Battle on the Mud - Counter Strike

Northern Middenland

Battle Duration: 2.5 hours

—

Lord Meinhard Hoffman had fought in battles before. One did not reach his position without having fought in the midst of one battle or another. He had even fought on the side that had been outnumbered before, savages using numbers in their effort to win despite the otherwise superior Empire force.

He'd never been quite so outnumbered though.

And unlike beastmen or greenskin savages, this was a force that, for all that they were deplorable, weren't without their own quality. Equipped with hellforged armour that was comparable to most armours forged in the Empire of Man, and backed by daemons that could withstand wounds that would fell any mortal creature. Of all the enemies of man, the whelps who had sold themselves to the Ruinous Forces were the ones most able to stand on even footing with the Empire's defenders.

Typically, numbers weren't a concern where Chaos was concerned. The very nature of Chaos meant that there was very little co-existence, even among themselves. Typically.

Even having been told, even having been part of a myriad of skirmishes against marauding bands that had splintered off from the main force, there had been a part of his mind that hadn't truly comprehended that idea that the Chaos invaders within Middenland had been not a war-band but a warhost. Warhosts were the stuff of tales, stories told to emphasise the might of the armies of yore. Of the leadership of heroes during the Great War.

So, seeing this Warhost of Malice, vast in number despite how many marauders had broken away from the main force? Eye-opening. Fear inducing.

But Hoffman was no stranger to fights against foes that, on paper at least, were superior to the army he fought alongside.

The lizardman marshal had used what he had available, they had successfully ambushed the warhost, bombarding them from the hills with artillery. The Chaos army had to either try and engage with an enemy in a superior position or try to retreat, taking artillery fire the whole time. They had chosen to fight. No shock, Chaos lived and breathed for such fights.

It was… strangely unnerving to be sat in reserve. As a part of a knightly order, Hoffman was used to charging, being a spear-tip into the flanks of the enemy. To charge and overrun. But the needs of this battle required that all cavalry remain back, focus not on charging the enemy lines, but on countering and running down the enemy's attempts to do that same thing to them.

But, finally, the enemy cavalry had made their appearance, trying to circle the battlefield with a wide enough breadth to reach the flanks without passing through the firing zone of the garrisons within two farmhouses. And that was where Hoffman and his knights finally saw action.

He urged his horse forward, heard his brothers-in-arms match his pace, forming up alongside him.

Such foul excuses for cavalry. To his eyes, these Chaos knights were riding atop daemonic insects. It was a poor parody of a proper knight. Had any Bretonnians been nearby, he had no doubt there would be strong words given at such a farcical display.

This formation of Chaos knights were riding toward the hill upon which the majority of the Legion's artillery had been positioned. And while Hoffman could see the smaller lizardmen nearby the beasts carrying the cannons repositioning to face this threat, Hoffman's role was to make sure they didn't need to defend themselves from any more than a few stragglers at most.

Closed the distance, then pressed his heels into the horse's flanks. At his command, the stallion increased his pace, turned to a forward charge of not inconsiderable speed. Hoffman adjusted the grip on his lance, lowered it down angled it such that the tip was aimed at one of the daemons.

Hoffman's eyes fixed on the daemon mounts—no less dangerous than their riders. He aimed for the beast, hoping to bring both to the ground. Better to kill the mount and ground the rider during the initial charge, then circle around and run down the mountless knights.

There was a jolt as the lance punctured through chitinous flesh, skewering the daemon. Relaxed his grip on the lance, in case it wasn't about to snap. Wasn't about to test whether he had the strength to keep it and not get thrown from his horse if the daemon's flesh refused to release the lance.

Needn't have bothered, the lance cracked and splintered under the force. With a well-practised motion, Hoffman replaced the lance with his sword, pulled it free of its scabbard and swung at the neck of another daemon as his charge continued to push through the Chaos cavalry's formation.

Two seconds later, he and the rest of his knights emerged from the opposite side of the Chaos formation, roaring with triumph.

#

Sergeant Coadmit hummed in appreciation at the devastation brought upon the Chaos cavalry who had been approaching them. The Empire knights had shown themselves to be the superior force in that clash. Behind him, Boney also looked over the scene, a subtle pressure in the air that usually followed a spell being cast fading as the major relaxed.

'Well, that sorts that,' Coadmit said lightly.

Boney huffed, a flicker of amusement crossing his eyes before he turned away, returned his attention to the battlefield below.

'That farmhouse looks to have fended off the first wave.' Boney mused, more thinking aloud than actually talking. 'But… they're gathering… there. Another wave?'

Coadmit didn't answer, instead had the musketeers reorganise their lines. After a moment, Boney turned to the bastiladons and motioned at three of them in particular.

'Salamander rounds, aiming for that gathering over there. Let's see if we can stop them rallying for another round at the farmhouse.'

There were a few acknowledgements, but otherwise silence as the crews atop the motioned bastiladons got to work with quiet determination. The thundersaurs grumbled at their riders urging them to shift their positioning but they didn't protest and moved with their typical slow deliberation. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds later, the crews were loading in the salamander shots.

Coadmit wasn't paying attention to the artillery battery. After absently adjusting his tricorn, he pressed a spyglass to his eye, scanning for any more threats that might be trying to circle around and attack their flanks. For the speed that the pillbugs had been able to move, it had taken longer than Coadmit would have thought for them to arrive. Either they had circled far more widely than was needed, or they were slowed by something else.

Briefly lingered on the sight of the knights as they continued to smash into the Chaos cavalry. Couldn't help it, it was the type of sight that should be enjoyed. Chaos getting what it deserved: a thorough smashing.

Movement caught his attention, a ways back from the cavalry brawl. With a hissed curse, Coadmit shuffled sidewards, as though he were trying to see around the knights and the Chaos. It made him feel a little foolish as the act registered within his mind—he was atop a hill looking down, the only way the cavalry clash could be blocking his view would be if whatever it was that he was trying to spot was directly behind and further down the slope.

Boney let out a startled hiss. Coadmit snapped his attention away from whatever had caught his eye, drawn by the major's alarm. His question was answered almost immediately by a screeching wail that split the air—a daemonic artillery shell hurtling toward them, its unnatural sound clawing at his nerves.

Coadmit's heart lurched as the shell grew larger in his sight, trailing crackling energy. For a breathless moment, he was sure it would hit.

The ground shuddered as the shell slammed down just yards from the hilltop, spraying earth and fire in all directions. The blast rattled through the ground, but by some stroke of luck, it had landed short. No one was harmed, though the explosion churned mud into the air in a violent but harmless display.

'Bastards,' Boney hissed irritably, eyes already scanning down below.

Coadmit followed the major's example, spyglass pressed to his eye, allowing him to scan the muddy road down below. The Old Ones—Quetzl in particular—must have been smiling upon them, for it appeared that only one of the hellcannons below had been turned around and angled for firing at the Legion. Not for lack of trying though, the Chaos Dwarfs manning the myriad of hellcannons were struggling to move the heavy artillery despite the mud clogging the wheels, the weight causing the heavy weapons to sink into sodden earth.

By Coadmit's reckoning, it was only a matter of time before the other hellcannons were realigned.

Boney must have agreed, he motioned to half of the bastiladons. 'Focus fire on the hellcannons. I don't want them'—he paused as another shot from the single artillery that had turned failed to hit them again, this time overshooting the peak of the hill and soaring off into the distance before arching down to land harmlessly far behind them—'I don't want them turning their artillery on us.'

The major rubbed at the underside of his jaw, amber eyes narrowed in a glare down at the Chaos artillery, then huffed.

'Make them explosive shots,' he said after a moment of deliberation.

Coadmit heard the acknowledgement, was vaguely aware of the bastiladons shuffling to better align the cannons with the targets. But with his attention on that front unneeded, he returned his focus to the cavalry clash.

#

Skaros growled lowly when a barrage—a full-on barrage—of artillery fire was sent in retaliation to the hellcannon firing at the battery atop that hill.

'Fools!' he snarled, directing a glare toward the hellcannons, despite their being far enough away that none of the Dawi-Zhaar manning them would be able to see. I told them to wait until all cannons were aligned.

Dirt was kicked up and flung in all directions from the explosions that came from each artillery shot. The one in command of the artillery was clearly determined to not just remove the hellcannons from the battle, but to have them utterly destroyed. It was a respectable decision on their end, not that it would stop Skaros from cursing their existence.

'Skaros,' a voice called out.

Skaros swore angrily and turned to look upon Fatesaw. The sorceress scowled at him, gave no hint of fear nor uncertainty as she approached him.

'Those cannons are blasting our forces to shreds,' she shouted.

'I am aware,' Skaros growled lowly, heard despite not raising his voice. 'It is being dealt with.'

Fatesaw opened her mouth, no doubt to give some barbed comment on how it was being "dealt with", but closed it again while Skaros turned to the next formation of warriors and gave them orders. Even two hours after they had been ambushed, still there were many warbands without commands. It was only fear of Skaros and his lieutenants that kept their feet stayed instead of charging mindlessly toward the attacking force.

Maybe it would have been better if he had allowed them. Maybe they could have overrun the reptile army, death toll be damned.

The problem was that Skaros had no clue how many of them there were, and they had the terrain advantage. There could be thousands of the damnable reptiles hidden behind those hills, waiting with handguns for the moment that the warhost crested the hill.

Skaros wasn't fond of not knowing. He wasn't keen on being ambushed either. Here he was, suffering from both afflictions.

Once he had finished directing the latest warband, Fatesaw finally continued. 'Why don't you use that relic you picked up? You spoke of its power. Use it!'

Skaros ground his teeth and glared at the Indan sorceress. Her eyes widened, and then she doubled over as she felt the pain of his displeasure manifest itself in her head. After a few seconds, he released her from the punishment.

'To answer your question, the stone is dormant. And it will take more than just the blood that will be spilt here to awaken it again. You think I wouldn't be using it if I had the ability?'

Fatesaw panted, one palm massaging her temple as if to rid her mind of the residual pain. After a moment, she straightened her posture, eyes narrowed in a most hateful contempt. Any words that might come were delayed. Both Skaros and Fatesaw lifted their arms, palms pointed toward the distant artillery. Moments later, a cannon shot slammed into the barrier they both conjured. The explosion washed over the otherwise invisible sphere and dissipated.

Apparently, that was enough to change Fatesaw's mind on what to argue with him about, because her attention was directed toward that hilltop where the stray cannon shot had originated.

'It is being "dealt with", is it?'

Skaros let out a low chuckle. 'Do you doubt the Everwrath?'

A momentary pause. 'No,' she admitted after a moment.

'Good. Now, take command of a warband or two. The initial attack on the garrison in that farmhouse on the west side of the grove has been pushed back. Clearly, our warriors need some proper… motivation.'

Fatesaw exhaled heavily. 'All while you command from the back?' she asked bitterly.

She didn't give Skaros a chance to answer, she turned on her heel and stalked away, no doubt to track down a warband or two that she felt adequate for her command. Skaros chuckled lowly, amused at her effort to act as though she had any real autonomy within the host. He had given her a command, and she could mutter and curse all she wanted, but the word of Skaros was law in this warhost.

Though, a small part of him knew that Fatesaw's grumbled complaints were more for show than anything else. She was second only to Soulshriver in loyalty to Skaros.

#

Hoffman swung his sword low and cut down another of those Chaos warriors who claimed to be knights. They were nothing but mockeries of knights, and Hoffman was all too eager to prove that. The warrior was felled to the blow, fell upon bloodied mud and didn't rise again.

He took a quick look around, surveying the field of battle. Hoffman made note of another band of warriors nearing. Warriors on foot. Must have planned to follow in the "knights" wake and take advantage of the confusion. How unfortunate for them.

A second look at the approaching foot warriors had Hoffman's face twist into a grimace. A mixed band of warriors armed with halberds, and warriors armed with a one-handed weapon and shield. Whether it was through chance, or planned, the halberds were inter-spaced between the shield-bearers. There was no way to charge the formation without undue casualties.

But fortunately for Hoffman, there were handgunners a small way up the hill. Just needed to have the cavalry move aside, and clear the line of fire. No troubles, the warriors would be put down soon enough.

Hoffman was about to make the order to do just that. Had opened his mouth, air drawn in, ready to project his voice.

The axe flying through the air cut his intentions short with the same ease that it cut through his horse's leg. The shout that he had planned to release turned into a shocked yell of surprise as his world turned lopsided. He was quick to throw himself away from his saddle before his horse, now forevermore crippled, could finish falling, and pin his leg between its body and the ground. He hit the mud-slicked ground, slid as much as rolled, armour stained with the mud and the blood. Hurriedly got to his feet, lifting his shield defensively, while his eyes scoured the ground for where his sword might have landed, having fallen from his grip sometime during the second roll.

Heard the whistle of air before he felt the impact upon his shield. The force had him stumble back a step, nearly tripped over the corpse of a Chaos knight. Lifted his gaze, tried to identify what exactly had struck him. His attention was drawn to the giant of a man stalking toward him, clad in nought but boots, a cloak, a loincloth, and a large skull for a helmet—the shape and size gave Hoffman reason to assume the skull had once been the head of a dragon-ogre. He carried two large axes, one to each hand despite the size marking them as intended to be two-handed weapons. He didn't seem bothered by the weight.

Despite the lack of armour on this man, Hoffman felt his breath stutter. The air pinched at his nerves, and his chest felt weighed down, as though this man approaching him was able to press down on him with his presence alone.

Hoffman had never confronted an exalted champion of Chaos before. Now he understood the horror that the idea of such individuals brought. This was a man who had been looked upon by his foul god, and that god had blessed him.

Hoffman spotted his sword. Cursed silently as he realised that it was just out of reach, this champion would reach him before he could reach his weapon. He let out a harsh breath, tense.

His saving grace came in the form of one of his fellow Knight Panthers. The knight charged the champion, lance aimed straight and true.

It was too much to hope for that this champion would be felled by such an attack. The champion had turned, one axe swinging upward, catching the lance and redirecting it before it could pierce his flesh. The other axe was swung downward, cleaving through the neck of the horse, decapitating it with a single strike. The headless horse fell, and the rider was thrown aside.

The distraction was time enough for Hoffman to lunge for his sword, grabbing it from the ground. He then adjusted his stance, kept his body facing towards the champion, even as he sidestepped toward the fallen knight.

The knight was alive, shaken and no doubt aching from his tumble. But alive. Hoffman stood over him protectively while the knight regained his mental cohesion and picked himself up.

The entire time, the champion stared at them, eyes hidden in shadow behind that skull he wore. And further back, the approaching warriors of Chaos continued to advance.

'Sir Hoffman…' the knight groaned, clearly feeling the battering his body had just taken. 'What…?'

'Come, brother,' Hoffman spoke softly, never taking his eyes from the approaching threat. 'We need to fall back.'

The knight looked up, took in the champion, and swore softly, slowly pulling his sword from his scabbard. But Hoffman noted quickly that the knight wasn't able to lift his shield arm, it was left hanging limply at his side.

'Are you alright, brother?'

'I landed on my shoulder,' the knight groaned. 'I don't think it broken, but I can't move my arm.'

Scheiße. He didn't vocalise the curse, didn't want to diminish the knight's morale any further than a lamed arm would cause by expressing his feelings out loud. He simply backpedalled, guiding the knight to follow his lead. For every step backwards, the champion kept pace.

#

Coadmit swore softly, watching through his spyglass as the commanding officer of the Knights Panther was unhorsed, followed by another. He hadn't seen the towering Chaos warrior before. Coadmit hadn't been involved with the siege of the Feyerabend Keep, but the reports given by those who had been, had painted a clear picture regarding the Chaos warhost's figures.

This was a man who had managed to go head-to-head with Colonel Solin, however briefly the actual clash ended up being. Solin had had more to say about the samurai than the barbarian, but he had said enough.

Boney must have somehow overheard Coadmit's muttered expletive, he was at the sergeant's side almost instantly, eyes narrowed in concern.

'What's wrong?' Boney asked.

'Champion coming our way,' Coadmit answered shortly, before calling out to the lines of musketeers. 'Ready arms, fire on my call!'

Boney glanced down the hill, uncertainty flicking across his eyes. 'The knights are still in the way…'

'I know.' Coadmit ground his teeth, pulling his musket from where it was slung across his back and pressing it to his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. Silently hoped the knights would move aside. Even with the hill's slope on their side, it was not a clear shot.

Below, the knight dodged aside a swing from the champion, tried to counter with his sword, but was forced to abort the motion when the champion swung the other axe in an arc that would have removed the knight's arm had it connected.

'I've got this,' Boney spoke suddenly.

Coadmit glanced at Boney, moving his head just enough to be able to see him clearly while still having the approaching threat in sight.

'Major?'

Boney inhaled, his hand absently patting at his chest, where the faint outline of the gold neck ornament beneath his shirt was momentarily visible. He held his breath for a few scant moments, and his eyes briefly flickered from their usual warm amber into a cold blue-white. The air didn't chill, that wasn't the right word to describe the sensation, but rather the air seemed to vibrate as the Winds of Magic were no doubt agitated by the major.

Boney exhaled and threw his hand forward. The sky above, overcast but with patches of sky momentarily shining through gaps in the clouds, darkened. The rain clouds were replaced instead with black storm clouds. And from these dark clouds, a bolt of energy struck down in the form of a jagged lance, which smashed down to the ground below.

The ground around the champion shattered, mud splattered in all directions as the bolt slammed into him. For a moment, he disappeared in a flash of light. But when the brightness faded, the figure remained. Unbroken. Albeit, thrown aside at the explosion of energy. The two knights, they both started in shock at the event, but quickly regained their wits and began to limp their way back toward the skink gunline. Coadmit let out a faint hum of approval, let the humans regroup behind the safety of the musket firing lines.

His satisfaction at the sequence of events faded, as the form of the Chaos champion picked himself up from the muddied ground, soiled but otherwise unaffected by the lightning bolt slamming near him. The ripple of energy from the bolt landing alone should have at the bare minimum knocked him out. Instead, he had spent a handful of seconds on the ground, before rolling onto his back, then sitting upright, the skull facing toward Coadmit and Boney.

'Oh shit…' Coadmit couldn't help but mutter.

Boney, huffing slightly, grimaced. 'I felt the bolt weaken before it hit him… I think he's resistant to magic.'

Coadmit blinked, then calmly accepted this new detail about the threat approaching them. 'How fortunate that muskets aren't magic,' he commented dryly after a second or two.

Boney snorted in amusement, though it was tempered by a sliver of uncertainty. 'By all means.'

Below, the two knights had been picked up by those of their number who still had their horses and were pulling back while the majority of the still mounted knights veered side-wards, likely looking to circle around and hit the warriors in the flank. Or maybe leaving the on-foot warriors for Coadmit's muskets, while they prepared for any other waves that might approach.

That left the champion and the approaching warriors open to the gunlines. Coadmit aimed his musket.

'First ranks, fire!'

At his call, gunfire erupted.

#

The world had momentarily turned on its side and flew past at speed before righting itself. Valnar the Everwrath grunted as his body made contact with the mud-slick ground, slid a few feet as the momentum of his impromptu flight lingered, then came to a halt. For five seconds, all the Everwrath could do was roll onto his back and stare up at the clouded sky above, the sequence of events playing itself in his mind.

Magician. The thought came to him, with a sense of certainty. A magician had just thrown a lightning bolt at him. How quaint. How utterly pointless.

He was the Everwrath, and before he was the tool of Malice's wrath upon the world, he was a champion of the Blood God. Under Malice, blood was still spilt, and Valnar was better able to spill that blood if a magician wasn't able to wave a hand, wiggle some fingers and make him cease to be. His resistance to any magic used against him was a gift of Khorne, one that hadn't been revoked on Valnar's transition from Blood God to Lord of Anarchy.

Part of his confusion about the events that had just transpired was how exactly he had been thrown aside despite his resistance. Didn't feel pain from the actual bolt, the bruising he had was from his short-lived flight. He dismissed the confusion after a moment of not having come to any real conclusion. It wasn't important.

Sitting up, his gaze locked on one of the small lizardkin, standing between him and the artillery. The one who dared throw lightning at him. And the feelings of fury and hatred and absolute rage filled him, fuelled him.

By the battle's end, that wretch will be dead. It was a silent vow, but like the heated emotions, it fuelled him, gave him energy. Focused him. That one would not die easily. No, the magician would scream. He would bleed. And his blood would be the offering that fuelled Valnar's wrath.

He flexed his hands, then clenched them as he felt the haft of his axes, then stood.

#

Ingwel twisted his head around at the burst of light and sound to his left. He was able to catch the after-image of a bolt of lightning, and even though he wasn't sensitive to the Winds, he was experienced enough to pick up the faintest sense of their involvement.

'That came from Boney's position,' he thought aloud, already lifting his spyglass to his eye.

From his current position, he couldn't make out what was happening on that front. He could see the bastiladons, still firing down at the Chaos warriors, but attention from the skinks was largely focused down the side of the hill that was blocked from Ingwel's sight. No sight of the Knights Panther.

'Mort,' Ingwel called out.

The Eternity Warden approached, amber eyes drawn toward the artillery hill. 'You want me to go over there?'

Ingwel gave a single nod. 'If the Chaos warhost sent a band to circle around widely enough, they might have bypassed the farm. And if Major Boney cast Uranon's Thunderbolt, that means we might be looking at a band that can fight off the Knights Panther.' The oldblood paused, considered for a moment. 'Take a full cohort, just in case.'

Mort hesitated a moment, his eyes leaving the hill to rest upon the forested grove at the bottom of the central hill they were currently standing on. The grove that Solin was dwelling within, along with two cohorts. 'Are you certain?'

'I can spare one of your cohorts to keep our flank secured.' Ingwel's eyes narrowed into a grin, tempered though it was with the reality of the battle. 'And you can always make a judgement call about whether to reinforce the western farm once you think the artillery position is secure.'

Mort considered that for a moment, then nodded a single deep nod, and turned toward the formations of his guardian regiments.

'Goctu'a, ready your cohort. You'll be coming with me to the artillery position. Kaii'ka, you have the command of the guardian regiments in my stead.'

Ingwel was only peripherally aware of the replies to Mort's projected voice. His attention was drawn to the grove, eyes narrowing. They'd seen the Chaos warriors enter, but there was no way to determine what was happening within. And more warriors were entering, perhaps realising that without taking a long detour, it was the only way to reach the hill upon which Ingwel stood without taking fire until what was essentially the last minute of the approach.

It would still be a costly approach, the rows of skinks ready to release volleyed gunfire down the hill would make certain of that. But with the shorter distance to change, fewer volleys would have the opportunity to be unleashed.

The warlord in charge of the Warhost must have been aware of that on some level, for even though there were efforts to overrun the garrisoned farmhouses, he was slowly pouring troops toward that grove.

Clearly self-aware enough not to put everything into the one approach though. And with the artillery having fired salamander shots… if Ingwel were on the other side, the one on the low ground having to contend with the artillery, he would see the grove as a potential trap. Draw in the troops under the illusion of being provided with cover, only for incendiary barrages to put the grove to the flame. Which was a tempting idea, Ingwel would freely acknowledge. Except, like he would have ordered, the warriors entering the grove were at a trickle, rather than a singular massed assault.

They weren't entering the grove en mass, and likely wouldn't until they had reason to believe the artillery was not going to burn them all alive. Thus the assaults on the farmhouses, securing positions from which they could—and inevitably would—assault. More open to the muskets on the hills—and a massed force for the artillery to focus on—but with their numbers, if they managed to secure even one point from which to make their assault, they would overrun the defensive lines, death toll be damned.

But then again, the enemy was Chaos, they were damned anyway.

#

Hoffman cursed softly as the fourth volley of musket fire cut down a swathe of the approaching warriors. And yet that skull-wearing champion still managed to avoid being cut down by the storm of bullets.

And further back, another cavalry band was approaching. Without his horse, Hoffman couldn't help with the counter-charge, and until the foot warriors reached the defensive line, he was forced to stand idle, watching with a sense of growing dread as the champion continued to march ever closer, those large axes glistening.

'Second ranks, fire!' one of the skinks roared.

The sound of thunder answered, the smoke already polluting the air thickened, the sharp tang burning his nose, leaving a taste on his tongue that lingered. Eyes stung, tears pooling in response. Ignored it, focused on the approaching threat. Grip on his longsword tightened, felt the popping of his knuckles from the pressure.

'Third ranks, fire!'

And it repeated. Hoffman breathed in, ignored that bitter taste of gunpowder. They were too close now, that was the last volley. The skink with the brimmed hat, feather pinned to the side—Hoffman couldn't recall his name, only remembered that he was a major—stepped forward.

'Ready bayonets!' that skink major called out. Hoffman reckoned he heard a slight wobble to the skink's voice, but chose not to dwell on it. Could just be him projecting his own concerns, those fears that he always pushed down and buried away.

Mustn't let one's fears take a place of pride in battle, lest one be ruled by them. Acknowledge the fear, understand it, then put it aside.

With the melee moments away, Hoffman lowered his helmet's visor, then stepped forward, took a position alongside one of the skinks. Gave what he hoped was a reassuring nod at the skink to his left, when he noted that the small lizardman's hands were shaking, eyes wide with nerves. Must have worked, the skink nodded in return, took a deep breath and those nerves seemed to settle.

The first warrior reached the line, and Hoffman swung his sword…

#

The Everwrath stepped back, out of reach of the nearest lizard as it thrust its handgun at him, the blade affixed to it falling short of puncturing his flesh. Growled and swung the axe in his right hand, the unnaturally sharp edge cleaving through the metal and the wood, shorted the gun's barrel to a stub. He stepped forward and swung the axe in his left hand, delivering the same fate upon the lizard that held the now useless gun. Flicked his hand, flicked the blood from the blade of his axe even as he swung the right axe again, left another reptile a head shorter.

They quickly learnt to spread themselves, that a neat ordered formation did nothing for them once Valnar the Everwrath was in their midst. Through his presence alone, formations splintered and fractured before inevitably crumbling. The lack of a unified wall of bodies to hinder him was of no concern. His eyes bored into the lizard magician—could smell the stench of the Winds about him. Stomped forward, swinging his axes whenever any got close enough that they would feel the bite of enchanted steel.

The lizard stumbled back, eyes widened in a panic as it sensed his fury directed at him, realised his intention. The creature lifted a blade, a most slender and curved blade that would never hold up against either of the axes of the Everwrath.

Step. Step. Step.

Three more of the lizards were cut down, had dared to near him and suffered the penalty. The magician backpedalled, its blue complexion paling, chest visibly shaking as it panted in what was no doubt terror. And then it threw up a hand, eyes momentarily turning a vibrant blue-white, like the colour of lightning—the same lightning that had slammed down upon Valnar just minutes prior. The air picked up speed, but the Everwrath, resistant to magic in all its forms, felt nought but a tickle. And then the wind picked up mud and pebbles, and those? Those the Everwrath was not resistant to. Not when a veritable wave of mud and stone rose and slammed into his body.

Suddenly, it made some small sense to Valnar how it had come to be that he had been thrown aside earlier. It wasn't the magic, it was what the magic had touched that wasn't him.

Tricky little magician. A small part of him was amused, just barely felt behind the wall of hate and rage and fury that dominated his being.

That amusement faded quickly as he realised that he had been brought to the ground, covered in more mud than a pig rolling in shit. Then, the wrath for which he was named doubled in intensity.

He will suffer.

Sat up, moved to stand but wasn't content to wait, hurled the axe in his right hand at the magician. Relished in the panicked startlement in its yellow eyes, the way it nearly tripped over its own feet to avoid the great weapon flying toward it. It got lucky, managed to avoid being cut in twain.

Back on his feet, the Everwrath extended his now empty hand, tensed his fingers, then clenched as he felt the haft of the axe he had just thrown. The weapon appeared back in his grip, as though it had never left.

That was not a gift of Khorne, or Malice. It was a quality of the weapon itself, an heirloom of his ancestral shire, back in the misty lands of Albion. One of the only pieces of his past that he still kept and honoured. So long as he held claim to that axe, he was never without a weapon at hand.

Back on his feet, weapons in hand. He charged, eyes locked onto the magician. Swung his left. The lizard awkwardly stumbled, avoided the first cleave. Swung his right. Also avoided, but not nearly so well, the crescent edge caught on the magician's sleeve and managed to rip a line in the linen.

Third swing, the magician remembered that it held a sword, tried to deflect. Technically managed, redirected the blow, but at the expense of its own balance, arm shoved aside with force enough to cause it to stumble. Fourth swing: should have been the killing blow, but the magician redirected its stumble and slammed its fist into the Everwrath's groin.

Startlement more than true pain—not that being punched in his crotch wasn't painful—caused the Everwrath's axe to veer wide, and the champion of Malice had to pause a moment, not quite doubled over but close enough. The magician took the chance to try and gain some distance, not that it would save it.

When Valnar the Everwrath straightened, he learnt that there were depths to his hatred yet unexperienced before now. Fire in his glare, utter loathing toward the one who would deal such a low blow.

He charged, and this time there was no toying, this time the magician. Would. Suffer.

A cut formed on the magician's arm where his attempted dodge wasn't quite enough, the previously not-yet torn sleeve of his shirt now completely removed. The magician fell to the ground with a pained yell, blood leaking from the tear on its arm's flesh, then stared up and him, eyes wide with fear and realisation that this was the end.

Except while he wasn't paying attention, another of the wretched lizards intervened. This was one not carrying a handgun but instead a polearm. The Everwrath managed to avoid a lethal thrust from behind, but only then learnt that what he had assumed was a spear was instead a billhook when the spear was pulled back. The hook punctured through his shoulder and upset his balance. A second tug had him fall to one knee, body twisted to try and ease the pressure.

Foaming at the mouth and snarling insults, the axe in his opposite hand came up then down, cut through the shaft of the billhook. Didn't remove the hook lodged in his shoulder, but he used that pain to ground him, to further fuel his hate.

Threw the axe at the one who had managed to harm him, felt satisfaction as its skull was split in two. Then, even as he summoned the axe back to his hand, he turned back to the magician, lifting the axe in his injured arm, ignoring the jolt of agony as the hook ground against the joint of his shoulder.

And he moved it back down in a chop that would end the magician's life.

Valnar's axe descended, ready to end the magician's life. But the blow never landed. Instead, a bone-shaking force slammed into his head. Pain exploded behind his eyes as his body tumbled backward, and through the haze, he saw it. A shield. It spun through the air, glinting in the dull light, before reversing its course as if by magic, coming to rest upon the arm of a larger lizard. Valnar's lips curled into a snarl.

He recognised this one, one of the defenders of that keep, months ago. The one in the armour. At the time it had been using a tower shield instead of this round one, and a broadsword instead of a spear, but he recognised it regardless.

And judging from the look in the lizard's eyes. It recognised him too. It adjusted its stance, that large circular shield positioned appropriately, spear—and this one was actually a spear, no hooks involved—held at the ready.

'Get back,' the lizard growled, clearly directed the order at the magician, who managed to clamber to its feet and withdraw behind the far larger lizard. Then the large lizard narrowed its eyes at the Everwrath, teeth bared.

Around them, Valnar became aware that more lizards, similarly dressed to this newcomer, had arrived.

Valnar the Everwrath snarled. In spite of the injury to his shoulder, he readied himself. He was not about to lose. Not now, not to any of these wretched lizards.