Bemused and irritated.

Matthius glanced at the body beyond the village, then drifted his gaze to the forest that all but surrounded the village, leaving only the beaten path and the village clear of the thick canopy. He then looked again to the woman.

'A question,' he called out to her, was bemused to watch her startle, expression twisted into an annoyed scowl until she recognised who it was that had started her so, in which case her face shifted into a friendly smile. 'Have you had any troubles from within the surrounding forest?'

He was interested to note that her friendly mask faltered, morphed momentarily into concern, then suspicion, fear, and then controlled itself and reformed to a genial smile.

'Oh no, ser. If there is anything within the forest, then they have always steered clear of the village.'

Matthius grunted softly. 'Oh?'

The woman seemed to sense where some of his scepticism was coming from, she shook her head softly. 'There have always been wolves within the forest, and while they're opportunistic, they have never actually come close to the village.'

Sergeant Schiffer scoffed quietly. 'Bullshit,' he mumbled. 'No wolf would waste that much meat.'

Matthius concurred with Schiffer. While they weren't leaving the safety of the palisade to take a closer look, it was evident to him that the remains hadn't been devoured from, and wolves weren't in the habit of decapitating their prey. He wasn't an expert, but he didn't think the jaws of wolves were strong enough to snap bone in that way.

He wondered idly where the dead horse had come from. The strips of fabric and the ruined remains of a saddle made it evident this hadn't been a wild horse. Somebody had been nearby. Close enough that they could have called out for attention, so what happened to them, while their horse was mutilated?

Matthius's suspicions regarding the villagers only grew when throughout the rest of the day, he would notice any that weren't being trained up huddling together, exchanging hushed words that would then still when Matthius was noticed nearby. He had yet to get close enough before notice to catch wind of what was being said.

Couldn't really exchange suspicions with the state troopers—due to their role in nearly looting the village of anything of use, they were treated with not-quite hostility largely held behind a show of civility. It was an attitude that was expected, but it also gave even the more suspicious minded of the soldiers an expected attitude that lowered their guard regarding deeper issues.

It galled at Matthius that if they hadn't tried too hard at the show of thankfulness and acting like he was a saviour, if they had acted thankful but still reserved, then he himself might have lowered his guard.

That night, after everybody had checked the various hastily constructed barricades and the effort to reinforce the gates into the village, everybody had gathered at the communal fire in the centre of the village. Stew was made, a simple meal from a simple people, but with enough to spare that there would be none going hungry that night.

Matthius tasked Schiffer with assigning a watch rota, then carefully hopped over the palisade when nobody was looking.

The lack of children was not something he could easily investigate without potentially upsetting and making the villagers hostile. But the surrounding forest was something that he could investigate. That one woman had had the most interesting reaction to the question of whether anything in the forest might be given them trouble. That made Matthius feel an obligation to investigate. Maybe it was nothing, just local superstitions. Or maybe there was a corruption taking root.

Maybe it would have been wiser to investigate during the day. His night vision wasn't terrible, but with some creatures that dwelt within thick wooded regions, there was no competition. But he would prefer that his investigations go unnoticed. At night, everybody would assume that he had simply retired for the night.

He resisted the urge to light a torch, chose to rely on his senses, chose not to advertise his position with a bright light declaring "somebody is right here". There was a story he had once heard about another witch-hunter templar, who had been travelling with a band of adventurers, and in the middle of a night excursion into one of the Empire's many forests, had encountered a group of cultists dedicated to Nurgle. The witch-hunter had opted to surround the cultists and then launch a surprise attack upon them, but then made the mistake of moving within the light of the cultists' campfire. he suffered for his mistake, the illness that was inflicted upon him left him physically incapable of continuing the physical lifestyle of a witch-hunter, even after the disease had passed from his system, left him constantly short of breath and only able to perform clerical duties.

Even besides the anecdotes of his fellow witch-hunters, he had also long ago learnt that standing within a light source during the dark hours actually worsened his sight.

Two hours of searching, he was beginning to doubt he'd find anything. The problem with that thought was that he wasn't finding anything. He hadn't so much as heard a single sound that wasn't his own soft breathing. Usually there was something, the sound of wild animals if nothing else, but the dead stillness was a clue that something was amiss, but also lacked compelling evidence as to what was amiss.

Matthius was going to turn and start making his way back to the village when he was abruptly grabbed from behind, pulled back and dragged against a tree whilst a roughly textured hand pressed itself against his mouth. He moved to struggle, to grab either a pistol or one of his knives, but stilled as a soft voice quietly made a hushing sound. Something about the way he was being hushed triggered his survival instincts, he quickly stilled, didn't move, didn't try to fight against the hand against his mouth.

Footsteps, light and barely heard, wouldn't have been if Matthius wasn't keeping so absolutely still. Even the ruffling of his garb from his slow pace would have been enough to mask those footfalls that he now heard.

Thump. Thump. Thump. The sounds paused, the silence was renewed, and almost suffocating. His eyes, long adapted to the darkness he was traversing made out a large form, but it was shadowed, little more than a silhouette. Whatever it was, it was not human—too large, too broad. Horned.

There was a long moment where Matthius wondered whether the form was staring at him and the one holding him. Then the form shifted and started to move, disappeared behind the blank shape that was a tree's silhouette. Thump. Thump. Thump.

The individual that had grabbed Matthius didn't move away, continued to keep a hand pressed against his mouth, even after the footfalls had long sense faded away with distance. Five minutes they remained like that before the hand was moved away and a soft exhale was heard.

'It is gone.' The voice that whispered was accented, sounded Estalian, but with a familiar tang of something else.

In the darkness, Matthius could only make out the shape of the individual, and not even that if he was honest. It was clear they were wearing a cloak or a cape, and it obscured their shape almost as much as the flat-brimmed hat warped the shape of the individual's head.

The individual hesitated for a moment, then spoke again. 'This forest is crawling with those things.'

Matthius regained his voice, reigned in his immediate suspicion. 'What are they?'

'That was a bullgor.' He was answered. 'But I've seen plenty of gor and even a few bestigor. This forest is home to beasts of Chaos.'

Matthius swallowed, wettened his suddenly dry throat. 'You are sure?'

The figure hummed. 'I've not so much experience with them as I do the Chaos dwarfs, but I would still recognise them.'

Matthius let out a breath, his mind racing, bringing up everything he had ever learnt of the beastmen. 'Are they migrating, or is there a herdstone near?'

'That, I have no idea.' The Estalian accented voice sounded annoyed at their own failure to answer with a solid answer in one way or the other. 'If it helps, I've seen no evidence that they are part of the One Eye's brayherd. I've not seen any shaman either.'

It didn't help, not seeing evidence didn't mean the evidence didn't exist. Just that it potentially hadn't been found yet.

'Why would they not raze the nearby village?' he found himself asking, more to himself than this stranger.

The stranger answered regardless. 'I've been wondering about that myself. And to think, I wouldn't have thought to check this forest if my horse hadn't been butchered.'

Matthius latched onto that comment. 'It was your horse that we saw outside the village?'

There was an affirmative hum. 'I had come to warn you of the marauders approaching, found that you had the situation in hand, went to leave, found my horse dead. Honestly? I was expecting goblins, not beastmen.'

That was a fair assumption. Matthius wouldn't have been surprised to encounter a tribe of greenskins lurking in the woods, a small tribe of goblins, not big enough to have the courage to actually attack the nearby village, but still cruel enough to find other ways of harassing the residents within.

'Do we go back to the village, amigo, or do we search for the herd's nesting grounds?'

Matthius grunted at the question levied at him. Unfortunately, there was no real question about what his answer would be. If there was a brayherd in this forest, that was not a threat for a single individual. Not even a witch-hunter dared to face off against an entire brayherd alone. He would need reinforcements, and unfortunately, the men he had commandeered didn't number enough that he felt comfortable taking them into the forest to deal with the beastmen. Those little details he knew of the beasts said that within woodland terrain, they would have a terrible advantage against the men of the Empire. Even absolute faith in Sigmar was not giving him the courage for a suicidal task such as that.

The village has defensible... Wait, Sigmar damn it, the coming Chaos marauders. At this rate, the village was going to have to be written off as a loss. If the brayherd attacked, then they would be forced to defend from two attacking forces with limited numbers and limited resources. This was a rare instance where even the most devout had to concede that discretion was the better part of valour.

'Back to the village, we need to get everybody ready to flee.'

The stranger hummed in acknowledgement without any judgement.

#

Sergeant Schiffer was startled from his watch when one of his subordinates came running, eyes wide. For a moment, Schiffer was afraid that the Chaos attack had come early, his grip on his spear tightened to the point that his knuckles were making cracking sounds. But considering the wide-eyed expression wasn't terror but panic, and there were no screams of "they're here!" then it had to be something other than the inevitable attack.

Becken came to a halt near Schiffer and looked at him frantically. 'Sergeant, Missus Hartig is giving birth!'

Schiffer blinked, ran those words through his mind as if to make wholly certain that he had heard right, then blinked again. 'Scheiße,' he swore softly. 'Of all the timing. Where is she?'

'She's in the inn,' Becken said with a vague wave of his hand in the direction of the building that was what this village called an inn. It also passed as a public house, which would explain her reason for being there, maybe not for the drinks but to be socialising with the other village residents.

'Just one more thing to worry about when the marauders reach us,' Schiffer groused, leaning against the top edge of the palisade, absently looking at the surrounding scenery. 'She was already going to be a burden defending this crap-hole. Now it's going to be worse...' he trailed off, lacking any real heat to his grumbling.

'Have a heart, Schiffer,' Becken said in rebuke. 'It's not like she planned to be pregnant during a Chaos incursion.'

'She could have taken up the offer to be escorted to a safer place,' Schiffer snapped in return. 'She chose to stay here out of some misguided sense of "ain't nobody telling me to leave my hearth and home". Never mind that she has more than just her own life to worry about.'

Becken's lips twisted into an amused sneer. 'And if you were told your home was about to be attacked, you would absolutely leave.'

'That's different,' Schiffer argued, pointing the end of his spear at Becken as though it would help drill the point into the other soldier's thick skull. 'I'm a trained soldier of the Midddenland state army—a sergeant. It's my job to face threats to home, province and Empire. If I fled, that'd be called desertion, and I'd probably find myself taking a long walk off a short bridge if I dared try.'

Becken snorted and shrugged. 'And if you weren't?'

Schiffer's eyes rolled and his head shook. 'Doesn't matter, I am a sergeant of Middenland, so it's pointless thinking otherwise.' He exhaled, then hopped down from the walkway that allowed him to see over the palisade. 'You said she's at the inn?'

At Becken's confirming nod, Schiffer started to march to the inn. It didn't occur to him that he was hardly going to be able to help, he had never witnessed a woman giving birth before, certainly had no experience with helping in the delivery of a newborn. But he elected to go see the event, he even promised he wouldn't get smarmy at the new mother for the position she was putting the village's defence in.

The inn was a flurry of organised chaos. Missus Hartig was laid upon one of the tables, head aimed toward the door, presumably to prevent anybody from getting an eyeful of her unmentionables as they walk into the inn. She was gasping loudly whilst at her legs, Missus Wessely had her head disappeared up Missus Hartig's dress, her voice heard constantly preaching 'Deep breaths dear, deep breaths. Relax. I said relax!'. The sight might have been comical under different circumstances, but Schiffer wasn't amused, though the gasping Missus Hartig managing to sputter out the kind of vulgarity that would have even hardened veterans of the state troops impressed managed to have the sergeant raise an eyebrow.

'Is everything alright?'

'Fick dich (du) Hurensohn,' Missus Hartig screamed at him.

A man who shared a likeness with Missus Hartig guffawed at the vulgarity escaping her lips, while Schiffer found himself leaning back as if the verbal abuse were a physical force slamming into him. After a moment, the sergeant inhaled and gave a single nod.

'I see you are doing remarkably well,' he said in a dry tone as though she hadn't just insulted him.

'I'm going to kill him!' Missus Hartig shouted. 'That bastard put this thing in me, I'm going to make him feel every bit in pain as what he has put me through!'

Strangely, that declaration had the villagers fall into a hushed silence, looks exchanged, while the three soldiers—Schiffer included—could only feel a sense of confusion at the reaction. Was the father of her child—and Schiffer wondered if anybody had actually been told who the father was, there hadn't been any physical indication as to who had fathered the soon-to-be-born child—somebody that garnered such respect that the cursing of a woman giving birth would still cause concern at potential offence?

'Ostara, you do not mean that, surely?' The man that shared her likeness asked, seemingly in gentle reproach but there was an underlining layer of iron in his voice.

'Do not dare to tell me what I mean, brother!' She yelled, before devolving into pained screaming as she had a contraction at that moment.

The man, her brother, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and moved so that he was partially hid behind Schiffer. Schiffer raised an eyebrow at him, to which he gave a wan and wholly unrepentant grin.

Long minutes later, Missus Hartig stopped screaming, and for a handful of seconds, there was silence. Then sound returned in the form of a baby's wailing as it took its first breaths. The midwife pulled herself away from Missus Hartig's unmentionables, cradling the baby close to her chest and looking down at the new life in her arms with an expression of awe and joy, so much so that one would think that she was under the belief that she were the mother instead.

'Ostara, you have a beautiful baby boy,' she finally announced.

Schiffer looked over, interested despite himself to see this newborn child. Missus Wessely tilted her arms to angle the babe within so that all that were present could see. Schiffer immediately felt disgust as the infant was revealed, as he took in the already open amber eyes and the horizontal slit-shaped pupils, took in the fine layer of fur, and noted the small nubs on its head that would one day grow into horns.

'Mutant,' Schiffer heard Hecke mutter in recognition.

No, worse, Schiffer thought to himself, beastman.

Movement from the edge of his vision. Turned his head just enough that he was able to see as one of the villagers lunged at Hecke, a knife in hand, and Hecke fell to the ground, blade punctured into his neck. Schiffer reacted quickly, sensed movement from behind him and swung his elbow back, caught Missus Hartig's brother in the nose. Felt no regret, actually felt panic as the other men of the village rounded on him. Couldn't see Pilzer, but a villager was standing exactly where Pilzer had been previously, a cleaver in hand dripping with red liquid.

Schiffer dropped his spear and pulled his messer from its scabbard and backed away from the villagers, made certain to put the wall at his back. Eyes roved, left to right, took in the group of villagers, all staring at him with open hostility. Missus Hartig was still on her back, laid across the table—must still be weakened from giving birth, but her eyes were locked onto him with a dark hate—while Missus Wessely retreated to the back rooms, mutant child in her arms, no doubt looking to find somewhere safe.

Schiffer inhaled, shifted the blade in his hand toward the nearest villager when they took a step toward him. There were enough of them that despite their not being armoured or even armed with any real weapons, he would be overrun quickly if they moved on him as one.

He wondered, for a moment, whether this was delayed retribution for the attempt at taking away any arms that they could use to defend themselves. He dismissed that thought quickly, the reaction to the mutant child was the key. The midwife, Missus Wessely, she had called the baby "beautiful" even as she looked upon it and could see it for what it was. Coming from the mother, it could have been excused as wilfully ignoring the truth to have a moment of the happiness that should have been felt under normal circumstances, but no, it was the midwife who smiled and still moved to protect the mutant child. And none of the other villagers in the room had recoiled or grimaced or made any reaction other than acceptance.

Not even surprise.

Shit. They knew the child would be a beast!

Schiffer chose to act before the villagers had a chance to gather their thoughts and decide to rush him. He lunged at Missus Hartig's brother, seeing him as the weak link with the way that one hand was more focused on trying to stem the bleeding from his broken nose. Schiffer's messer cut through the man from shoulder to hip, cutting deeply enough that it was surely a fatal wound. But the sergeant didn't stop his forward momentum with the cut of his blade into flesh, continued forward, shoulder-barged the fatally wounded man and dove, threw himself bodily through the window nearby.

Wood splintered as the shutters failed to withstand the force of a human in flight, fragments raining down upon Schiffer as he hurriedly rolled to his feet. Once upright, he drew in air and then bellowed as loudly as he could, warning everybody that the villagers had turned hostile. Hopefully he was heard.

There was a shout. Schiffer looked up, took note of the villager charging at him with a spear held out. He cursed, threw himself to the side to avoid the end of the spear, then grabbed the shaft, tugged then shoved, which had the man holding the spear fall backward at the abrupt reversal when he had braced himself to avoid being pulled forward. Schiffer quickly stepped forward, stabbing his messer into the prone villager, twisting the blade then pulling back out while scanning for any further threats.

Another spear was thrust out of the window he had exited moments prior. One of the villagers he had escaped sneered at him through the opening, already pulling back on the spear, but Schiffer had already moved, put enough distance between himself and the window that anybody within the inn would need to leave if they cared enough to try and run him through.

Really starting to regret spending the past day training them.

Another shout caught his attention, and he turned, took note of one of his comrades, though with them facing away from him he wasn't able to identify who at that moment. But that was fine, at that moment there was sure to be strength in numbers.

'Hey,' he called out. The uniformed soldier turned, and now Schiffer was able to identify him as Becken, who was ashen faced as he stared at the body of a villager, his spear stabbed into the body's chest.

'Sergeant.' Becken wrenched the spear free from the body. 'What's going on? He just charged at me with an axe.'

'Missus Hartig, she gave birth to a beast.' Schiffer started to explain, then had to pause as another villager made themselves known, stood on a roof with a bow in hand. The arrow was blocked by Becken's shield, though both of them would admit that it had been a close call. Without a ranged method of retaliating, the pair hurriedly moved to take cover behind around the corner of the general store. While he scanned for any more sign of threats, Schiffer continued speaking. 'None of them were shocked at the mutant child, they knew.'

Becken cursed softly. 'Really? There is a witch-hunter here, isn't it his job to notice this kind of thing?!'

Schiffer privately agreed, but also got the sense that the witch-hunter was distracted. A roving band of Chaos marauders in Middenland was a slightly more pressing concern than checking for smaller threats from the Empire's own peoples.

'Where is the witch-hunter general anyway?' Becken asked, leaning out from the corner, shield raised.

'He went to check out the forest.'

Becken jerked back, an arrow flashing through the space his head had but moments prior been inhabiting, but he didn't seem to care about that, his attention was fixated upon Schiffer.

'What in Ulric's name is he doing in the forest at night?'

'Investigating,' Schiffer snapped waspishly. 'Where's everybody else?'

Becken opened his mouth to answer, but any response he could make was cut off by a shout from nearby. This time it was not a hostile villager, it was another of their brothers in arms, standing on the walkway on the inside of the palisade, arrow notched and then loosed. A scream was heard, and when Schiffer peered around the corner, he spotted the archer that had previously shot at him and Becken fall from their rooftop perch.

No longer pinned down, Schiffer moved toward the friendly archer, Becken close behind him. 'Hey,' he called out.

The archer, who had turned to lean over the top of the palisade, angled his head so that he could see Schiffer, then seemed to do a doubletake.

'We have a problem,' he called back to Schiffer.

'Yeah, it's called the villagers have gone rogue,' Becken shouted back.

'There are beastmen in the village,' the archer continued as though Becken hadn't spoken.

'Oh...' Becken uttered, quietly, while turning to try and spot the beastman that the archer had noticed. 'That would be a problem.'

The archer grabbed an arrow from the rack placed against the wall and placed it against the string of his bow, eyes narrowed as he waited for the moment to pull back and loose the projectile.

Schiffer watched as the archer released his arrow, he watched as the arrow flew, and he watched as it neared its target only to stop mid-flight, the beastman that had been targeted turning its head abruptly to stare at the now stationary arrow. It then slowly turned its attention to where the arrow had been shot from. A hand was lifted, the gnarled staff it held gestured toward where Schiffer stood with his tow comrades. There was a pause as nothing seemed to happen, and then the air filled with the screeching of feral birds that appeared from seemingly nowhere. Schiffer leapt, unintentionally dove from the walkway and hit the ground with a loud crash. Next to him, Becken also landed, albeit with far more grace than Schiffer had managed.

The third of their number wasn't so fortunate. Whether it was because he had moved too slowly, or he had been the intended target, the result was the same. His screams were audible over the cackling screeches of the crows that tore and pecked and ripped his flesh to ribbons. Ten seconds the screaming continued, before fading away with a wet gargle.

Schiffer swallowed his suddenly dry throat at the reminder of why he feared magic. Sanctioned wizards included. What hope did mere mortals such as he have in protecting themselves from powers that defied logic and sense? And there was certainly never going to be any accusation that a beastman shaman was a sanctioned magic user.

#

The stranger had Matthius stop a short distance from the edge of the forest. Matthius was prepared to spew out an irritated tirade at their delay, but the way the stranger twisted their head and tensed, something about it stilled his tongue. There was a moment where the stranger was silent, then...

'Mierda.'

Matthius recognised the Estalian word as a curse, and he frowned. 'What's wrong?'

There was a hushing sound from the stranger, then another softer curse. 'Beastmen are moving toward the village.'

'How can you possibly know that?' Matthius asked with open suspicion, but was answered when, despite neither of them moving, a branch being stepped on and snapping punctured the air.

'I can hear them,' the stranger answered regardless, tone hushed. 'At least four of them, we need to move, now.'

Matthius wasn't about to argue a good idea, especially not when he wasn't certain what that "at least four" meant. Four gors? Besitgors? Bullgors? Something else? Best to not chance it.

The pair sprinted, no longer caring for stealth. The beasts must have heard, for they also started to move rapidly, the sounds of footfalls now heavy and audible to Matthius, branches were pushed aside, leaves rustled and disturbed. Matthius chose not to think on that, focused exclusively on moving. They reached the edge of the forest and left its confines, adjusted their path so that they were running toward the village, which was still alight with the night's firelit braziers.

Behind them there was a snarling sound and the stranger's silhouette disappeared from the edge of Matthius's vision. Moments later, there was a cracking sound, not a gunshot, but something different. There was an inhuman screech of pain following that thunderous crack, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

Matthius did not dwell on that. He continued to sprint toward the gate that would allow him passage through the palisade while calling out 'Open the gate, let us in'. Visible over the palisade, one of the Middenland soldiers started in shock, stared out at Matthius, and then at whatever was behind him. He then vanished, hopefully to do as commanded and open the gate. Then something flew over the palisade, hit the ground and rolled toward Matthius, who's eyes automatically lowered to identify what had just been thrown. He found himself staring at the head of what had previously been a Middenland soldier.

Matthius's sprint faltered for a moment as shock briefly overtook his mind, before then his training and discipline regained dominance and shunted the surprise to a distant corner of his mind where it would not interfere with his ability to think.

'The village is compromised,' he declared.

He heard the stranger huff out something in Estalian, and Matthius turned toward him, reaching for one of his pistols, seeing no recourse but to fend off the beasts behind them until a plan was made regarding the village which was no doubt not about to open the gates to them. He faltered with his second shock in a short span of time when he looked upon the stranger in the dim light cast by the village.

'You are a lizardman?'

'Si,' the lizardman answered. 'Anten of the Outland Legion's Irregulars, at your service.'

As the lizardman, Anten, spoke, he cracked the whip he held in one hand, the tip of which caught a charging bestigor in the face, caused the creature to flinch back in pain at the parted flesh where the leather had kissed it. That flinch was opening enough for Anten to lunge forward with the rapier held in the opposite hand, stabbed the needle-esque blade through the beast's throat.

'How many pistols do you have?' Anten asked, stepping back and staring into the darkness, tongue flicking.

'Four.' Matthius answered through grit teeth. 'And enough powder and bullets to fire each three times.' The problem was actually loading those extra shots, which he didn't mention.

Anten hummed. 'Well, if we don't get past the walls, you're going to need every last shot.'

Matthius ground his teeth together. 'How many?' he asked.

'Ah... two score of gors. A dozen besitgors. And I see three bullgors.'

Matthius was reluctantly impressed that the lizardman was actually able to see the threat approaching, his own ability to see in the dark was nowhere near so capable. He slid his silver longsword from its scabbard and carefully controlled his breathing. This wasn't his usual fare; his duty was rooting out corruption and putting it to the torch. Aside the instance when he had taken part in the campaign against the Dread King, he never truly interacted with the inhuman threats that plagued the Empire, there were others better suited for such threats. He had only forced his inclusion upon those fighting the Dread King to ensure that they kept to the line, adhered to the standards of the Empire that paid for their services. He was suited for finding those who had sold themselves to the Ruinous Powers, for finding the hedge-wizards and witches who believed themselves to be above the Empire's laws, to tracking down and revealing those who would sully the Empire with schemes and plots and conspiracy.

The beasts of Chaos were a threat that was outside of his strengths. They cared not for the reputation that his office gave him, were not intimidated by the knowledge of a sanctioned witch-hunter on the job. They were savages that, even if they understood the words, cared not for the station of those that they butchered. If they did know anything of the witch-hunters, they would simply see killing him to be a bonus in much the same way that the Old One-Eye seemed to see Boris Todbringer as a personal challenge.

Still, despite this knowledge, Matthius controlled his breathing, steeled his nerves with a quiet prayer to Sigmar, a practiced routine to help quell any doubt. He would not be found wanting.

At the edge of the light afforded by the torches, the lizardman adjusted his gaucho—an interesting choice of headwear, seemed that the accent wasn't the only Estalian influence—and then lifted his rapier into a classic fencer's stance, but didn't seem to overtly react as the large hulking form of what Matthius recognised by description to be a bestigor advanced, stepped into the dim lighting with an axe held in each hand. Matthius aimed his pistol at the beast, was prepared to pull the trigger, but the lizard acted first.

There was a crack that echoed through the air, the whip held in the lizardman's offhand sailed the air like a serpent lunging. The beast recoiled as the exotic weapon kissed upon its flesh, dropped the axes to cradle its face, wailing as blood dribbled past its meaty fingers. The lizardman flicked its wrist in a motion which had the end of the whip return back to him. Mid-flight, something seemed to detach form the whip and fell, momentum and gravity pulling it down and toward Matthius. It landed with a wet sound, and rolled closer still, allowing Matthius to see it. He stared for a long moment at the amber orb with his brow raised, reluctantly impressed.

The lizard cracked his whip again, this time at something in the darkness beyond Matthius's vision. There was a bleat of pain, and then the lizard yanked back on its whip, very visibly put some force into the tug. Another bestigor stumbled forward, dragged by the whip encircling its neck, and right into a thrusted rapier that punctured up from beneath its ribs and through its breast. The lizard let out a hissing sound, rhythmic, its eyes half-lidded as it turned, freeing its whip with a slight gesture, and then lazily swung its rapier to slice open the neck of the beast still wailing over the loss of its eye.

'Human, do you trust me?' the lizardman asked, even as he chose that moment to repeatedly crack his whip in a flurry. Matthius had no idea if the whip was striking anything, or if bafflingly loud snapping sound that accompanied each swing of the weapon was keeping the beasts back through intimidation.

There was a light scoff from the witch-hunter once the question actually registered to him. 'No,' he spoke bluntly, then paused and added on an amendment. 'But right now, I trust that you—and your Legion—are no friends to Chaos.'

The lizard hummed an affirmation. 'In that case, leave this rabble to me. You go meet up with your men.'

'And how do you propose I do that while the gate is shut, reptile?' Matthius asked irritably.

'Oh, I'll get you in. I just need you to not stab me while I do so.'

Matthius frowned, and any trace of his nerves were momentary washed away by the confusion he now felt in their place. 'What?'

The lizard sheathed his rapier in a practiced motion and turned, faced Matthius and sprinted forward. His instinct, instincts that he was ill-inclined to argue against, was to lift his longsword and fend off the apparent attack coming at him. The reptile ducked the panicked swing, latched the arm previously holding a blade around Matthius's waist and in-spite of the smaller stature, lifted Matthius bodily and hoisted him over one shoulder while still running. There was a loud crack as the lizard swung its whip at some target unseen to Matthius and then suddenly the witch-hunter realised that the ground was falling further and further from him. Craning his neck, he realised that the small lizardman was running up and across the palisade. Once the momentum seemed about to come to a standstill, the lizard seemed to jump and twist its body around and he threw Matthius over the top of the palisade and to the other side.

Matthius landed upon the elevated walkway on the inside of the barrier with a started grunt. Clambering back to his feet, he was in time to watch the lizard land back down on the ground outside of the village, flicking its wrist to recall the length of its whip from where it had previously looped itself about the sharpened pointed top of the set of three logs that stood taller that the three logs either side of them to form crude battlements atop the he wall that encircled this village. When the lizard noticed that Matthius was staring down at it, it pulled its already unsheathed up into a salute.

'You go sort out what is happening inside the village, I'll keep these beasts occupied for a time,' the lizard called up to the witch-hunter.

Matthius opened his mouth, paused, then stepped back from the wall. What care had he regarding the well-being of the reptile? If it wanted to throw itself into such a battle, that was entirely its prerogative. Meanwhile, Matthius would be better served rooting out the issues within the walls.

His estimate that the village was compromised was accurate, but not in the way he had anticipated. He had assumed that an advance force of the beasts had managed to breach the palisade from a different angle and were now within trying to slaughter all men and women of the Empire they could get their filthy hands upon. What he saw instead were villagers attacking the Middenland troops, who were trying to fend off the aggressive strikes while confused as to what was going on and why they were suddenly being attacked by the same people they were tasked with protecting. That was concerning, very much so.

It gulled at Matthius that he had missed something within the village. He didn't yet know what, but there was clearly a rot within the village to escape him, some corruption that had eluded his perception. It would be easy to blame the late Captain Falck, for his corruption had clearly—and unintentionally—shrouded and obscured the far more insidious rot that had been victim to the captain's own. But while it would be easy to blame Falck, that would be denying that Matthius had let his guard down. That he had taken everything at face value and didn't think to delve deeper to find the inevitable rot that always existed within these isolated communities. Chaos warhosts and corrupt members of the Middenland army were no excuse and Matthius would take this as a lesson to remember, even corruption could be victim to that of another's, and that he mustn't dismiss the victims as innocent without cause.

Spotting a villager holding one of the spears that had been given out to help with their defence. The villager was charging toward a Middenland trooper who was facing away from them, unaware of the coming attack, attention tied up with the two villagers in front of him instead. Matthius aimed the pistol in his hand and fired. The charging villager stumbled and fell as a chunk of their chest was blasted away from the rest of their body. Even from a distance, the wet gargling that the downed villager gave off was heard, indication that the shot hadn't been instantly fatal, but without the aid of a sanctioned wizard trained in the Lore of Life, it was still fatal. Matthius felt no sympathy for the villager who was now doomed to die slowly and painfully.

He would never spare sympathy for those who fell to corruption.

'Trooper,' he called out, advancing and swinging his silver longsword in an arc that left one of the two villagers still trying to attack the soldier shorter by a head. 'What happened here?'

'I don't know,' the trooper said, pausing just long enough to manage to jab his spear into the chest of the remaining villager. 'I was just making the rounds when they all turned hostile at the same time. If there was a signal, I didn't hear or see nothin'.'

Matthius sniffed in irritation. Then, his eyes narrowed, and he took another sniff at the air. 'Magic.'

'Wha'?'

Matthius, in a moment of uncharacteristic patience, cast a side-eyed glance at the confused soldier and answered. 'There is a scent to the air when the Winds of Magic have been touched upon. It's subtle, and not always reliable, to the point that no witch-hunter would ever cast their judgement based only upon that scent. But considering the beastmen outside the village right now, the possibility of a shaman makes it more likely that I'm right.'

The soldier looked upon the corpses. 'You think they're being controlled?' he asked, expression turning ashen at the idea that he had killed innocents who were acting against their own will.

'No,' Matthius snapped. 'There is no record of mind control on a large scale, and what instances I have read of individuals controlled against their will has been exclusive to the Deceiver.'

He paused for a few seconds where he took the time to double check their surroundings, then started to stomp forward, expecting the soldier to fall in and follow him despite the lack of a command. He wasn't disappointed.

'No, what is happening here...' Matthius began, mind recalling recorded details of his fellow witch-hunters works. 'I understand. I have heard of villages to fall to such depravities in the past, but never thought I'd encounter such.' He absently swapped out his pistol for one that was still loaded before he continued. 'Villages that are isolated and somehow manage to form a vile relationship with beastmen, consorting with them.'

The trooper visibly swallowed back the bile that naturally rose at such a notion. 'Why would they do such a thing?' He didn't specify which he meant, the villagers for consorting with the beasts, or the beasts for going along with it when they were well documented in their utter hatred for man.

'Supposed security and continued safety for the villagers. For the beasts? That I have no idea.'

The pair were forced to halt, another villager made an appearance, screaming like some wailing harpy. The trooper stepped forward and met the strike with his shield, which then opened the villager to a sword to the gut from Matthius. He hummed in satisfaction, then looked at the trooper, his eyes pointedly drifting to the horn hanging at the trooper's hip.

'Go, get to the wagons. Assuming that they haven't killed the horses and prepare to leave this den of sin and depravity. Even should the horses be dead, the stable is at least a workable rallying point.'

The soldier absently patted the horn. 'What about you, witch-hunter general?'

The witch-hunter grunted, and his grip on his longsword tightened such that the leather gloves he wore creaked and groaned under the pressure. 'Normally, I'd put this village to the torch, but right now? There are Chaos marauders coming, and I doubt they are aware of this relationship or that they'd care. I say let them have this village, let them do us the favour of burning it to the ground.' He paused, huffing out a breath of air. 'I shall open the gate on the east side. Once the gate is open, with or without the waggons, we are leaving.'

The trooper gave a stuttered acknowledgement then sprinted off in the direction of the stable where the regiment's wagons and the horses to pull them had been housed away. Matthius watched him go, then twisted and changed his direction so that he was moving more toward the eastern edge of the village. As he moved, he kept his eyes open for any more Middenlandese soldiers to direct toward the stable. In the chaos, it wouldn't surprise him if some missed the sound of the horn once it was blown.

Another villager was cut down as they announced their presence, and their intentions, with a scream of fury. Rounded a corner, found the eastern gate within sight, and picked up his pace, didn't run or even jog, but his walk took on a brisk pace. His brow creased as he noted two figures.

One was a woman, one of the villagers clearly, carrying what appeared to be a bundle of cloth. She was standing before a large figure covered in matted fur and with large, curved horns. A beastman was in the actual village itself. It carried a large, gnarled staff with what appeared to be the skull of a ram affixed to the end.

Ah, that would be the source of the scent of magic in the air then.

Matthius swallowed down his nerves at seeing what could only be a bray-shaman. This wasn't some mere witch or hedge-wizard, this was a creature that knew how to use the power of the winds, did so with intent to harm the Empire and all the civilised races. A treacherous part of his mind reminded him that a single bray-shaman was likely as dangerous as the numerous mundane—if such a word were ever applicable to beastmen—beasts outside the village being fended off by that lone lizardman. He drowned out his doubt with a growl and a mental recital of a passage of the Testaments of Sigmar, replaced that doubt with religious fervour, but tempered with the cold and grim nature of his sworn duties.

He slowed his pace, levelling his pistol but also watching, trying to discern a reason for this woman to be standing before a bray-shaman with no fear but instead a look of reverence. It was proof of his earlier conclusion that the village was consorting with the beasts, but something urged him to try and determine what the beasts would be getting out of such an arrangement.

The woman lifted the bundle of cloth in her arms in a gesture of offering. The shaman leaned closer, mouth flapping, but Matthius was too far to make out any words, assuming that they were being uttered in Reikspiel, more likely than not, the words to leave that abomination's mouth were in the black tongue of Chaos. The shaman lifted one arm, clearly prepared to take the cloth bundle for its own.

Matthius pulled the trigger.

The woman screamed, staring at the cloth bundle in horrified shock, staggering back face pale as death. The shaman bellowed a furious roar of rage and hatred, nearly frothing at the mouth. All the while, Matthius cursed the fact that his shot had missed, lost the chance to kill the shaman without issue.

Then the shaman's attention turned, its amber eyes gleaming with the kind of seething fury that promised a slow and agonising demise for the recipient. Matthius observed this enraged creature, acknowledged that he was now the object of that wrath, and still fuelled by duty and strength of his devotion to Sigmar as he was, he glared back and answered its furious roar with one of his own.

'Come, you vile abortion of nature! I am a templar witch-hunter of the Order of Sigmar, and I do not fear you or your ilk. I am sworn to root out and destroy the servants of Chaos, and those who use corrupt magic, wherever they may hide. I see you, creature, and I will see you burn!'

The shaman gave another scream and hefted its staff, but Matthius was quicker, dropped his spent pistol and yanked the next loaded one from his bandolier and fired it in a single motion, before dropping that one also. The skull atop the shaman's staff exploded into a show of bone fragments as the bullet fired slammed into it, and the force startled the shaman, almost yanked the staff from its hand. It straightened itself, but the fourth and final pistol that Matthius carried about his person was already in hand, this one more carefully aimed and fired.

The shaman stumbled, a large chunk of its shoulder ripped away, the staff dropped as it lost control of the arm that had previously carried it. It screamed another hate filled bellow, straightened itself and started to charge Matthius.

Despite the loss of its staff, Matthius didn't for a moment dare to presume that the shaman was no longer capable of manipulating the Winds of Magic. The loss of a focus did not mean the loss of ability. And more than that, even without magic, even injured, there was no doubt that from a strictly physical standpoint, the shaman was still more dangerous than Matthius. But Matthius was a human with the ability to think through his righteous fury and desire to burn the beast and spit on its corpse, and it would be that ability to think clearly that would determine who was truly the more dangerous between the two of them in this moment.

Matthius met the beastman's charge with a charge of his own, dropping that last pistol so that he could two-hand his longsword.

His estimation that the shaman wasn't incapable of magic despite the loss of its staff was proven true when the shaman uttered words in its vile tongue and a murder of crows seemed to manifest seemingly from nowhere and flew toward Matthius with loud caws that almost sounded like declarations of "kill, kill" more than any natural sound from such birds should.

Matthius thought quickly and let his legs fall out from beneath him, dropped his body to the ground. The act didn't cut his momentum short though, and he found himself sliding against the rough ground, going under the flight of the murder of crows, missing them by the narrowest of margins. He was quick to get back to his feet, didn't spare a glance behind him, as much as he wasn't wholly certain about whether the crows would turn and try to track him down following their close miss. Wasn't overly familiar with the spell used against him, only aware of it in the vaguest sense.

The shaman hadn't been forced to slow, and by the time Matthius had returned to his feet, the beast was upon him, screaming a bleating sound that was vile to his ears. The silver sword Matthius wielded was swung in a wide arc, more a deterrence than an actual effort to cut down the beast. It worked though, as where moments before the shaman had been about to strike Matthius down with its good arm, it abruptly jerked backward to avoid that same arm being forcibly removed from the rest of its body.

That moment was all that the witch-hunter needed to adjust his stance and angled his blade, eyes fixed upon the ugly features of the beastman, silently dared it to try and make a move against him.

The beast eyed the silver blade, eyes narrowed in a disgusted glower, its mouth curling into a hateful sneer, then lifted its attention to Matthius himself and tilted its head, as if to silently challenge Matthius, taunting him with a wordless "what, can't fight me without your weapon in hand?". Matthius didn't fall prey to the taunt, suicidal stupidity was not a fault of his.

A scream, this one far more human. It came from Matthius's left, and in a moment of weakness, his attention left the shaman to track the source of the scream. He found himself looking at the woman, now coated in blood and a rabid to her eyes, lunging at him with fingers curled into claws. At the same moment, the beast also darted forward, had seen the moment of distraction and made to capitalise on it.

Matthius cursed softly, staggered back and wildly swung at the beast with the sword, while also lifting his boot to intercept the feral woman's pounce. The woman's gut met his foot, and she doubled over. Had that been it then Matthius would have been fine, but in the same instance, the shaman, seeing the sword swinging at it, pivoted its body so that the sword bit into its already ruined arm. It still quite obviously felt the pain of the sword's touch, it bleated out another sound, this one more croaked than the ones to come previous, but it fought through the pain, didn't care for the harm being done to the arm that was already mangled and lame from the earlier gunshot, and managed to strike Matthius's own shoulder. It wasn't a heavy blow, its maneuverer to only take harm to the already injured part of its body cut its momentum down, but coupled with his being on one foot, the woman slamming into his other, still elevated, foot, it was enough to send Matthius sprawling.

Even floored though, Matthius was not about to stop making himself a danger to the enemies of man. He swung his sword horizontally to the ground and felt a surge of satisfaction as the deranged woman was crippled, the sword cutting through her knee and removing the limb from her person. She collapsed with a wail, which a second swing ended, along with her life.

Now to worry about the beastman, which had backpedalled to avoid that first swing, and took the opportunity afforded from the swing being more of a chopping motion to get close, cloven foot lifted and ready to stamp down...

The beastman gave a startled wail that almost matched that of the woman's, when a blurred figure slammed into it. Schiffer growled, stepping back and readying his shield, though Matthius noted that he seemed to be absent any actual weapon at that moment.

'Come on, you mangey bastard,' Schiffer growled. 'Try it, I dare you.'

The beast glowered at Schiffer and took a threatening step forward, clearly showed that it was not intimidated. The ruse was at that moment revealed, for the shaman had fallen for the same mistake that Matthius had, it had stopped paying attention to its surroundings. Another Middenland trooper appeared behind the beastman, spear in hand. The sharp tip of the spear punctured through the shaman's back.

The shaman bellowed a furious cry and thrashed about. Its writhing caused the spear to snap, leaving the head still lodged in its flesh, and it made to move at the one who had stabbed it, only to find Schiffer swinging his shield and slamming it into the beast's face, resulting in it staggering back, bleeding but still thrashing.

By that time, Matthius had returned to his feet. The beast faced him, and he could tell that whatever semblance of rational thought that the beastman might have had before that moment was now gone, they were looking upon a pathetic wretch that was acting like a feral creature, incapable of thinking through its pain.

He felt no sympathy.

The beast charged. Matthius managed to sidestep the bullrush and swung his blade in a circular cut. The beastman's head fell from its shoulders before the body fell like a stringless puppet.

The three humans stared at the carcass. It was almost as though they were expecting the creature to pick itself up and continue to fight them despite the loss of its head, but no, it remained on the ground, a slowly largening pool of its life liquid spreading from beneath it. After heaving a sigh, Matthius turned to Schiffer.

'Sergeant, where are your weapons?'

'Dropped my sword when I had a close call with a murder of crows. Figured the sword was replaceable, lives are not, so I chose not to waste time and instead moved to assist you once we noticed you facing the shaman.' Schiffer did not sound like he regretted his decision in the slightest.

Matthius scowled, but then shrugged, looking around. 'Where are the rest of your regiment?'

'Rallying at the stables.'

'And you are not, because...?'

Schiffer glared at Matthius, lips tugging downward. 'We were on our way when we heard your fight and chose to assist.'

Matthius nodded absently, accepting that answer. He blinked, felt a wave of fatigue hit him. Strange, he hadn't been pushing himself that much, had he? Maybe it was a combination of the physical activity and the late hour. Still, he quickly willed away the exhaustion, and faced the two troopers. 'Let us leave this place. I'll not mourn them when they burn.' He lifted his arm and waved at the gate that would allow them to exit the village walls, while his gaze dropped to Schiffer's brass horn. 'Since you are here, you might as well accompany me. Spare me the effort of working out how to signal your subordinates.'

Schiffer's fellow mumbled something unflattering, which Matthius generously elected to pretend that he hadn't heard. Honestly, at least the stress of the situation made such an attitude understandable, and the trooper had the decency to make an effort to not let himself be heard saying such words; Matthius had far too much experience with somebody being deliberately obstinate even in moments where one couldn't excuse such an attitude. After months of enduring such, he was willing to allow a pass.

For now.

Regrettably, it turned out that the shaman wasn't the only beastman within the village's palisade. Fortunately, the three beasts that Matthius encountered were simply gors, no more shaman, and not the bigger and far more menacing bestigors.

Alas, these creatures thought to block Matthius from the gate out of the village. They and the quartet of villagers, including one with a bloodied nose who glared at Schiffer in particular. With a grunt, Matthius held out his blade, wished for a moment he had taken the time to reload the pistols, but accepted that he'd made a judgement call based on wanted to depart the village post-haste.

The first gor reached him in a charge. Matthius bit his tongue to keep from a startled shout at just how fast the beast had moved in reaching him. He managed to avoid disembowelment via a rusty and chipped axe and brought his sword around in answer, carving a bloody score along the gor's stomach, passed that fate on to the beastman who had tried to deliver it to him. The gor fell, hands grasping at its gut in a futile effort to keep its insides that way.

The next gor to reach them charged instead at the two Middenland troopers. Neither had a spear, the splintered and cracked remains left alongside the body of the shaman. But they did both still have their shields, which were hurriedly braced against. Gor versus man, the gor had the strength to push the two back, stagger them with the force of its impact. But it was still an instance of one versus two, and while it focused its attention to the one that actually had a sword to defend himself with, Schiffer was quick to save his comrade by using his shield as a bludgeoning weapon, slamming the edge of the shield into the back of the gor's neck as it made to cut down the other trooper while he was still stunned from being body-checked.

There was a sickening crack as the narrow steel connected. Matthius didn't know whether Schiffer had managed to break the beast's neck with the blow or not, and he would never get the chance to really work out whether such had been the case or not. Schiffer hadn't been content with the one blow, he pulled his arm back and then slammed it down, again and again. It was almost as though he were trying to use the shield to eventually remove the head from the beast's shoulders. He was forced to cease his efforts when the rogue villagers charged at him with screams of utter rage, their weapons, the same weapons that Matthius had ordered they be given, brandished with clear intent.

Matthius wasn't able to intervene against the villagers, the last gor clearly had more wit about it, didn't mindless charge, it advanced slowly, eyes boring into Matthius with a cruel intellect. It swung its axe as it got within reach of Matthius, but it was a wide, almost lazy effort, more like it was trying to test the witch-hunter than committing to a haymaker. Matthius backpedalled from the axe's arc regardless, the swing might have been a lazy no-effort act from the beast, but the beast was still physically stronger than most humans, that lack of effort didn't make the blow any less devastating if Matthius didn't choose to evade.

The gor's next swing was an upward strike, followed by a quick left-to-right as it anticipated Matthius side-stepping the first. Matthius ducked the blow, though his hat was caught and thrown aside by the crescent edge's path. Unimportant though, Matthius slammed a fist into the gor's knee, then lunged forward, rammed his shoulder into its gut, before stepping back, putting enough distance between them that he could angle his sword properly, and drove its point into the gor's flesh at its armpit, and Matthius did not stop pushing his sword onward until the hilt itself was blocking any further progress.

The gor gargled, blood dribbling from its misshapen mouth, those hideous amber orbs stared at Matthius with a clouded look.

With a snarl of disgust, Matthius wrenched his blade free and watched the gor's body hit the ground. He barely registered a villager charging at him with reckless abandon, just held his blade up and pointed it at the reckless fool, who it turned out was unable to cease his movement in time to avoid running himself upon the silver blade.

'Fools and heretics, lacking the brains the gods bestowed upon us,' Matthius uttered in disdain.

More villagers seemed to be appearing out of the woodwork, determined to run down Matthius and the two troopers. No time to dawdle though. The witch-hunter moved to the gate that would allow them exit from the village and pushed at the drawbar, forcing it up and out from the cradles that allowed it to block the gates from being opened. Once that was done, he grabbed the heavy iron ring built onto the inside of the gate and pulled, forcing the gate open.

'Schiffer,' he called out. 'Let the rest of your company know we can leave now.'

As he gave the order, he peered out of the open gate, eyes squinted in an effort to try and make out any of the beasts that lay outside the village's palisade. Either they weren't there, or his eyes simply did not have the ability to pierce the velvet darkness of the night, but he saw no sign of any beasts, nor of the reptile who had remained outside.

Schiffer pulled himself back from one of the villagers, a newly procured spear—taken from the body of one of the now deceased villagers—held parallel to the ground and ready to be thrust at the next villager to make a move against him. His offhand grabbed at the brass horn hanging at his hip and pressed it to his lips. The sound it made was a low droning sound that vibrated the skulls of everybody nearby. It certainly wouldn't be missed by any but those hard of hearing. He then hurriedly dropped the horn so that he could move that arm, and the shield strapped to it, to cover his face as a hatchet sailed the air. The thrown weapon bounced off the shield, leaving the sergeant none the wiser.

'Now we just wait for everybody else to arrive,' Matthius said as calmly as he could, absently scooping his hat from the ground and replacing it atop his head. His sword was pointed at the crowd of unruly villagers, and he raised his voice. 'Best make way for us to leave. You get a stay of execution this time.'

The villagers didn't seem to appreciate his generosity. There was a rumbling of discontent. Matthius shook his head and braced himself next to the two troopers. They wouldn't have to wait long.

#

Anten had fought off the increasing numbers of beastmen for a period, but more kept emerging from the trees. Sensing that he was about to get overwhelmed and surrounded, repositioned himself. The cloven feet of the beasts made for one particular disadvantage within their favoured terrain. To date, Anten had never seen a beastman climb those very trees that they preferred to roam amongst. Meanwhile, Anten was a Child of the Gods, and as such was used to the branches of trees merely being another road for him to traverse. He clambered up a tree, and unless the beasts threw their weapons, he was safe. He hissed out a mocking cackle. Hid the fact that now the ground crawling with mutant bovine was simply too dangerous for him to act on, made it sound like he was still confident. Hid the fact that he was starting to take deeper gulps of air.

There was a blasted hoot from an Empire horn. It distracted the lumbering beasts, allowed Anten a moment to move across the tree's branches while attention was pulled away from his profile. To the beastmen, when they turned their attention back to him, it was as though he had vanished, faded into the blackness of the night. If that moment had been during the day's hours, then they would have easily spotted him again, but without knowing where to look, he was gone. There was an angry bellow, but Anten didn't pay them any attention, had repositioned himself back at the edge of the woods to see the village again.

One of the gates was open. Was that a part of the witch-hunter's plan? Anten wondered. Surely opening the gate makes it harder to keep the rabble out...

He was given an answer to his ponderings when a pair of wagons came speeding out from the open gate, each pulled by a pair of horses.

Ah, a withdrawal. I suppose the situation in the village is... unsalvageable.

Anten watched the wagons, traced their path, and grinned to himself when he noted how close they'd get to the edge of the woods. With a quick intake of breath, he moved quickly. It couldn't quite be called sprinting, not when using the branches as a path, with the amount of hopping across gaps and open spaces that was required, but it was as close as sprinting as one could get when using the trees as a road. He leapt, swinging his arm. His whip ensnared a distant branch, allowed him to swing, then released at the trained twisting of Anten's wrist. He sailed the air and landed.

The humans on the wagon started in surprise at the sudden presence landing on the wagon with them. A few yelps of shock, hands reaching for weapons.

'Hola, humans,' Anten said genially. 'I need a ride. The locals here are most... bothersome.'

'Stand down,' the voice of the witch-hunter spoke up, tone weary. 'It's an ally.'

'Ah, witch-hunter.' Anten turned his attention to the only human silhouette with a wide-brimmed hat. 'I see that the village was considered a lost cause?'

There was a mumbled grumbling from the human in question, heard even over the confused murmurs of the other humans on the wagon with them.

'My lord?' another human spoke up with a questioning lilt to their voice.

The witch-hunter's silhouette waved a hand, sighing. 'It's a member of one of the mercenary companies helping to protect Middenland.' The silhouette then turned, and Anten could just make out the distrustful eyes boring into him. 'We will drop you off at the next settlement, from there, you make your own way.'

Anten removed his hat and held it against his breast. 'Gracias, you are a sterling example of Empire manners. That shall be more than fine with me.'

The witch-hunter's eyes narrowed, likely looking for some hidden insult. But unless he took the skink's words as sarcasm, there was no hidden double meaning in his choice of words. He either failed to find cause for insult or found some perceived slight but elected to ignore it. Could be either, if the tales of his profession were accurate.

The witch-hunter turned to the one with the horses' reins. 'Keep us moving for an hour, put distance between us and those beasts, then find us a space we can make camp for the remainder of the night.'

'Yes m'lord.'

'What's the next nearest settlement?' he then asked, turning to another of the humans in the wagon.

The human in question hummed. 'After we were done there, Captain Falck was set to take us to...' There was a pause as he thought about the answer. 'Can't recall the name. Some town built by Imperial Dwarfs.'

The was a harumph from the witch-hunter. 'That would have ended well for you and the late captain,' he said in an ironic tone. 'Very well, that shall be our next destination.'

Ah, Imperial Dawi. After decades of the Chaos variety, it'll be strange seeing the normal types. Anten supressed the chuckle at the thought while he made himself comfortable, replacing his hat atop his head, though angled such that the brim covered his eyes.

-TBC