Plugging the Pass
The Old World - Unnamed Pass through the World's Edge
—
Marshal Ingwel'tonl held the spyglass close to his eye, observed for himself just what he was looking forward to enduring. He had been told, multiple times even, but sometimes one needed to see for oneself to truly take in the scene. It was as the villagers of Daxweiler had said: the pass which had supposedly been blocked off for longer than any human had been alive, was now open.
It was not a wide, vast pass that would allow an army to pass through in rank and file formations, quite the opposite. Maybe once upon a time it would have been large enough, but it was very obvious that the rock and dirt which had once blocked and filled the passage had only recently been dug through.
It must have been quite the landslide, Ingwel mused privately, redirecting the spyglass toward the entrance of the pass, at the old fortress which blocked passage, for the Empire to see that old fort as unnecessary to man any longer.
Visible atop the fort, above the heads of the occupants who had chosen to stand among the battlements, was a dark standard, upon which a splash of colour formed the symbol of the so-called "Architect of Fate". But, strangely enough, it wasn't the obvious symbol of one of the wretched pantheon that captured Ingwel's attention. There was another object, slightly further back and almost hidden from sight, and constantly obscured by somebody moving in front of it. It looked to be an icon, but it didn't bring to mind any of the Chaos gods.
'Does that icon at the back of the fort mean anything to you?' Ingwel asked as he lowered the spyglass and handed it to the skink at his side.
The brightly coloured skink accepted the item and lifted it to his eye, absently pushing aside the flatcap atop his head. Colonel Iycan'ceya spent a full minute staring down the spyglass, a hum escaping his throat. He ignored the sharp retorts of gunfire from down the hill.
'The Bull of Hashut,' he finally said. 'I do not believe we have had the pleasure of meeting the Chaos dwarfs thus far.'
'Chaos Dawi?' Ingwel asked in bemusement.
'Dawi-Zharr,' Iycan corrected with an absent-minded tone, still staring down the tube in his hand. 'Working alongside some Tzeentch cultists. That isn't a pleasant combination, Ingwel.'
'Am I to assume,' Ingwel began, crossing his arms across his chest as he spoke, 'that worshipping Chaos hasn't stopped them from having the same talent as their non-Chaos afflicted kin?'
'Dwarf ingenuity paired with daemonic craftsmanship, if the tales are true.' Iycan nodded, finally lowering the spyglass. 'We haven't heard much about them, what little we know came from one of the Irregulars, and the drunken ramblings of that dwarf that followed us around two winters ago, so I don't know how much of that is accurate.'
'Anything that didn't involve bragging is probably safe to assume as accurate.' Ingwel's eyes narrowed in an amused grin.
There was a loud cracking sound as heat and light shot forth from the Legion's formations. The golden beam flew straight and true toward the fort, wherein the solar engine's blast slammed into the wall, scorched and battered. Unfortunately, the manmade structure managed to endure.
'Do we know that this fort is actually manmade?' Ingwel wondered aloud. 'That it wasn't originally Dawi?'
'The dwarfs are less inclined to abandoning their own bastions than the Empire is,' Iycan reminded the oldblood. 'And I'd be advising we leave it be if it were, lest we incur about fifty grudges for them to hold over our breaking anything that used to be theirs.'
Ingwel chuckled softly, silently conceded that point. So far the Legion had managed to avoid upsetting any dwarfs, and he would very much like to keep it that way. Dawi memory was long, going through one generation to the next. Even if Ingwel lived a thousand more summers, if he was the recipient of a grudge, the dwarfs would pay him in full, whether not he even remembered the reason why their ancestor might have been upset by him.
There were those that claimed the Slann were clinging to a past long gone. Ingwel would very much like to point out the dwarfs, who would cling to upsets for so long as to have their descendents punish the descendents of the originator. Had to feel sorry for the random human who was suddenly ambushed by a group of angry dwarfs over being short-changed in a business transaction four hundred odd summers ago.
Iycan pointed past the fort, back to the pass itself. 'If the Old Ones have any mercy, they won't yet have widened the gap enough to bring their war-machines through.'
'With Tzeentchian cultists involved, we'll have to worry about sorcery,' Ingwel mused aloud. 'They won't need war-machines to be a threat.'
As if to emphasize the point, a storm of unnatural purple fire erupted from the ground, beneath a small troop of saurus. Even the typically stoic saurus screamed as they were incinerated within the ruinous flames. Ingwel let out a breath of air which escaped with a loud hiss, the only sign he gave that he was anything other than coldly detached regarding his subordinate's lives being snatched away so abruptly. He refused to look away as the pink ashes that used to be living saurus were scattered by the winds and formed into deformed pink entities. The horrors weren't given much of a chance to enjoy their new existence, nearby saurus leapt forth with sabres swinging in powerful cleaving swipes that destroyed the abominations, and then the smaller bluer forms that tried to form from the dissolving bodies of the Pink Horrors.
'It'll still be one less thing to worry about.' Iycan's voice was filled with resignation. 'We still have two uses of the-'
Ingwel cut Iycan off with a mild 'Let us avoid using anything that might chance upsetting the local Elector now, shall we.' It wasn't a question, the weapon that Iycan was referring to was something that none of the Legion had yet worked out just how the Empire would react to their having. 'We have an enemy in a superior position, with unknown weapons and at least one sorcerer.'
Something was launched from the top of the fort. It flew, mostly straight and true, with an unearthly shrieking sound that had Ingwel flinch back as though it would protect his hearing from whatever the infernal sound was. The flying projectile connected with the armoured shell of a bastiladon and exploded in a fiery display of violence.
The large thundersaur roared in pain, its shell charred and cracked, and one leg very clearly injured. The skink charged with guiding the beast, on giving it direction, had managed to escape the blast unscathed. When the skink saw the state of his charge, he had it turn and start to lumber away for relative safety.
'There is that Dawi innovation at work.' Iycan adopted the tone typically used by humans for sarcasm.
'So I can see.' Ingwel snorted in irritation and then looked at Iycan. 'I want that pass sealed. We need the pass unusable, or else the fort will keep getting supplies and reinforcements from the other side. You work on that, while I keep this siege going.'
Iycan nodded thoughtfully. 'I have an idea, but it will need the artillery, unless you're willing to sacrifice a solar engine.'
Ingwel gave Iycan a steely gaze in silently contemplation, internally weighed pros and cons. 'Would this dispose of it afterward?'
'I can guarantee that afterwards it'll never be seen again.'
Ingwel snorted in amusement. 'You just to play around with it. Fine. Tell me what you are thinking.'
Iycan couldn't grin, not as humans did. He certainly managed to give the air of doing such as he leaned closer to share his idea.
#
Sergeant Yeucan'dewit watched the ground beneath him move at a speed that the ground should never move, and he unconsciously clutched tighter at the harness which was holding the cart over the air.
'If skinks were meant to fly,' he shouted—had to shout, the sound of the air was a roar that was trying to snuff out his voice as much as it was his ability to keep his dinner down, 'then the Old Ones would have given us wings!'
Above him, the terradon's rider very clearly laughed at him. 'They did give us wings, they're called terradons.'
Yeucan swallowed down the bile that fought its way up. Against his better judgement, he looked over the edge of the cart again, at the distant grounds below. He could make out the siege, where occasional flashes of light marked musket-fire, artillery, or fell sorcery at work. They weren't flying directly over the fort, that would likely be suicide, as it was if they were noticed then it was hoped that by keeping a distance they could avoid being shot down.
After far too long spent dangling in the air inside a cart held aloft by a terradon, Yeucan felt a change and was relieved to finally see that he and his cohort was being lowered to the ground. Around him, the other terradons with their own cargos were also descending down toward the closest thing that the World's Edge had to level ground outside of the well known passes and karaks.
Once the wheel-less cart was touching rocky mountain, Yuecan wasted no time clambering out of the wooden structure and all but hugging the ground.
'Never again.' It was a promise he knew would be broken, he would have to repeat the experience if he wanted to get back to the rest of the Legion after all was said and done.
Around him, the rest of his force disembarked the baskets, all with varying levels of discomfort. After a few deep breaths, Yeucan straightened himself, hands grabbing at the lapels of his coat and tugging downward in order to straighten the garment. Another deep breath and he managed to shove aside the still all-too-recent experience for another time, even if that time were to be at late night in the form of nightmares.
Colonel Iycan'ceya vaulted from his own basket, one hand securing his woollen cap to his head, but otherwise looked so completely at ease that Yeucan wondered if the other skink had experienced such a method of transportation before. Wouldn't surprise me, how else would he have thought to have terradons ferry us through the sky?
The terradons moved aside once their cargo'd passengers had removed themselves from the wagons they'd been carrying, in order to make room for another trio of the flying creatures, these ones all tethered to a single object and their handlers were making certain that they were moving with care regarding the large object in question. It was lowered, slowly, carefully, and then once it was on the ground, a handful of skinks moved to undo the harness which had been fashioned for the purpose of moving that very cargo.
Despite his misgivings, Yeucan did eye the freshly delivered cargo with an appreciation that had little to do with the job at hand, and everything to do with the fact that they were going to get to use that.
'It is a beautiful thing, isn't it?' Iycan asked, absently fidgeting with the cravat he wore around his neck. 'An Empire Helstorm Battery. Fiery death from above.'
Indeed, that was the cargo. The Legion had been lugging the artillery piece for about six months at that point, a lucky find when an orcish camp had been wiped clean only to find that at some point the green-skins had looted the artillery battery and had yet to smash it for whatever purpose they had. The Legion had been reluctant to use it while actually within the Empire's provinces because none had any idea how protective the Empire was regarding such equipment. Were they valuable to the point that any seen to have one would be marked for death? Or were they common enough that a misplaced Helstorm was simply written off?
The answer would have been easy if it had been a steam tank that the Legion stumbled upon, which it had been noted that the Empire, if they had the ability to make more, either weren't doing so or they were making new steam tanks so slowly that every last one was valuable enough that they would not tolerate a legion of mercenaries taking one for their own use. But Helstorm batteries were more commonly seen, which could have meant that the Empire would not be so protective. However, until the Legion had a definite idea, it had mostly been relegated to that place of "one day there will be a use". That day had apparently finally arrived.
The two kroxigors who were accompanying them approached the Helstorm and positioned themselves such that they were able to cart it around. Both kroxigors had a large crate each strapped to their backs. The kroxigor closest to Yeucan shook his head and rumbled quietly. 'I not like flying.'
'Nor do I, Toxte'zec,' Yeucan answered. 'We were meant to keep our feet firmly on the ground.'
'Are you still whinging?' Another skink asked.
'Yes. Yes I am. And I will until this is over with.' Yeucan was nothing if not honest, and the flight had cemented itself firmly in his mind as something to make his displeasure about well known.
Iycan chuckled even as he unrolled a large parchment and examined the map which had been inscribed to its surface. 'Now now, let's save the arguing for when we're back home and safe, hmm?'
'One question.' A turquoise scaled skink lifted a hand, another one of those humanisms that had begun spreading throughout the Legion. 'Why us and not Major Sharpe and his chosen?'
It was actually a valid question. Skirmishers had a better time of the sort of task that Yeucan and his cohorts had been tasked with. Fighting on uneven terrain, sneaking by the bulk of a force in order to achieve a goal only tangibly related to fighting. It had skirmisher written all over it.
'Sharpe's Chosen are in the mountains also, but they have gone another way from us and are trying to draw attention so we can hopefully go unnoticed,' Iycan explained, while still staring at the map. 'As much as we'd like to think otherwise, we have to assume that our enemy isn't so blind as to not notice a dozen terradons flying by and landing in the mountains. So, Sharpe and his skirmishers are to do what they do best: harass and annoy.'
'Well, they are good at that,' another skink commented with a wry tone.
'Where to then, boss?' Yeucan asked.
'We need to get closer to the pass.' Iycan finally rolled the map back up and tucked it into a pouch at his thigh. He pointed a finger. 'That way.'
The terrain looked treacherous, and safe pathways were not a given. The World's Edge was not supposed to be traversed as they were doing, and carting around a Helstorm battery was only going to make it slower. Still, Yuecan unslung his musket and motioned for his cohort to follow his lead.
Unfortunately, despite the idea that Sharpe's Chosen were in the mountains to draw attention away from Yeucan's cohort, they quickly learnt that there were still threats within the mountains. At a glance, it appeared to be a patrol.
They looked like dwarfs, but a mockery of the Dawi that the Legion had encountered in the past. Burnished armour of heavy plates adorned with bright and bloody livery. It was the faces though—those that could be seen—that really drove in the difference though. Bestial sneering with a hatred that had nothing to do with righteous fury at a grudge unresolved, and tusks that looked so horrifically out of place and yet seemed quite natural upon these twisted distortions of what dwarfs should be.
They hadn't yet seen the skink regiment. The path—if it could really be called such—that the skinks had been traversing had come to a slope which lowered to another "path" where the small cluster of twisted dwarfs were slowly moving. It left Yuecan with a small issue, a choice.
On the one claw he and his cohort could fire down upon the Chaos dwarfs from the superior position and with the element of surprise. Short of massively ill luck, the black armoured figures would be killed swiftly and that would be the end of them. However in doing so, they might attract more attention, encourage any other nearby patrol to investigate the noise, or the fate of their comrades.
On the other claw: let them pass, there won't be any noise, no reason to attract unwanted attention. But then there would be a threat behind them and nothing to say that at no point they would turn and come back the way they came. Going forward, Yeucan would have to divide his force's attention two ways to ensure that there would be no sneak attack from the ones spared previously.
Yeucan lifted a hand, a silent signal to those under him. As one, muskets at the front of the formation were shouldered and aimed. There were quiet clicks to accompany the hammers all being pulled back, the signal that the firearms were now ready to fire. Yeucan waited several seconds, allowed the dwarfs below to move a little more, made certain that all were within sight. His hand came down swiftly.
There was the sound of thunder, the scent of burnt powder and smoke. The muskets were fired as one. Then those at the front rank dropped to their knees and allowed those behind to aim over their heads. Yuecan shouldered his musket and aimed for one of the still living dwarfs, lined the barrel with his hateful face at the same moment that that same dwarf looked up and met his eyes. There was nothing in his eyes other than a hatred and scorn. Despite standing amidst dozens of dead and injured, this dwarf seemingly cared so little that he violently kicked aside a body that had knocked into him and was preventing him from raising his own weapon. Once freed, the dwarf lifted his firearm, a queer thing with the end of the barrel expanding out and into the shape of an Empire buisine.
Yeucan pulled the trigger of his musket before the dwarf could finish lifting the oversized muzzle. The dwarf stumbled back, blood exploding out through the back of his chest as the small metal bullet of Yeucan's musket punctured through first the armour, then the flesh, before repeating itself in the opposite order out through the other side. For five seconds, the dwarf stayed upright despite the injury, but then he collapsed, and the strange firearm fell from his now lax fingers.
There was another boom of thunderous sound when the dropped weapon discharged in spite of the lack of anybody pulling the trigger back. The result of the discharge wasn't a single accidental case of (un)friendly fire, instead not one but two of the dwarfs fell to the ground, with large scores of flesh shorn away by whatever it was which had been fired from the weapon. It wasn't a bullet, for no single bullet was capable of that.
The second rank of skinks fired at their chosen targets, which finished off the patrol. If any were still alive, they weren't in any condition to get up.
'What was that?' Yeucan asked aloud, still staring at the bodies that were caught by the dwarf weapon's discharge.
Iycan had a disturbed look to him, eyes both widened and narrowed in a strange paradoxical display. 'Dawi-Zharr blunderbuss. What a crude and horrifying weapon. I suppose it shan't surprise any that it would be a Chaos blighted people to use such a thing.'
Yeucan distantly recalled, back before the Legion had adopted the muskets as their go-to for skinks, those who had disagreed with the idea. Those like Major Mort. It had been argued that the black powder driven weapons were too violent, that they did far more damage than was agreeable, and as such was borderline cruelty to those they fought and by using such weapons they'd be little better than Khornate blood spillers.
Just because they fought and killed, didn't mean they had to resort to causing more pain than was needed. It wasn't until it was proven by Major Sharpe'tus that when used properly by those who had trained with them, muskets could actually be less painful for the target than a javelin or bolt-spitter, and at a range that was often safer for the skinks in question. "Besides", Sharpe'tus had argued angrily, "who are we to talk about cruelty, when we coat our bolt-spitters in poison and when we use our teeth, which often causes infection to those that survive the fight? We used clubs that broke bones, that turned flesh into putty. And we wonder why we had to change to fit the young races' definition of civilised?"
It had been the argument which had seen Sharpe'tus promoted to head of the skirmishers, seen him placed as an equal to the likes of Major Mort and Major Zak.
However, if muskets had done damage in the same way as these "blunderbuss", then Yeucan got the feeling that those arguments against the black powder weapons would have won out, and instead of a musket, he'd have been using a bolt-spitter or javelins at that moment.
With a shake of his head to dispel the thoughts of what-if, he quickly gave a command to his cohort and watched as the red coated skinks slide down the slope to the fallen Chaos dwarfs, whereupon they immediately set about stabbing each body with their bayonets, made absolutely certain that they were all dead and nobody was playing a part with the intention to arise and attack them from behind. While they did that, Yeucan cast the Helstorm an appraising look.
'Will we be able to get this down?' he wondered aloud.
Iycan eyed the slope. It was steep enough that climbing up would have been difficult even without dragging a heavy artillery battery behind. Going down, that could potentially be dangerous, as the force that kept pulling everything down to the ground would be trying to pull the artillery into the backs of whoever was trying to move it down. Or it would be trying to force the artillery out of the grips of those same, if they tried to lower the helstorm in front of them instead.
'I think our kroxigors can manage,' Iycan said, though he did turn a questioning gaze to the pair of kroxigors.
Toxte'zec huffed out a breath and leaned forward, examined the incline for himself. 'We can do it. It will be slow.'
As if to prove that they could indeed do it, he kicked the claws at the end of one foot at the rocky surface. His claws managed to gauge deeply into the rock, enough so that he was able to steady himself on the incline. It wouldn't be enough to also brace against the weight of the Helstorm, but his companion had, while Iycan and Yeucan were watching Toxte'zec, unravelled a length of rope and secured it to the Helstorm. Then, he pushed the Helstorm so that the front end—or whichever the firing end was meant to be—tipped over the edge that marked the end of level ground in favour of the slope. Toxte'zec braced himself against the Helstorm that now pushed against him, while at the level ground his fellow kroxigor pulled against the rope, helped ease the weight pushing against Texte'zec with a grunt.
'Able but slow.' Toxte'zec reaffirmed, and slowly took a step backward.
'Indeed,' Iycan agreed with eyes wide in surprise. 'You know, I am constantly taken by surprise when it comes to our kroxigor friends. I know they aren't stupid, but that was impressive problem solving before I'd even started to think of how to solve it.'
Yeucan silently agreed. In combat, their strength was pretty well known—they swung whatever weapon was in hand with power enough that even a full grown carnosaur would think twice. But as Yeucan had no interaction with them outside of battle, he wouldn't know just how smart they were. He supposed, privately, that the artisans and the builders would be more acquainted with that intellect and problem solving ability as they often worked side-by-side with kroxigors. The partnership had to be for more than just the strength.
As Toxte'zec had predicted, lowering the Helstorm battery was slow. While they waited, the skinks all pushed the dwarf bodies aside, found a ledge nearby that dropped who knew how far down. It was an ignoble end fitting for any who willingly embraced the ruinous powers. Distantly, the odd barks of musket-fire could be heard, echoing through the mountains.
No doubt Sharpe's Chosen were trying to cause mischief. Hopefully their efforts had prevented anybody from hearing Yeucan's brief barely-skirmish.
Once the Helstorm was back upon level ground, every formed back up into the same formation which they had previously adopted while escorting the artillery battery and began to march anew.
#
Zihton hadn't been fighting as a member of the Outland Legion for much of his existence. It wasn't something he usually thought about: that he would come to spend more of his life away from the temple-city from which he had been spawned than within it. It was entirely possible he would never again see the bastion from which he came. He had been from one of the spawnings which had feathered crests in place of the fin normal to skinks, a trait which instantly marked the spawning as destined to be shipped off to the Legion as soon as they were educated on the minimum requirements one needed to function within the alien lands so far from what should have been home.
Some days were easier than others. Getting used to wearing the clothing of the young races, that had been difficult. Those days had felt long and tiring. He was still ignorant as to just why all of the young races covered themselves so thoroughly. But he had gotten used to it, now even reached the point where he prided himself on keeping his uniform looking clean and proper. Something about the red coat he wore gave a feeling of unity with the rest of the Legion. Well, with two-thirds of the Legion, because there were the older regiments who had stuck to older styles. And not just Major Mort's three regiments, those were the oldest three but not exclusive in their stubborn desire to cling to their own past.
Today was a hard day. When Sergeant Yeucan'dewit had told Zihton and his squad that they, along with another squad of the regiment, were being tasked with an important mission, Zihton had just known that it was going to be one of those days. He had felt some sympathy for Yeucan, who had not taken well to the method of travel that had them safely deposited in the World's Edge Mountains. The ambush on the corrupted dwarfs had been swift and lethal, and the effects of the discharged blunderbuss had been an eye opener.
That might have marked the first time that Zihton had been involved in a fight where the other side was using black powder weapons. The Legion had battled against such weapons in the past—Zihton had no doubt about that. But it was the first time that Zihton had personally been involved in a battle where the other side had muskets or similar type weapons.
It was equal measures exhilarating and terrifying. The Children of the Gods were resilient, even skinks were hardier than most young races. But that blunderbuss shot had been a warning that just because the lizardmen were hardy didn't mean they were invincible. Zihton didn't want to be shot by one of those things.
It was hard, but Zihton didn't complain as he followed behind Sergeant Yeucan. The ground didn't get any easier to traverse after that initial path. Calling it level would have been generous—it was bumpy and uneven and caused Zihton's ankles to ache in a way that had never happened even after hours of non-stop marching on a level plain. And the whole time, they had to keep their eyes open, keep a constant vigil because the mountains were not, and had never been the favoured domain of the Children of the Gods. Meanwhile, these Chaos dwarfs that had made themselves the enemy of the day, assuming that there was any similarity to their non-Chaos afflicted cousins, would be perfectly at home with such terrain.
Fortune seemed to favour them as they didn't encounter any more patrols. That or Sharpe's Chosen were doing a magnificent job of drawing the ire of their enemy. Maybe both.
Iycan eventually had them stop for a brief reprieve while he double checked his map. 'It looks like we're almost there. Just another wegstunde.'
It took Zihton a couple of seconds to translate the Riekspiel measurement into a rough Saurian equivalent. Once he did so, his eyes rolled heavenward to silently beseech Sotek to deliver some form of mercy from one who apparently considered three and a half thousand metres to be minor enough to label as just another! Maybe on even ground he'd be right, but on the rugged mountains, those three and a half thousand metres would feel like twice that number.
'Colonel, that's definitely not a distance we can call "just another",' Yeucan said with a tone that Zihton could best describe as politely rude. It reminded Zihton of why Yeucan was the sergeant: he had certainly mastered diplomacy in tone of voice to an extent that the rank and file had yet to manage.
Iycan huffed out an openly amused breath. 'Sergeant, it's about keeping positive. Just think to yourself, it's only three thousand metres, and not nine thousand.'
Behind Zihton, Toxte'zec rumbled a quiet 'Speaks truth.'
It wasn't so quiet that Iycan didn't hear. 'Would I speak anything but?'
'Isn't that your job?' Zihton asked before he could stop himself.
There were a fair few rumours about the exact nature of Colonel Iycan'ceya's purpose in the Legion. That he was the right hand of Marshal Ingwel'tonl was not in doubt. He was one of only two who had the power to openly disagree with the oldblood and have a hope of changing his mind from whichever path he had previously decided. But other than that, Iycan didn't seem to have a proper role within the Legion, which just meant that his role was one of secrecy. It was a source of much debate around the fire at night.
Iycan's eyes narrowed in silent laughter. 'Would you believe me if I said not?'
Zihton opened his mouth to reply, registered the question, and realised that no, he wouldn't. An answer would need to come from a source other than the root of the fire-gossip. Iycan's eyes narrowed further, now just barely open in the vaguest sense, the non-verbal laugh not letting up in the slightest.
Yeucan shook his head, for what reason Zihton couldn't quite discern. 'All right, all of you form up. Let's finish this.' He turned his head to peer at the Helstorm battery, still being hauled by the two kroxigors. 'While we march, colonel, do you mind sharing what we're hoping to do?'
Iycan sounded an affirmation and started to walk, leading the redcoats who had all formed up into a tight formation at the stern order.
Iycan started speaking, holding up the map he had been examining so intently. 'We had one of our scribes look at the fort and the pass from above'—from the back of a terradon no doubt, Zihton thought privately—'and he managed to spy an overlook with a view of the pass below.'
Zihton shared a look with the orange scaled skink marching at his side. There a moment of confusion that both felt deeply, but it was the orange hued one that twisted his head to look at the colonel.
'We only have enough for two uses.'
It was hardly news, wasn't even an open secret as that would suggest that nobody was supposed to know even if everybody actually did know, it was something that the entire Legion had become aware of whilst lugging the battery along with them. When they had secured the Helstorm from the orcish camp, it had had enough munitions scavenged up for five uses. Three of those uses had been used up whilst the Legion had been traversing the Border Princes Peninsula, where the Empire's grip wasn't so keenly felt, and therefore they had felt less concern about firing off the Helstorm than they had since crossing north of the Black Mountains those two months ago.
Two barrages, even from a superior position, would not change the tide of this battle.
'Well,' Iycan began with a cheerful tone. 'We'll be making those two barrages count rather than wasting them. Which is why I'm here.'
Which was a roundabout way of saying that that the Right Hand of Ingwel'tonl had a plan—a plan that was not so simple as to simply launch rockets down at the fortress below. A plan that he was not going to share.
Not that it mattered as they were nearing their apparent destination. They would see what he had schemed soon enough. They just had to traverse three and a half thousand metres of rocky, uneven and less than direct mountainous terrain. Those three and a half thousand metres, unfortunately, felt more akin to twice that number.
The monotony of the cumbersome march that wasn't quite a march was broken up after one thousand and seven hundred metres, give or take, Zihton was hardly counting. It was another of patrol of those tainted dwarfs, and regrettably, this time it wasn't an encounter where the dwarfs were ignorant and had been spotted from a location of strategic superiority.
Quite the opposite. This time the only warning they had that the patrol was nearby was the first gunshot.
Zihton dove to the ground at the sound of black powder igniting, his musket hugged close and his eyes already scanning for the source of the gunshot. He was interrupted from that task when his eyes came to a rest upon two of his cohort, bodies mangled and torn through, unblinking eyes looking up at the noon sun.
Without thinking, Zihton dragged himself to the nearest of those two bodies and pressed his hand down upon one of those horrifying disfiguring wounds as though he would be able to stem the blood's flow and preserve a life that was already taken.
Another crack of a weapon echoed through the air. There was a scream. Zihton ignored that, pressed his forehead against the body of the fellow skink, silently uttered words that weren't truly words. Gave the last rite, because deep down, even though the timing was off, he knew the bodies couldn't be taken back for the proper rites. His body functioned without his mind's input, because his mind was functioning almost on the will of another entity. His eyes shut. The air tasted foul, tangy, almost a coppery taste but missing something that truly defined such a simple description. Exhaled, the outgoing air felt cold, chilly. His eyes opened at another gunshot, and his mind finally stopped its waking dream to bring reality back to his sight.
There was a dark armoured figure on a ledge above the path that they had been traversing. The Chaos dwarf must have just fired, for he wasn't even aiming the blunderbuss in his hands, just waving it around like some deranged fanatic. Zihton hissed angrily and pulled his musket from where it had been pinned between his body and the ground. The hammer was pulled back, locking into the firing position with a satisfying click, and he lifted muzzle of the weapon, pointed it at the dwarf and pulled back on the trigger.
The musket kicked into his shoulder, hadn't been braced properly and as a consequence the edge of the stock stabbed into him. But he didn't care, just watched with grim satisfaction as the dwarf fell back with a stream of blood gushing from a newly opened hole in his neck.
A shout from the side had Zihton look, watch with a panic as another of the corrupted dwarfs charged with blade in hand toward where he lay. The blade was a nasty looking thing, crafted not to kill but to inflict pain. No time to reload, and from his position on the floor Zihton couldn't move fast enough to avoid the fate coming toward him.
There was a crack from black powder igniting. The charging dwarf stumbled and fell to the ground. If he was dead or not, Zihton didn't know. When he craned his head around to find the source of the gunshot, he found Colonel Iycan'ceya, a pistol in one hand, a sabre in the other. The usual look of muted amusement was no longer in the purple scaled skink's eyes. Instead, he now bore a steely glower.
Behind Iycan, another of the Chaos dwarfs charged, roaring a battle cry as he lifted a spiked maul ready to swing the instant he was within striking range. If the roar was supposed to be intimidating, it failed to have such an effect on Iycan, who twirled around and reposted the maul's heavy swing with a flick of the wrist, sabre dancing in his hand. The dwarf stumbled at the redirection of his blow, but managed to correct his course and straighten himself. He sneered at Iycan, who gave an unimpressed snort and very deliberately returned the pistol to the holster at the small of his back, just above his tail. Even as he did so, his sabre was flicked into a guarded stance.
The dwarf seemed to be annoyed by the skink's apparent lack of respect. He roared again, but a gunshot sounded and the armoured figure fell with a strangled yelp, maul dropped in favour of clutching at his leg. He didn't have long to wallow in pain, Iycan lunged forward, sabre thrust forth so that the tip pierced through the gap between the dwarf's helmet and his breastplate. There was a gagging sound from behind the facially concealing helmet, and then stillness.
Sergeant Yeucan stepped into Zihton's view, already jabbing has ramrod into his musket while scanning the sight of the skirmish. There was a silence to the air, the kind that always came after the violence was over and done with. Still, Zihton warily scanned about him as he sat upright and began the process of reloading his weapon. Once upright, he was hit by the realisation of just how lethal that small skirmish had been. Of the thirty-one skinks to arrive on the mountain, seven had just had their lives violently torn away before they'd even truly had a chance to fight back.
'We can't linger too long.' Iycan's voice was void of his usual good natured cheer, eyes were still steeled over. 'We're close enough to the fort that another patrol will have heard the gunfire.'
Iycan's eyes darted to Zihton, and he started to move toward him, sword finally returned to its sheath and his now freed hands were tugging at his silk cravat.
'You're hurt,' he murmured.
As if the observation had been a trigger, Zihton felt a sharp flare of pain in his leg. He bent his head to look, and observed the grey wool of his breaches turn dark as his blood stained them. He must have just barely caught the edge of the blunderbuss blast. Iycan made a low, soothing sound and carefully wrapped his cravat around Zihton's thigh, bound the wound tightly.
'That'll do you until we get back to camp, hmm?' A ghost of the normal good nature leaked into Iycan's voice as he asked the rhetorical question. He held out a hand in silent offer, an offer Zihton accepted, grasped at the proffered grip and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
It hurt to put any weight on the leg. The exhilaration that Zihton had felt before, that was gone. Now the fear was starting to dominate with nothing to balance out the feeling. Any exhilaration was torn from him in the same way that his spawn brother's skull fragments had been torn away from the rest of his body. He wondered, if his leg wasn't injured, would he be trying to break away from everybody else in the hopes of finding safety? It happened on occasion in battle that the stress would have some on either side just break and try to flee, would Zihton be one of those?
Sergeant Yeucan lunged forward abruptly, grabbed onto another skink's forearm with what was very visibly a tight, bruising grip. 'Hey, calm down. Relax, focus on me.'
The skink in question was unable to focus his eyes, was constantly looking everywhere and nowhere at once. But at the stern tone and order, the skink's shoulders slumped and he faced the sergeant with a shamed look to his eyes.
'Calm,' Yeucan reiterated. 'Listen to my voice and don't think about anything other than the words you hear.'
'Battle shock,' Iycan explained to Zihton with a sympathetic tone. 'First time?'
Zhiton nodded. It came out more frantically than he had intended, and he was distantly aware that his breathing was off, unsteady and coming out in short gasps.
Iycan continued to speak. 'Even we Children of the Gods aren't immune to such battle shock. Seeing kin die violently, it isn't something we should ever have to bare witness to. Especially not when so young.'
The comment at his age managed to momentarily startle Zihton from his mental prison of doubt and fear. His eyes narrowed at the colonel, who looked unimpressed with the dour look. Just because Zihton was only twenty summers did not make him too young to be a member of the Legion!
'I never said that.'
Oh, I spoke aloud, Zhiton felt his face scales darken.
Seeing that Yeucan had managed to calm the skink in his grip and taken a place at the front of the group, Iycan grabbed onto Zihton, threw an arm over his shoulder and held him close. It took the younger skink a moment to realise that the purple skink was helping him to walk with his injured leg. As they walked, Iycan continued to speak.
'I was thirteen summers older than you when I first experienced a fight like this. I still wonder whether that was too young. There is a reason skink cohorts, even from our more traditional kin, are led by a skink with at least fifty summers and winters worth of experience.' Iycan shrugged. 'It's harder for us, we skinks aren't spawned with the same mind for violence that our saurus kin are, and even they can be victim to battle shock. They're resilient but not immune.'
'But you seem fine.' Zihton hated how weak his voice sounded, so quiet and pathetic.
'I've a lifetime spent learning how to be "fine" during and after a fight.' Iycan let a hollow chuckle escape. 'You would have joined the Legion last summer? Only recently earned your coat?'
Zihton nodded a shallow nod. 'I have fought, but this was… different.'
'This was the first time you were at the front, able to see what it is really like. Actually see kin that you know the name of, had shared meals with, be torn from this life. It is no longer distant, it is right there.' There was no judgement in Iycan's tone. 'Tell you what, when this is finished, you will talk to me, and you will tell me about them, who they were, what they liked.'
'You can get your neck-cloth back while at it.'
Iycan chuckled, eyes momentarily lowered to look at the silk cloth that had been turned into an improvised bandage. 'You can keep it. I have spares.'
Iycan looked up from the injured leg and scanned the way ahead of Yeucan, who had clearly made sure to set the marching speed with any injured in mind, as even supported by the colonel as Zihton was, they were still slower than the usual pace set and yet were keeping up with no problem. He must have recognised something, as he motioned at another skink, one who was uninjured and had them take his place in supporting Zihton. With one last reassuring look at Zihton, Iycan then jogged toward the front of the group.
#
Yeucan was glad when they finally reached their destination. It was a level plateau that had an impressive view down at the pass below. They even had a very clear view of the fort and its walls which were supposed to block passage from that same pass.
It was just too bad that the Elector Count of Stirland had never maintained a garrison in that fort's keep, if for no other reason than so that what was once a pass could be watched to ensure that its status as a former pass never transitioned back into being a usable pass. But again, it came back to the question of exactly how long ago this pass had apparently gotten blocked up by landslides. Long enough ago that the nearby villagers had worded the history as "my old grand-papi used to say". If it pre-dated living human memory, then the sense of urgency would likely be gone from the distant ruler of this land.
Yeucan believed they were in Stirland, but it was close enough to the border with Sylvania that the only reason that he wasn't assuming them to be there was the lack of superstitious and backwards thinking from the nearby villages. Sylvania was a miserable experience the last time the Legion had traversed those lands. Something in the air had been cloying and there was a constant feeling of decay to the land. And yes, Yeucan recalled the concerning number of pitchforks and lit torches being brandied about, even before the humans noticed lizardmen nearby. So, he was firmly of the belief that this pass was in Stirland and not Sylvania.
Iycan heaved a deep breath on seeing that they were finally there. 'Perfect, better than I had anticipated.' He twisted around and pointed to the edge that overlooked a sheer drop to the grounds far below. 'Set the Helstorm up there. Quickly now.'
Yeucan crossed his arms, gave the colonel a pointed look. 'Are you going to finally share your great plan with us?'
Even as the words left his maw, Yeucan closed his eyes to brace himself for the retort his wording would earn him.
'I'm not that old,' Iycan huffed with offence. 'Nor do I have divine percipience. All I have is an educated guess and faith.'
'Faith just got seven of my cohort killed, colonel, forgive me my lack.' The words were dry, and not an apology.
'You are forgiven.' Thankfully, the older skink didn't have any sarcasm in his tone, as Yeucan wasn't certain how he would have reacted. No, Iycan instead sounded fully understanding, even if he was distracted by the two kroxigors setting up the Helstorm battery. 'The plan is that we are going to plug this pass again.'
Yeucan tilted his head, tried to discern the colonel's meaning. Iycan must have translated the silence accurately because he turned to look at the sergeant once again.
'As young Zihton pointed out earlier, we only have enough rockets for two uses of the Helstorm, so we are not going to be firing at the ruinous forces below. Instead…' He paused in his speaking to move to the now positioned but not yet armed Helstorm and pointed at the mountainous terrain on the opposite side of the pass. 'We force another landslide.'
Yeucan followed Iycan's finger. The mountain where he was gesturing didn't look stable. In fact it was probably a miracle that a strong gust of wind hadn't caused a landslide at any point over the past week. His eyes then turned to the Helstorm and finally it dawned on Yeucan just what the purpose of this exercise was.
'You want to shoot the explosive rockets at the mountain itself.'
Iycan hummed in affirmation, finger lowered along with his gaze. 'And we need to do it soon.'
Almost against his better judgement, Yeucan leaned forward to look down at the pass below. They were high enough that he wasn't able to make out the detail of individuals, just large blobs as they moved in thick crowds. There were a lot of them, that much he could tell.
But it wasn't the warriors that drew his attention. It was the large contraption that wasn't quite able to squeeze past the gap in the stone wall that should mark the end of what would have been a canyon but for the efforts to dig through. It wasn't yet able to fit, but it wasn't so drastically oversized compared to the opening that Yeucan would have said it wasn't going to happen sooner rather than later.
'That is a hellcannon.' Iycan grunted. 'And I would dearly like it crushed beneath the mountain before it fires at us, or at those of us still keeping them that side of the fort.'
Yeucan nodded in silent agreement. He faced the kroxigors, took note that they'd placed upon the ground the large crates they'd been carrying the entire time and opened them to reveal the stock of rockets that the Legion had for the Helstorm.
'Start loading the artillery,' he ordered and then looked again at Iycan. 'How are we leaving?'
'We have two barrages.' Iycan started, seemingly ignoring the question. 'One for that side of the pass, and another for this side. After the first, they will know not just that we're here, but that we are here. But, it will also be a signal to our terradons. They'll come to pick us up and while we wait, we turn the Helstorm and aim up.'
If there is mercy to be had in the world, Yeucan thought to himself, then these Chaos twisted dwarfs don't have any gyrocopters.
The two kroxigors were fast at loading nine rockets onto the firing tubes. Yeucan briefly wondered if they'd been the ones to arm and use the artillery battery the previous three uses it had gotten. It was only a brief thought as he quickly dismissed it as unimportant.
'Weapon ready,' Toxte'zec rumbled.
Iycan released a breath and moved to the artillery battery, pressed himself close to Toxte'zec where he quietly relayed instructions which had the two kroxigor shifting the weapon in small inch by inch movements as the colonel tried to get the weapon as accurate as it was going to be.
It was probably a good thing they weren't looking to hit a small target but a chunk of mountain, experience warned that the Helstorm was… not… the most accurate weapon that the Empire had ever devised. But when hitting a large area through nine explosive rockets? Yeucan had a feeling that the mountain would come out the loser of that match-up.
'Firing in ten.' Iycan shouted out in warning.
Yeucan counted down in his head, and once he hit zero, Iycan slammed down on the primer.
The rocket battery released the nine rockets, which shot forth with a loud screeching sound, trailing smoke behind them as if a taunt to any foes that yes, they came from there, dare anybody try to stop a repeat performance?
It was not a pleasant sound. But the explosions as the rockets hit the mountainside? Music to Yeucan's ears. Especially so when coupled with the rumbling as the weakened rock and stone began to crack and fragments slid and fell, and with each bit of rock that fell, the support for the targeted overhang weakened, more cracks, more discarded rock, until eventually the downward force of the world finally had a firm enough grip to forcefully yank and with that, it became an avalanche but without snow.
There were screams from the pass below. The Chaos dwarfs were clearly not so far removed from reality by the ruinous touch as to not feel fear. Or else they were screaming in impotent rage.
Iycan gave a whoop. 'Let's turn this around. Texte'zec, start loading the last of our rockets.'
Yeucan wondered whether it was overkill at that point. They'd already just buried the ruinous forces beneath rock and debris. Then his eyes rested upon those of his cohort who had been injured in the previous attack, and decided that no, it was not overkill to cause a second landslide.
There was a shout, and the retort of a gun. Yeucan felt pain as a large chunk of his left shoulder was torn away by whatever it was that those Chaos dwarfs were firing. He would have clutched at the injury, but his right hand was still occupied with holding his musket.
But he wasn't the only one hit. In fact, he wasn't the target.
Toxte'zec roared the kind of roar that only came from serious injury and he slumped, one arm hanging limply, shoulder missing two-thirds of what made it a shoulder. By some miracle, the rockets weren't damaged, or if they were it wasn't enough to set them off.
Yeucan spotted the source of the gunshot. A dozen angry Chaos dwarfs were charging toward them. One had discarded his blunderbuss. Another was in the process of lifting his up so that the muzzle was pointed toward the Helstorm and the still uninjured kroxigor behind it. He was interrupted when the more familiar bark of the Legion's muskets beat him to the act. The dwarf stumbled, three bloodied holes now punctured into his armour. Either side of him his comrades fell, blood slowly pooling out under their prone bodies.
Yeucan grunted, found that in spite of his effort that he was unable to move his left arm to steady his musket, so he adjusted his grip and held it closer to its middle and tucked the rear end of it beneath his armpit. The first of the surviving dwarfs reached him, so Yeucan twisted his torso while dropping to one knee. The bayonet punctured into the breast of the deformed dwarf, possibly where his heart lay, if Chaos mutated dwarfs even had hearts.
He yanked the weapon back, readjusted his grip and was immediately forced to lift it in an attempt to block or parry a maul coming for his head. The maul connected with the musket, shattered the wood and bent the metal barrel beyond repair. On the upside, Yeucan's head was spared.
The maul waving dwarf sneered, or at least Yeucan assumed the sound that came from behind the helmet was a sneer—it was more likely than what he thought the sound actually reminded him of, which was that of a cattle beast with sniffles. The dwarf lifted his maul, and without a means to protect himself, Yeucan had a feeling that he might not survive.
Another musket gunshot was heard. The dwarf didn't flinch or give any sign that he had been shot, but he did pause and twist his head to peer off to one side. Maybe he had noticed who had been the victim of the gunshot. It didn't matter though, it gave Yeucan the opening he needed to leap back to his feet and then throw himself forward, body-checking the armoured dwarf with enough force to knock him prone. There was a barrage of filthy language from behind the helmet, along with a surprising number of statements regarding Yeucan's non-existent mother and her profession in the entertainment industry.
Ignoring the vulgarity, Yeucan dove for the remains of his musket and grabbed at the bayonet, twisted it around and then tugged it free of the muzzle. It wasn't much, but he was armed again. No longer felt helpless, even if with his injured arm he probably still was.
The dwarf started to pick himself up, and Yeucan did not want him getting back to his feet. The skink lunged forward, stabbed his bayonet at the dwarf. The blade didn't manage to puncture the armour, instead slid across the black metal, until it finally slipped into a seam between thigh and pelvis. The dwarf screamed and wrapped his hands around Yeucan's throat and then squeezed.
Yeucan gagged, but refused to release his grip on his blade, pulled it partway out of the dwarf's flesh and then slammed it back. The clamped fingers about his throat twitched, but didn't ease up. Yeucan repeated the effort twice, feeling desperate as his air-starved lungs cried for a breath to be taken.
The dwarf was finally forced to release his grip when another skink thrust his musket into him, stabbed the bayonet through the armour thanks to the extra power offered by the running thrust. The dwarf seemed to forget about Yeucan, chose to focus instead on the new skink, who in turn twisted the musket—twisted the bayonet blade pierced into flesh—and then pulled the trigger.
The dwarf fell, gargling sounds emitting from his helmet, but otherwise still and silent. Yeucan's saviour grabbed onto his forearm and pulled him to his feet. Yeucan managed to avoid the shout of pain that it was his injured arm that had been pulled at.
'We need to go, sergeant.' Zihton's voice was just barely heard through the shrill ringing that seemed to have overtaken Yeucan's hearing.
Yeucan allowed the younger skink to guide him, and didn't complain that Zihton was leaning against him heavily, vaguely recalled that he was the one with the injured leg. That he'd managed to fight the pain to rush forth and save Yeucan was worthy of any compliments that Yeucan would be able to give, once the ringing in his ears finally faded.
At some point, the terradons and their carried carts had arrived, and were waiting for their passengers to board. Iycan was still by the Helstorm which was now pointed for the mountain above them. The look in Iycan's eyes said that the only reason he hadn't fired was because he was waiting for everybody to be ready to go as soon as he himself had run for one of the carts.
Toxte'zec, one arm hanging useless, used his good arm to help left Yeucan and Zihton into the cart. 'All in,' the kroxigor shouted.
Iycan shouted something in return. Yeucan didn't hear what the exact words were, but a moment later, the Helstorm unleashed its barrage. Iycan didn't wait for them to reach their intended destination—he charged to the nearest terradon-powered cart and leapt in.
The terradon's riders likewise didn't wait. Once Iycan was safely in the cart, the winged reptiles were set to fly up and away from the rapidly forming landslide.
#
Three hours later, Ingwel'tonl listened to Iycan'ceya's report, even as he eyed the usually impeccable looking skink with vague amusement. Iycan was missing his cravat, his silk waistcoat was dirty, and one of the sleeves of his shirt was torn.
It wouldn't have been nearly so amusing to behold if Iycan had actually been injured, unlike a third of the skinks and one of the kroxigors that had accompanied him. The healers had mentioned that the kroxigor Toxte'zec had lost all use in his arm and it had been removed to spare both pain and possible infection. Lizardmen had a good resilience to disease and infection, but the nature of the injury that had torn so much of the crocodilian's flesh from his shoulder? It had been better safe than sorry.
'And as you can see,' Iycan waved a hand toward the fort, or what had once been a fort, before the majority of its walls were crushed and smashed by the twin rockslides. 'We even managed to sort out your siege for you.'
'Oh yes, quite thoroughly.' Ingwel chuckled. 'But now if the Empire wants to repopulate the keep, they'll need to first rebuild it.'
'They can improve it,' Iycan waved a hand dismissively. 'And if they don't take care of their property, being broken is probably the safer fate to befall their discarded waste.'
Around them, the camp was being packed, wagons and carts hitched to whichever beasts were designated for the purposes. Ingwel's own wagon had been latched to the back of a stegadon, which seemed to sense his attentions and huffed at him.
'Incoming.' The shout came from a green uniformed member of the skirmishers. 'Empire, Stirland colours.'
'Ah, it seems the locals finally caught up.' Ingwel crossed his arms and turned to face the approaching human force and on seeing how far out they still were, walked forward to meet them part way.
It was hardly a quick stroll, the skink who had been on watch duty had alerted them the moment he had spotted them, which meant they were still a ways away. But, Ingwel didn't complain about that, gave his Legion time to finish packing everything away. Behind him, Iycan had fallen into his usual place at Ingwel's side, but just far enough behind to make sure it was understood that Ingwel was the one in charge.
The Stirland force slowed as they neared, eventually coming to a stop within yards of the two lizrdmen. There was a quiet that lasted a full minute as the humans all examined the pair, as well as the remains of the camp. Finally, a moustached human with a feathered helmet dismounted his horse and approached Ingwel.
The oldblood noted that the human's hand did not leave the grip of the pistol at his hip.
'I am Leopold Ganzfried, captain of Stirland and acting on the authority of Count Haupt-Anddersen. Who are you, and what is your business?' The human's tone made it clear that he wasn't certain that he should actually be speaking, that he was humouring somebody.
'Captain Ganzfried, I am Marshal Ingwel'tonl of the Outland Legion.' Ingwel raised a hand in a respectful salute. 'Our business was warding off a war band that had opened up that pass through the World's Edge.'
'There is no pass around these parts.' Ganzfried snorted, though his brow creased in thought. 'Though I do recall tales, and that fort must have had a purpose at some point.'
'If your Sigmar has any mercy, there won't be a pass again for a lifetime or two after what we've done,' Iycan spoke softly.
Ganzfried huffed, clearly had heard the skink's words. 'You say a war band tried to enter Stirland?'
'Mostly Dawi-Zharr.' Iycan nodded, started to speak in place of Ingwel. 'But there was at least one Tzeenchian sorcerer, so you might want to keep a vigil on the area. They should all be dead and buried, but some dwarfs were moving on the mountain itself, so there might be a few to have escaped the rockslide.'
The human captain examined the pair with a continued suspicious look. 'What is your purpose here, Lustrians? I am aware of your kind killing Empire citizens on the shores of Lustria.'
Ingwel and Iycan shared a look, silent communication passing through small movements of their eyes alone, and then Iycan looked again to the human captain. 'We don't know much about what is happening on Lustria and certainly can't speak for those involved. We aren't our cousins any more than you happen to be Brettonian.'
Something about the comment had Captain Ganzfried taken aback. Another minute passed and finally his hand lowered from the pistol. 'You called yourself the "Outland Legion"?'
Ingwel nodded. 'That is what we are known as.' The name that they had adopted, that had become their cultural identity more so than the temple-city which had spawned them, or the isle of Madrigal from which they hailed.
'I've heard of you before. And I'm not referring to the villagers in Daxweiler singing your praise. You were in the peninsula of the Border Princes four months back, were you not?'
Ingwel nodded. It was true and he had no reason to hide it.
'So, you're mercenaries. Ones paid in rumours, and materials.'
Iycan's eyes narrowed in a smile. 'More useful to us than your coin, most shops don't react well to an eight-foot tall reptile asking for goods and wares.'
A huff that could have been an aborted chuckle escaped the human. 'So, what are you charging for this effort to stop a Chaos dwarf invasion into the Empire?'
'Nothing. This one was on us,' Ingwel rumbled.
The human tilted his head, conveyed disbelieving confusion. 'Really now?'
'It is done. If you approached first, then we would talk about pay. For now, consider this one to be an act of goodwill to our hosts in this land.'
There was another silence, wherein the captain was clearly trying to decide how he should be reacting. If he had originally intended to go the route of violence then he was wisely reluctant now that he could see the size of the Legion behind Ingwel. He was now in a position where he had to decide how to react, what stance he should be taking with a large mercenary band within the lands he was sworn to protect. He was acting with authority from his count, so he clearly didn't want to make a wrong choice.
'Where are you headed next?'
Ingwel hummed, made a show of thinking. Had to make a show of it, he had learnt long ago that the young races couldn't read his expressions at all, so any time he interacted with them he had to exaggerate. If it also made the human think him duller of mind and therefore more likely to relax from a misplaced sense of superiority, then so much the better. Ingwel could work with being underestimated.
'We'd prefer to avoid entering Sylvania, so west and north to either Middenland or Hochland.' Again it was honesty, even if the captain might have preferred to hear that they were not headed deeper into Stirland's territory.
Ganzfried absently ran a thumb along the length of his moustache. 'I see.' Another pause where he no doubt silently cursed his current position. He was ranked at captain, not general, so he must have felt a little overwhelmed at a mass number of mercenaries all of a foreign race. 'You may go about your business then. But we will have eyes watching you.'
Ingwel raised his hand in a respectful gesture toward the captain. No need to offend, the man was clearly confused at the Legion's presence, so a respectful nod and a salute always seemed to go a long way toward easing any of the hostility borne of not knowing.
'Legion,' he bellowed, projected his voice so that all would hear. 'Fall in.'
The reaction was instantaneous. All regiments moved seamlessly into their formations, ranked and filed in an orderly manner that any empire officer would weep in joy to have been responsible for. Ingwel had them stand like that for a moment, his eyes roving back and forth, and then turned to look at the wagons and carts, all hitched to either stegadons or aggradons. In the hour since Iycan and the skinks and kroxigors that he had taken to the mountains had returned, everything had been packed away and was ready to go.
'Captain Ganzfried, happy hunting with any lingering Chaos dwarfs,' Ingwel called out to the human, before he then looked back to his command. 'Outland Legion, move out.'
At his order, the Legion began to march, eyes forward. Unlike the formation, the march wasn't quite so perfect to human standards. It was definitely not with each footfall perfectly in sync with those in the same row. But they all managed to keep their pace close enough that the general shape of the formation wasn't broken, and for Ingwel, that was good enough.
There was only so far he needed to conform. Formations, they had importance, even on the field of battle. Parade marching, that didn't do any real favours for his saurus and skinks. So long as the general shape of the formation remained, that was all he asked.
By his side, Iycan waited for Ingwel to start moving, and once he did, the skink matched his pace with the ease of familiarity. 'That went better than well. Nobody even fired a shot in a panic this time.'
Ingwel chuffed in amusement. 'I wonder whether the tales of us are starting to become widespread. He actually recognised the name Outland Legion.'
Iycan hummed, though whether agreement or not, Ingwel didn't know. After a minute, the skink turned his head to the nearest column of saurus. 'Hey, drummers, let's have a marching beat.'
The saurus within the formation who carried the drums started to drum out a rhythm which had started to become the default whilst the Legion was on the march. Unbidden, drummers from the other columns joined in. Ingwel glanced back at the human army, and saw that General Ganzfried was still watching.
'Come on—let's show these humans that we aren't uncivilised brutes. Put some words to the music.'
He didn't have to wait long. There was a momentary pause, but Ingwel had a feeling it was more about waiting to match the beat of the drums than any reluctance. After that five second pause, a voice rose up, one that Ingwel recognised as Major Sharpe'tus. By the time Sharpe had finished the first line, the rest of the Legion was joining with the unofficial anthem.
'When shadows creep across the land,
I'll neither falter nor stay my hand.
To battle, I'll stride, come what may,
Over the hills and far away.
O'er the hills and o'er the main,
Past Bretton, Karak, and Reik's domain.
Annat'corri's word, our guiding ray,
Over the hills and far away.'
-TBC