The Outland Legion

by J.Logan

There is a mercenary company roaming the land. An entire legion of sellswords, but they don't ask for coin, typically. No, they ask for knowledge of events, even if only in the form of rumours, they ask for raw materials, and they ask for use of facilities with which to work those materials. In that order of preference. They are armed. They are professional. They are... lizardmen?

9. Briefs and Intelligence

Briefs and Intelligence

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The Old World – Near Middenheim Road

—

Captain Sigismund scowled as Cruniac knocked lightly upon the doorframe and then entered the room without waiting for a reply. Cruniac approached with a queer expression on his face; Sigismund could already tell he wasn't about to like what he was going to hear.

Cruniac was a scrawny man despite his occupation giving him the strength that should have prevented such a build. Dark blonde hair so dark it was almost brown, grey eyes, and a neatly trimmed moustache. Rather than the style typically favoured in the Empire of letting the facial hair grow out into thick, ropey layers, Cruniac had his cut to a wispy style and never allowed any follicles to reach even a half-inch, though his actual hair was allowed to grow out but was pulled into a controlled ponytail that was usually hidden beneath his coif.

'It seems that the rat wasn't lying,' Cruniac started while he absently ran a thumb across his moustache, then motioned toward the nearby window. Outside, the village was barren of all signs of life outside of the recently arrived Efror Guardsmen. 'This isn't isolated; undead have been attacking the villages. No bodies left in their wake. At a guess? Somebody is trying to build an army.'

Sigismund's expression deepened; the hand constantly resting upon the hilt of his sword tightened, the leather of the glove covering that hand creaking from the pressure. Cruniac didn't change his facial expression, but he did take a step back, which allowed him to be out of reach of Sigismund if the captain were to draw his sword. Not that he would—Sigismund wasn't in the business of killing his own men, certainly not over something that wasn't their fault to begin with.

He was plagued by a constant rage and hatred, but he tempered that rage into something useful; he didn't let it control him.

'How many villages?'

'Not as many as it could have been,' Cruniac admitted with a faint tone of relief. 'One of the attacked farms was saved by a passing mercenary group hired to check up on them. The survivors then warned one of the villages, and they sent a runner to pass on the word, and another was sent to Marienburg. Knowing Marienburg's leadership, they'll send patrols out if for no other reason than to brag about doing a better job than the provinces at protecting the road. Then a mercenary band came from the direction of Middenheim. They seemed to have been warned themselves, but I wasn't about to ask questions.'

'Probably warned by the Lustrians.' Sigismund couldn't help but grumble that last sentence.

'My lord?'

'The lizards that escaped with our... problem... They stumbled across those same mercenaries—the Grudgebringers—who then took them under protection for a time. Ulric was clearly smiling upon them—they were then aided by those lizards against an orc horde that picked a fight with them. The Lustrians that we saw were part of a larger group.'

'How large are we talking about, my lord?' Cruniac's tone turned contemplative, likely trying to puzzle out a plan of attack should the need arise.

Sigismund ground his teeth. 'Large enough that they outnumber the Efror Guard in its entirety.'

Cruniac blinked in shock. 'Are you certain?'

Sigismund cast a dour glare at his subordinate. 'Our scouts lost count in the range of a few hundred... seems that those red coats they were wearing made it difficult to count them properly.' The last part was mumbled with a disdainful irritation before he then returned to speaking at a normal volume. 'They believed they were looking at over a thousand of the overgrown pests. So I am as certain as I can be based on reports.'

Cruniac frowned, turning his head in the rough direction of Middenheim. 'Do we have a problem?'

'We are going to have to leave the brat be for the time being. I am not getting into a war with a legion of Lustrians who decided to modernise themselves into a civilised example of their race.' Sigismund paused, taking in the indignity of the knowledge that these Lustrians were more advanced than the Efror Guard, who had no handheld firearms and only limited access to mortars. 'For now, we focus on the undead. Their timing is suspicious.'

'Suspicious?'

'Fenchel has a bout of insanity and decides to flee in the dead of night after nearly killing the chaplain. Then the undead make an appearance attacking a farm that he had taken refuge in. If the rats hadn't found him for us, he'd be dead already.'

'You don't think this is a coincidence.' It wasn't spoken as a question, and Cruniac had a concerned look.

'What were the odds that undead happen to attack the farm where the very person we're hunting was?'

'The undead did strike other villages first, but... they changed direction very abruptly.'

Sigismund inhaled a deep breath and nodded once in quiet resolution. His fingers drummed against the pommel of his sword as he organised his thoughts. 'I'm going to have Gerwin take the men and continue tracking the undead, try to track down the source. You and I'll go back to the keep, ask the count if he knows why undead would be roaming around. A mass of undead doesn't appear out of nowhere, and if it wasn't chance that had them attack the same farm Fenchel was at, then he ought to know.'

#

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

Solin had heard the words, and his nerves turned to ice. His mind's eye conjured up images of a time past over a hundred summers ago. Memories of a city in flames, of a church fouled, and a mass of the mad and the twisted. He almost felt the blood running from his side whilst he endured the mocking laugh of a man who had deluded himself into believing that he was doing a favour to the world.

He barely recalled the minutes after the young human had given his introduction. He knew in that detached way that one recalled overhearing news that wasn't relevant enough to linger that he had given more words to the commander of the Grudgebringers, knew that he had gone back to the front of the caravan, and was even dimly aware of more pleasantries exchanged with the Cathayan caravan master.

But conversely, it almost felt like he'd blinked his eyes, and weeks had passed in that short span of time.

He was aware of everything, but still, the eye of his mind didn't want to relent, insisting on gazing upon the visions of the past.

'This world is sick,' he had been told. 'End Times are coming; we can only delay it so often before the ruination reaches inevitability.'

It was the rationale of a man driven mad not through the machinations of any of the Ruinous Forces but through human fragility. The only good thing that could have been said was that even in the throes of such madness, he had still absolutely despised Chaos.

That man had stood there, skin waxy and his face gaunt, stature thinned not through any ailment of Nurgle but of his own devising. In spite of an appearance of frailty, his stance had been strong and powerful, his blade held at the ready. A blade that had already bit into flesh and dripped red in silent taunt.

'I have seen the future. There is no place for us, only an end once our world is sundered and gone, destined to be replaced with armies of gold across the realms.'

Solin shook his head, frantically trying to dispel the memories before they could really start to swarm his consciousness. It was Marz that eventually distracted Solin from the waking dreams of those times past.

The kilt-clad skink artisan approached him with a large hollowed horn in hand. Once Solin registered the smaller reptile's presence, Marz placed the horn into the oldblood's hand.

'What's this?' Solin squinted suspiciously at the horn.

'Bugman's.'

Solin took a cautious sip, eye fixed upon Marz. The skink hadn't been lying—the horn indeed had been filled with Bugman's famed brew. His eyes narrowed in pleasure at the taste; nerves that had been taut ever since he had been reminded of Efror's existence finally relaxed.

'I thought we used up the last of Bugman's?' Solin asked in a mild tone. It had been at least two summers since the job that had seen them paid with a keg of Bugman's finest ale. Hardly enough to last a terribly long period, and regrettably, there had not been enough that the entire Legion could get a share. As a means of being fair, portions had been given as rewards for three seasons, after which Solin had heard no more.

Marz gave Solin a wan look. 'I kept some stashed away for occasions. You look like somebody just told you that they had burnt Tiamoxec down.'

Solin shrugged. 'Not quite that bad.' He took another sip of the drink and then offered the horn back to Marz, who accepted in order to take a swig himself. 'Just unpleasant memories.'

'Hmm. And I'm sure it has nothing to do with that almost-man you've allowed to accompany us.'

Of everybody in the Legion, Marz was the one most familiar with the oldblood, knew the most about what he had been through and what he felt in regards to those events. Despite attempts to close off his mind and stow away his feelings, it had never come easily, not since he had left to traverse the lands of the young races.

Maybe those like Mort had a point in that they had compromised their minds with how much they had conformed, but Solin couldn't turn back now. He had immersed himself so deeply that telling him to switch back would be a challenge he couldn't picture himself overcoming. Marz's expression softened in a manner that seemed contrarian to his typical dour look. 'You're thinking of Yade-To again, ain'tcha?'

Solin huffed out a breath of air from his nostrils. 'For a time,' he admitted. 'Can't recall the city of Efror without recalling my major.'

Solin lifted the horn as if in toast. Another mouthful of the burning liquid, then the horn was handed back to Marz, who finished the last of the famous brew. 'Is there a reason you decided to pester me?'

Marz barked out a laugh. 'Ach, see if I try to be a friend to you in future if you'll just call me a pest.' After a moment, his mirth faded. 'We're only a day away from Middenheim now. What's the plan?'

Solin grumbled softly, no real words, just vague sounds of discontent. Time spent being a recluse lost in memories was over; back to the real world.

#

There was a downside to moving with a force the size of the Legion. Even when only half of the Legion was involved, that downside still existed—it was slow travelling.

Give Marshal Ingwel a cold one or a carnosaur, and he could make a journey from one city to the next in as short as a half-day. The moment an organisation reached a size of hundreds, that trek became a multi-day march. Despite the fact that the Legion marched in formation—which actually helped somewhat as it meant everybody was travelling at the same pace—the sheer size of the Legion meant that it took time to get anywhere.

Out of curiosity, Ingwel had once remained stationary and let the Legion in its entirety pass him. It had taken literal hours. Granted, that had been at a slightly more leisurely pace, with no need for them to exhaust themselves trying to reach some time-sensitive destination. It had still been an eye-opener about the vast scale of the Legion that Ingwel was marshal of.

Despite all that, Ingwel felt that they had made good time in reaching the capital of Middenland. No doubt the other half of the Legion was already there—they'd had a shorter distance to travel and a single long stretch of road to use.

The City of the White Wolf was... something. It was certainly a storied city, heart of the Cult of Ulric, a proud home for a proud people. Built atop a mountain, it was a bastion that Ingwel could not imagine ever falling to any foe foolish enough to lay siege. It was also smog-filled and stank like the refuse of a dread saurian. The only city worse was probably Nuln—though Ingwel had yet to actually enter the industrial capital of the Empire, so he could well be wrong there.

But for the time being, Ingwel had no need to enter the human city. This wasn't an outlying village where any bad first impressions were isolated and could be managed. This was the home of the Great Duke—an Elector Count of the Empire. Cause an alarm, it wouldn't be unruly peasants in a panic but the state troops of Middenland that the Legion would be forced to contend with, and that wasn't a fight Ingwel had any desire to indulge in. Bad for business to upset the largest human empire this side of the Edge of the World. No, the Legion would not be entering the city proper—even if any had a desire to play foreign visitor to strange foreign lands.

Instead, he had the scouts roam about, looking for where a pre-existing camp lay. The usual practice was for the Legion to make camp off any roads or beaten paths so as not to get in the way of other travellers—but when near major cities, camp close enough to be seen. It was an effort to make it clear that they were there so nobody panicked at suddenly finding a camp with a large force of lizardmen on the outskirts. Let them see the Legion, and then they could keep any suspicious eye they wanted upon them, but there was no denying that they'd been polite enough to let themselves be seen.

Not that it stopped the Legion from occasionally going an extra step to make certain that there was no confusion as to their existence.

Finding Solin's half of the Legion was easy enough. He had set his camp off the Middenheim Road that led to Marienburg. The other half of the Legion were not being quiet in their camp, and Ingwel managed to find a large gathering of Solin's subordinates around an empty field, cheering and laughing as they witnessed something. It took a little gentle nudging—and amused looks at any startled saurus that turned to see who was trying to push past—for him to see that they had set up an improvised blood bowl field.

Seven skinks were trying in vain to get the ball from a large kroxigor whose eyes were half-lidded in amusement and pleasure as he gently nudged one skink from his path and gave that same skink a pat on the head before then walking towards the edge of the field—seemingly oblivious to how both his legs had a pair of skinks each latched on like human toddlers clinging to a parent's leg. If he noticed the extra weight as he lifted his feet, he didn't show it. He just slowly walked to the edge of the field, presumably where he was to make a touchdown. He did pause when one of the skinks trying to stop him managed to latch onto his tail with a vice grip. A few shakes of the tail failed to get the skink to let go, so the kroxigor just gave the laughing audience a shrug and continued to plod along the field at a comfortable pace—only stumbling each time a new skink managed to find somewhere to latch onto him in an effort to weigh him down, but he quickly adapted to the extra weight.

Much to Ingwel's amusement, several skinks from the audience decided to join in. Even the kroxigor was forcibly slowed when a solid thirteen skinks found ways to latch onto him. His eyes remained narrowed in his pleasure, though he started to exaggerate the effort it was taking him to move forward—which only incited more amusement from the watching crowd.

Once the kroxigor was two paces from the line where he needed to touch the ball in his hand to the ground, he let out a theatrical groan and fell forward. Very clearly staged, it was a slow fall that was careful not to crush any skinks beneath his girth. Once on the floor, he proceeded to give the laziest and most lethargic death roll that Ingwel had ever seen come from a kroxigor. The skinks scattered from the rolling kroxigor only to give good-natured groans as they realised that the larger reptile had rolled so that he was across the line and was tapping the ball against the grass.

'Didn't seem like a fair match-up,' Ingwel chuckled to one of the saurus nearby.

The saurus, still laughing at the show, turned to face the oldblood. 'Every time we manage to get a field big enough, they do something like this. Muja is a big old softy, would never harm them, but by the nature of the game, doesn't get to actually play properly. Too risky, so we let him have a turn just enjoying himself with any willing to spend time with him.'

It was about then that the saurus actually recognised Ingwel and cut down on the laughing, giving a slight cough as his posture straightened slightly. 'Oh, um... Marshal, when did you and yours get here?'

'We've just arrived. Where's the colonel?'

The saurus scratched at the underside of his jaw. 'I think he's still talking with the Cathayans we escorted here. If you haven't spoken yet, that means you don't know about the human yet?'

'"The" human?' Ingwel raised a brow ridge at the saurus, who shrugged.

'I imagine the colonel will be discussing it with you later. Something about the human has him spooked. Getting a little... not tense, but nearing it. Solin spooked by this human, our new major is strangely skittish around all us saurus, and it feels like we've been followed by the undead lately.'

Ingwel hummed thoughtfully. 'Major Mort had a confrontation against the undead himself. But it was close enough to Sylvania that we weren't interested in looking too deeply into the matter—just made sure that word was passed on to the elector and moved on.'

The younger saurus winced at the mention of Sylvania. Like the Kingdom of Bretonnia, Sylvania was one of those few areas that the Legion was desperate to avoid if at all possible. Not that they wouldn't enter the borders of either if the need arose, but given a choice, both were very much on the "prefer to ignore" list.

'Sounds like you've been through some interesting times,' Ingwel said after a moment of consideration. 'I'm looking forward to chatting with Solin about what he has learnt.'

#

Boney paced back and forth, listening as Solin spoke to him regarding the days he had been separated from the Legion. Solin's words were a clear assessment—neutral in tone as he gave both praise and critique in equal measure. Boney took note that the colonel, after giving him a contemplative look, had deliberately positioned himself so that he wasn't crowding him—had just enough distance between them that the skink major wasn't feeling himself tense up at the proximity to the larger reptile.

'According to Coadmit, you had the occasional issue with your swordplay. Not used to only the one keen edge being the lethal part to hit with,' Solin said, drumming an irregular beat upon his bicep. 'But that's easy enough to overcome—just takes some practice. So with that in mind, you are going to be training with Captain Yen'ayes and then every other day either Marz or Muja, depending on who is available at the time.'

Boney took a moment to register the instruction. 'Marz?' he repeated, confused, which doubled as he rapidly remembered who Muja was and turned to face the direction where the playing field had been set up. 'Wait, Muja the kroxigor?'

Solin nodded slightly, though when he spoke it was as if Boney hadn't spoken. 'Yen is our main sword instructor, so he'll help you with your form and how to use your sword like a sword and not a thin cudgel. Meanwhile, practising with Marz will give you experience of fighting against somebody who uses a different weapon and style.'

'But...' Boney tilted his head in confusion. 'He's an artisan, not a warrior.'

'Don't let that fool you,' Solin warned in a mild tone. 'When he was younger, he was one of our Irregulars. He decided to pursue his passion for the artisanal arts once he got old enough that he was concerned about slowing. He's still a monster with a claymore, though, so don't underestimate him.'

Boney took a moment to try and remember what a claymore even was—though he could only dimly recall it as being a larger sword than the norm. Considering Solin's weapon was a zweihänder, the exact difference was beyond the major's understanding. After a sigh and a moment of dread—because last time he'd encountered Marz, the tailor had made it clear that he was still unimpressed with how Boney had mistaken his kilt for a dress, and that state of unimpressiveness had doubled when he had seen the filthy state of Boney's new clothes on returning from his time away from the caravan—now Solin had just put Boney in a position where Marz was going to be able to act upon those less-than-impressed feelings in the name of training.

With a sigh that perfectly conveyed the resignation he was feeling, Boney finally asked, 'And Muja?'

'Practice fighting against something bigger than you are.' Solin spoke with a faintly distracted tone as he began to read from a stack of parchment in his hand, eyes narrowed in thought. He did look up after he uttered those words and gave what Boney assumed was supposed to be a reassuring look. 'Don't worry. Muja is a gentle soul—even by kroxigor standards. Didn't become one of our best healers by not being gentle.'

'He's gentle... so you want me to practise sword fighting against him.' There was no hiding the incredulity. He didn't even question the role of kroxigor as a healer.

'Gentle, yes, but also a believer in the school of hard love if it means that those he cares for—in this case being the Legion and all within—are less likely to be visiting him in a professional capacity.' Solin's eyes slanted in humour. 'Relax, it also means he knows exactly how hard he needs to push those he's practising against. He's been volunteering for the role for four hundred summers, and he has never hurt the one he's been sparring against.'

Better a kroxigor than a saurus, I suppose. Boney shook his head. 'Are you certain?'

'About how soft Muja is? Did you not see him on the field? He loves you skinks in particular. Wouldn't surprise me if he was asking skinks to sleep with him.'

Boney sputtered in shock. That was one of the details he recalled from the lessons before being shipped out—some double meanings that warm-bloods had in their speech. 'Ex-cuse me?'

'It's almost like human spawnlings with their stuffed animals.' Solin mused thoughtfully. He then gave Boney a bemused look. 'What?'

'You bastard,' Boney hissed with a shake of the head. 'You did that deliberately.'

'Did what?' Solin asked with a faux-confused tone, then flinched in apparent "shock". 'Oh! You... you have a dirty mind, little skink. Is that why you shipped out? Wanted to experiment with the reproductive practices of other races?'

'No, nonono!' Boney waved his hands in a warding gesture as though to shield himself from such accusations. Then the implications of such an accusation hit him with the force of a kroxigor with a mace. 'Please tell me that isn't a thing.'

'Not to my knowledge,' Solin said idly, giving a vague shrugging motion as he spoke. 'And mind your language when we're in the officer's meeting. Mort hates if you use vulgarity.'

Boney tried not to indulge the oldblood who had just proven that he wasn't above having fun at his expense, but that last sentence caused Boney's nerves to bristle with indignation.

'Why would Major Mort have a problem with vulgarity from me in particular?'

Solin paused. His crimson eyes drilled into Boney as if confused that he was being asked such. Eventually, he gave a shrug and spoke his answer in a dry tone. 'He likes it when you skinks stay cute and adorable. Vulgarity ruins that image.' He shrugged a second time. 'So no swearing in front of the crotchety old bastard during the meeting tomorrow.'

Boney felt his teeth grind together at the idea of skinks being seen as lesser than saurus in any way. Adorable? His knuckles popped from the pressure of his fist clenching. Condescending saurus with their naturally powerful builds and obsession with being strong and mighty! Being smaller does not make me adorable!

'Anything else I need to know about the other officers?' he asked once he managed to calm himself down.

Solin tilted his head. 'Major Sharpe will be the chameleon skink in the green uniform. Only skink major not to have been a priest before the Legion—don't try to use that against him. He got his rank on merit; he earned it. He's polite enough that he won't hold you just being given the rank against you, so return that favour. He is not somebody you want having a grudge against you.'

'You make him sound part dwarf.'

Solin chuckled. 'He got a lot of grief early on in his career as a major. There were those that didn't like the idea of somebody not spawned for the purpose of leading in such a position. Mort certainly didn't help.'

'Mort again?'

'Ah,' Solin cut the skink off with a sharp glare and finger lifted in the universal gesture of "stop talking now"—the effect of which had Boney back-pedalling slightly. 'For all his faults, Mort is still one of our best officers and warriors. He didn't earn his position as an Eternity Warden back home by not being good at what he does. And the three regiments under his command are arguably the best we have because of his leadership—he holds them all, even the skinks, to the same standards that he held the guardians under him back home.' He mumbled something under his breath that Boney wasn't able to catch before he then finished with: 'His problem is that he is old enough that he doesn't do well with change for the sake of change.'

Boney was silent as he absorbed that information—adjusted what he knew of Mort. He had been aware that Mort was old, was quite possibly the oldest living saurus spawned of Tiamoxec, but hadn't really considered the effect such a long life might have had.

'Also, don't let my personal biases influence you,' Solin added on after a moment, voice lowered into a serious timbre. 'Like how he and Sharpe don't get along nor do I get along with Mort. Form your own opinion, and even if you decide that outside of combat you loathe his guts, make absolutely certain that while we are in the midst of battle, you treat him like he is your most trusted spawn brother. He is a cantankerous old bastard, but he knows what he is doing.'

Boney acknowledged the warning with a nod. It was a fairly redundant warning, as Boney was already prepared to act as if any problems he might have didn't exist when lives could depend upon the trust between him and his fellows in the field of battle. It wasn't an attitude exclusive to the Legion—as near as Boney could tell, that was a universal trait of their species.

Solin hummed thoughtfully. 'You use the celestial winds in battle?' His tone was muted, almost resigned, but also held a hint of pleasant surprise.

'Yes,' Boney answered with a single nod.

'How powerful a spell can you use if given time and ideal conditions?'

'I once summoned a lightning strike, but I'm not yet practiced enough that I'm willing to try and do that in battle.'

Solin tilted his head, his eyes curved into a smile—though the look was anything but happy, more of a remorseful sadness that he was desperately trying to hide. 'Well, something to look forward to in future. Are you only able to use the celestial winds, or can you...?'

'No, just Azyr. And I'm not good with the divination arts, or I would have spent time as an attendant of Annat'Corri and probably wouldn't have been sent to the Legion for many summers if I was ever.'

'That's fine,' Solin reassured softly, knuckles rubbing at the underside of his jaw. 'Just trying to place you in my mind, how you'll be supporting those under your command. Your predecessor...' He trailed off, the smile in his eyes now completely faded. 'Well, you are your own person. We'll work it out.'

Boney felt something within him resonate at the look which overcame Solin. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, though he couldn't find the words. By the time he had begun to work at stringing together a coherent enough thought that could then be put into words, the moment had passed and Solin's features shifted back into the default calm confidence he typically carried himself with.

'Well, I think that's all for now.' Solin clapped his hands together as if the sound of his palms connecting marked the exact moment that he was done. Somehow, the clap sounded less an energetic exclamation of joy for a job done and more a defeated call for retreat. 'I'll see you tomorrow at the meeting.'

And without giving Boney a chance to speak, Solin straightened his posture and stalked away—leaving the skink blinking at the abrupt departure.

#

It took until the next day before there could actually be an officer's meeting. Once the bulk of the half of the Legion Ingwel had been commanding had caught up, it had taken the better part of the day to set up their own addition to the camp—and time was spent reuniting with friends from other regiments.

Morale was good. It was always a pleasant moment when the Legion was made whole again after a period of separation. Tales were shared about the experiences the others had missed. To go by the recounted tales, it seemed both halves of the Legion had equally interesting experiences—though the half that Solin had been commanding seemed to be unfinished with whatever had begun with them.

So, at noon of the next day, Ingwel finally had a chance for a proper meeting with all the commanding staff. Naturally, it was going to be calm and ordered and... he wasn't even going to try to kid himself.

Ingwel stepped into the tent following behind Mort, who immediately stilled on spotting one of the three already within the large canvas structure. Sharpe was standing in one corner, arms crossed, head bowed—the only sign of his being awake being the movement of his bulging eyes, one of which had fixed itself upon Mort.

Nearby, Major Zakarius—a skink adorned in similar armour to Mort, with the addition of a scarlet cape—was seated on one of the chairs, his cape across his knees while he used a needle to patch a tear. At Mort's entrance, his hand stilled and his eyes roved from the Eternity Warden to Solin, physically bracing himself.

'Oh look,' Mort started instantly, eyes drilling into Solin as the green-hued oldblood turned to take note of who had just entered. 'The mutant yet lives.'

'Oh look—you still have a warhammer stuck firmly up your cloacae,' Solin said with an exaggerated eye-roll, though one of his hands absently rubbed at the top of his head where he lacked the bone crest typical of most saurus of Lustrian origin. He was hardly the only one—it was a fairly common variation for saurus spawned upon the Madrigal Isle, in the same way that the feathered raptor-skinks were. Mostly, the negativity associated with the different spawning had died down, and it had just become an accepted local-specific spawning.

Mort himself had plenty of crestless saurus in his regiments and had never expressed any sign that he saw them as lesser or that they were mutants—but the ongoing distaste Mort and Solin held for each other meant that it was used as a barb on occasion.

Ingwel pre-empted the argument before Mort could so much as open his mouth. 'Children, behave.' Ingwel sighed as he spoke, though his reprimanding gaze was upon Mort rather than Solin—both because he'd instigated and for the mutant comment.

Both gave identical looks of distaste at the marshal for a reason that Ingwel was fully aware would be voiced sooner rather than later. Of the three of them, Ingwel was the youngest. It was Solin who put words to thought, though. '"Children"? I'm older than you.'

Ingwel let out a snort of amusement. 'Yes—you crawled out of the spawning pool two whole minutes before me. Clearly, you needed those two minutes to develop the mental maturity needed to not be a child.'

Ingwel pointedly ignored the muttered comment about how those two minutes had also been needed for the missing crest. Solin clearly caught it—if the dirty look sent at Mort was any indication—though he decided not to take the bait and instead stalked off to Sharpe, who looked like he was sleeping on his feet in his corner of the tent.

Ingwel's eyes rested upon an unfamiliar skink that chose that moment to enter the tent. He took in the clothing and the feathered hat, quickly working out that this was the new major to the Legion. He held out a hand.

'Welcome to the Legion—where apparently my officers are all juveniles.'

He was a little taken aback at how the skink in question flinched away from the offered hand—staring at it with wide eyes before then visibly forcing himself to relax and accept and return the gesture. Ingwel exchanged a confused look with Mort. He vaguely recalled the mention that the major was skittish around saurus, but seeing it firsthand was different from just hearing.

There must be a story behind that. Hope it doesn't affect his ability to lead.

'Major Boney.' The skink's voice was low as he introduced himself.

Ingwel's eyes narrowed in amusement. Seems Solin already cut his name down to size. On the other hand, Mort tilted his head with an air of bafflement.

'"Boney"? Where did that come from?' the Eternity Warden asked.

Boney shrugged. 'Bonaeaix. The colonel shortened it—it stuck.'

Mort huffed. 'Of course it was Solinaraxl. It's always him.'

'Oh leave it. Most of us actually like the nicknames,' Sharpe hissed at Mort, revealing himself to have been paying attention. The chameleon skink turned to Boney, who looked somewhat taken aback at Sharpe's actions. 'Major Boney—good to meet you. My name is Major Sharpe'tus or just Sharpe. I don't mind which you use. Ignore the antique—Solin is right, he really needs to get that warhammer up his cloacae looked at.'

Mort looked like he'd just swallowed one of the pineapples of Lustria whole and unskinned. His fingers twitched, and he made a slow motion as if picturing himself throttling the chameleon, who stared at him in open challenge. The motion was aborted quickly; the warden's eyes flickered to Boney, whereupon they shifted into a momentary concern—but when Ingwel turned his head to see just what had caught Mort's eye, Boney looked as neutral as he had from the moment he'd shaken Ingwel's hand.

'Major Mort.' Mort introduced himself, then sighed softly. 'Just... call me Mort.'

Surprise flickered across Boney's eyes—those eyes then narrowed into acute annoyance. 'Mort? Oh, I've heard of you.' Boney leaned forward and jabbed a finger into Mort's chest. The saurus blinked in shock, attention cemented to the finger poking against his breastplate. 'We skinks are not adorable!'

There was a pause as his words registered. Then Mort looked at Boney with startled confusion. Meanwhile, Ingwel had to swallow down the guffaw that wanted so desperately to be heard.

'Where did this come from?' Sharpe asked, clearly no less baffled than Mort was—though he also had a streak of irritation when his eyes rested upon Mort, who shook his head in a stupor.

'I don't know?' It came as a question, as if Mort doubted the validity of his own words.

The sound of strangled laughter had Ingwel turn to see that Solin had shoved his own forearm into his mouth in an effort to suppress his laughing. If Solin had been a human, Ingwel had absolutely no doubt that there would be tears streaming from his eyes at how heavily he was trying to laugh around his arm-turned-gag.

Boney missed that detail as he began to launch into a tirade at Mort—apparently having overcome his skittishness in the face of a righteous fury that came from the crime of skinks being labelled as "adorable" by the oldest living Tiamoxec-spawned saurus. Mort, for his part, was very much absolutely mortified at the very idea that he had ever given the impression that he considered skinks to be adorable or anything less than capable, if sneaky, kin.

Sharpe's ire faded as he registered Solin's strangled mirth—the blessing of independently moving eyes. While one eye had glared at Mort, the other had taken notice of the oldblood. His arms crossed over his chest, though he didn't turn—didn't do anything to give away that he had noticed Solin, and instead allowed his own measure of amusement to show as it dawned on him just what had happened.

'Boney,' Mort finally managed to cut across the ranted tirade. 'When did I give you the idea that I think skinks are adorable?'

'Colonel Solin said that you dislike it when we skinks use vulgarity because it stops us from being adorable.'

'That's a laugh,' Sharpe said, with a wry smile in his eyes. 'We spawned with the most vulgar language High Saurian is capable of expressing already in our minds. Ask a skink not to swear? You might as well ask us not to breathe.'

'I never said such...' Mort trailed off and twisted his head, expression shifting into a teeth-bared snarl as Solin finally was unable to hide his amusement any longer. His laughter was loud and true.

Boney also finally realised what had happened and almost matched Mort in the competition of the singularly most angry expression a lizardman's features were capable of—sharp teeth exposed in a manner very indicative of a desire to use them.

'You... you carnosaur-humping bastard!' Boney hissed, fist clenched and being shaken in Solin's direction. 'You utter cloacae-licking shit-mite...' His language rapidly shifted from Reikspiel to a tirade of vulgarity in High Saurian—a tirade which had Sharpe nodding in visible appreciation. Solin didn't seem repentant in the slightest, even when Boney delivered a sharp kick to his shin. If anything, it was fuel to the fire and caused his laughter to double.

This was the scene that Colonel Iycan entered the tent to find. The purple skink blinked, locked eyes with Ingwel, then went on to survey the scene of a skink that he had never seen before swearing up a storm that would make a dark elf blush—the recipient of said tirade unable to stop the most gut-busting laughter that Iycan had ever witnessed from Solin.

'What's all this about?' Iycan asked, absolutely baffled.

Ingwel explained, not hiding his amusement, much to the annoyance of Mort, who momentarily shifted his glare from Solin to the marshal. 'Colonel Solin played a prank on our newest major—which had Major Boney here accusing Mort of calling skinks adorable. Apparently, skinks are not meant to be adorable.'

'To be fair,' Solin managed to say in a momentary lull of laughter, 'he's the one who misinterpreted what I meant when I was saying Mort dislikes vulgarity.'

Iycan tilted his head, registered the words that Ingwel had spoken, and then turned to Boney, who had paused in his stream of profanity at the latest officer's entrance.

'Major... Boney, was it?' Iycan waited just long enough for Boney to nod in acknowledgment. 'I hate to break it to you, but we skinks are adorable—I should know. Accept it and move on. Now, can we all calm down so we can exchange pleasantries and catch up on affairs?'

Ingwel nodded in silent appreciation. With a few words, his right hand had made everybody silent—excepting the few lingering giggles from Solin. Sharpe visibly bristled, apparently disagreeing with Iycan's declaration of skinks being such, but the polite request to move on and start the meeting had him swallow back anything that he might have said.

Solin pulled a bound collection of pages and placed them on the desk, which Ingwel had sat himself behind. After taking a deep breath, presumably to suppress yet more giggling, he pointed a finger at the pages.

'As usual, that's everything I've learnt. Every rumour, every bit of gossip—but the first pages have something more than that. Obviously, I couldn't just check the validity of it, so it's just the word of those who passed through the region, but...' He trailed off, waiting for Ingwel to skim through that first page.

Ingwel narrowed his eyes into a frown as the meaning of the words written down hit him. 'Seven-year winter?' he uttered.

'It would give a reason for the rumours of refugees fleeing Kislev,' Solin commented. 'I've already asked Anten to check it out for us—he's the nearest to Kislev, last I heard.'

Ingwel nodded at the mention of one of the Irregulars—those who operated independently of the Legion, a holdover from back before the Legion came to be. 'He should still be in the northern Badlands doing whatever it is he focuses on there.'

'Dawi-Zharr,' Iycan muttered. 'You can thank him that we know what we do.'

'I'll be sure to pass on my gratitude.' Ingwel steepled his fingers and gave Solin a look. 'I've heard that you picked up a human. One who apparently has you "spooked".'

Mort snorted at the image of Solin being spooked, but it was Boney who answered the unspoken question. 'It was me that found the human.'

Solin hummed, eyes narrowed, any lingering mirth now vacant. 'He claims to be the ward of a count. He was fleeing—the count's guard were pursuing.' At Sharpe's opening mouth, he pre-empted the question that was no doubt about to be asked. 'Not an Elector Count. A minor count who apparently rules a city-state.'

'This ought to be interesting,' Mort huffed.

'He is the ward of the Count of Efror.'

There was a pregnant pause as Solin's words washed over everybody in the tent. Then Mort shook his head. 'Impossible. Efror burnt down. You saw to that.' No accusation to his tone—he was just stating fact. For all that Mort and Solin did not get along; Mort had never expressed any doubt regarding Solin's ability to do his job. That his job had been the razing of a city-state of the Empire was irrelevant in his eyes—Solin had the ability, so had therefore done it.

Boney shook his head in confusion. 'Solin burnt down Efror?'

Solin's tone was rueful, but Ingwel knew his spawn-brother well enough to know that he was hiding his real feelings behind a shield. 'I'd hardly say I was the one to burn Efror—but I was there. A rare moment where we actually got ourselves involved in an internal dispute. Usually, our rule is to avoid taking sides when realms take up arms against their own. Not our place to play kingmaker.'

'Why...?'

It was Iycan who answered the trailed-off question. 'The Empire had just regained a level of unity not seen for a long time. Magnus unified the Empire during the Great War. We were too late to help them at the front—they were already on their way to help Kislev when we entered the Basin—but we helped keep their home safe from opportunists and orcs while the majority of their troops were up north. Afterwards, his successor was trying to keep that unity, but there were those who saw weakness.'

Solin continued from there in a newly bitter tone. 'The city of Efror was such. I suppose the count didn't particularly care for Leopold's efforts. That—or he didn't care for the Elector Count that Efror paid tithe to. The count was a piece of work. Accused Leopold of taking his youngest son hostage—then went and executed his eldest son under the charge of handing his brother to the emperor. We later found the youngest son's body in his keep's cellar.'

Ingwel sighed and recalled everything that Solin had told about the Razing of Efror. Unfortunately, he himself hadn't been there, for he had been getting the majority of the Legion—not that it had been called the Legion back then—ready to begin the move south for the Tilean peninsula. The only one other than Solin that had been involved had been the late Yade-To. Based on what Ingwel had been told and learnt through other sources after the fact… the entire affair had been a mess.

Solin didn't sound any less bitter as he explained further. 'The survivors of their count's madness were few—they couldn't leave the city without being executed for treason, and every day they stayed there was a chance they'd be executed for conspiracy against the count and involvement in the disappearance of the youngest son. The city burnt shortly after I had the regiment with me buy time for those not overtaken by Count Adelbreckt's madness to flee. Leopold himself later had the truth buried—made it sound like a natural disaster had happened so that the city-state of Efror would be lost to time. We were given then the first muskets we ever fielded and the knowledge to craft them as payment both for doing as asked and to keep silent on the affair.'

'At the time, I had Solin accept the job because I was concerned that it was a Chaos corruption at the heart of the matter.' Ingwel shrugged, though he couldn't help but feel anger for the events of the time. 'It hadn't been that long since Magnus had tried to cleanse the Empire of any that might still harbour loyalty to the gods of Chaos, and we knew that no matter what, he couldn't erase it entirely. So long as desperation exists, there will be a hold for the ruinous forces to corrupt. Take a self-styled king and his madness—it sounded like something Tzeentch would have enacted.'

Boney hissed an expletive in Saurian. 'So when Solin heard that the Efror Guard had been hunting for the ward of the Count of Efror?'

'I got into a fight with Count Adelbreckt back then,' Solin admitted. 'He actually bested me one-on-one. Second closest I ever got to be being killed. Adelbreckt personally trained his guard before his madness took hold. I wasn't fond of the idea that they're still around.'

Mort, who had been standing with crossed arms and head bowed, finally looked up. 'How does a count for a no-longer existent city happen?'

It was Iycan who answered. 'Through the family line never ending.' At the looks from all the others in the tent, he gave a slight shrug. 'We know that Count Adelbreckt killed his eldest and his youngest was found dead. We know that his wife died giving birth to a daughter who failed to survive her first season. But we never actually checked whether he had any other family—siblings, another child in between eldest and youngest, or even just a cousin. They inherit the title that they use, despite no longer having the land associated with it—maybe out of pride, maybe out of ambition.'

Solin huffed out a sarcastic laugh. 'Fantastic.'

Iycan hummed thoughtfully. 'I will look into it after we're done here. Since we're at Middenheim, I can make use of the resources in the city.'

'You sure?' Ingwel asked.

Iycan gave a shrug with one shoulder. 'I need to check up on my contacts within the city anyway. Always good to remind them that I yet live and that it wasn't a successor sending them the odd missive.'

'So has the human given a reason for why he is fleeing the Efror Guard?' Sharpe asked.

'No—since my priority was escorting the Cathay merchant caravan here where we would then meet up. Didn't want to potentially commit to a contract I couldn't fulfil. Not that he looked to hire us outside of asking to accompany us to Middenheim. I think he wants to get an audience with the Grand Duke.'

Ingwel silently mused that Solin had likely been avoiding this human and the memories associated with his claims and as such hadn't pushed—using that same reasoning he'd just recited to convince himself not to get involved.

Iycan, on the other hand, perked up. 'Well, no reason I can't help him with that.' He didn't mention why he would want to, but again Ingwel—having lived and fought beside the purple skink for the centuries that the Legion had existed under one name or another—could make a good guess as to the reasoning. By being the one to get this human an audience, he'd get to listen in and learn the details.

The Legion had certainly encouraged those serving within to be nosy busybodies—unable to mind their own business. When the preferred fee for services was information, it was inevitable that it would foster such a mentality.

'I see no reason why not if you were already planning on going into the city yourself,' Ingwel conceded.

With those words, that plan was set. It hurt nobody—there was nothing to lose but time that was already being spent. So with that done, Ingwel turned to look at Boney again.

'So, Major Boney. I'm sure you're sick of it by now, but tell us about yourself. I am interested in learning about the new major I have under my command.'

Boney looked put off at the request, but after a momentary silence, he began to answer the questions suddenly levied at him from all corners of the tent.

#

Iycan straightened his coat as he approached Fenchel, one eye immediately appraising the human. They didn't mention he wasn't yet adult. He swallowed the annoyance at the realisation and then the annoyance that was self-directed at recalling that Solin wouldn't have been in the frame of mind to think to discern the age of the human while Boney wouldn't have the experience to know. By Iycan's reckoning, this Robert Fenchel was maybe seventeen summers of age.

A brunette that was not yet old enough to need to shave his barely existent face-hair. Clothing was better quality than a peasant's while not outwardly appearing to be of noble's quality. It was at that in-between point that was usually worn by those either under the employ of nobles, those working with the salary afforded to imperial state-troops, and nobles who were trying to not look like nobles but weren't willing to go all the way and wear threadbare peasantry garb. Really, though, the coat was the biggest giveaway. If it hadn't been so worn down, it would have been a bright red warning flag about his not being a peasant. Not even the state-troops could afford themselves coats with silk lining. The fact it was a coat and not a cloak was itself a big tell—for cloaks were easier to produce and far cheaper than an overcoat—though as time passed, it was becoming less of one.

He had hidden the lining well—the coat was securely fastened about his torso, but he'd made a mistake in rolling up the sleeves.

'Robert Fenchel?' he called out as a question, despite the fact he knew the answer. It always seemed to set humans at ease if they weren't immediately recognised by strangers, but add a questioning lilt to the name, and they assumed that there was uncertainty, and that comforted them.

'That's me.' He answered with what was supposed to be an authoritative tone, but his voice had the squeak to it that seemed to ail all human males yet to hit twenty summers. Once his body finished doing whatever it was that caused human boys to have squeaky voices, then and only then would that authoritative tone actually sound remotely authoritative.

Iycan politely ignored the squeak that was supposed to be the word "me" and neared the human. 'My name is Colonel Iycan. I'm going to be getting you an audience with a member of Todbringer's court.'

'Not Grand Duke Todbringer himself?' Thankfully the question wasn't in a whining tone. It seemed that this young ward of a count was versed enough in the real world and the politics therein to understand that it wasn't a sure thing to get a meeting with one of the twelve most powerful men in the Empire.

Iycan slanted his eyes into a grin. 'I don't have that power, but the one I can get a meeting with does have his ear, so if he deems it essential, he can pass on your message. Who knows, maybe then you'll get to meet the grand ol' duke.'

Fenchel hid a smile behind his hand while he examined Iycan with a critical gaze that didn't feel very impactful. 'Are you certain you can enter Middenheim?'

Iycan's grin widened—not that the human could tell. 'I have my ways.' As he spoke, he pulled at his flat cap, tugged it forward so that it came down and almost covered his eyes. If he had been human, his eyes would have been mostly covered instead of almost. He then absently reached behind his neck and pulled up the hood of his coat.

Fenchel's brows rose in bemusement. 'If you were human, that would certainly hide your face, but your... snout... is still sticking out, as is your tail. And your feet are decidedly non-human.'

'Spend much time examining people's feet?' Iycan asked with naked amusement.

Fenchel opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, thought about his answer, and then finally re-opened it. 'Well, no. But that doesn't invalidate my previous points about your snout and tail.'

Iycan chuckled while drawing in the Aethyr that saturated the air—then snapped his fingers. Fenchel blinked, slightly taken aback, and his face went through a myriad of expressions as he looked at Iycan.

'Ah, oh, that's... that's weird,' he uttered, face scrunching up. 'It's like I can see you but also see somebody else. Somebody human.'

'That's because you were aware of me as I cast the illusion. To anybody else, I now look like a human. Still think I can't get into Middenheim?'

Out of curiosity, Iycan looked around the camp for any reflective surfaces to see just what the illusion had put him as. An unpainted shield belonging to one of Mort's lot had Iycan humming appreciatively. The illusion was definitely human—it had given him an extra half a foot of height, a large beaked nose, and a mop of thick curly hair barely peaked out from under his cap was visible beneath the shadow cast by his coat's hood. The eyes were a little strange; the illusion seemed all too eager to have them bulge out at the barest hint of amusement. Coupled with the toothy grin… Iycan liked this illusion and resolved to remember this one.

Fenchel's expression became one of wariness; eyes rested suspiciously upon Iycan. 'Wizards are capable of such?'

'Some. Not all.' Iycan's illusionary self grinned a smile full of pearly whites.

The human leaned back, expression tightening with a clear nervousness. 'What keeps most wizards from being capable of casting such spells?'

'With humans? Typically a preference for the flashier spells. What screams power to you? Laughing like a madman as you bring down a rain of fire, or the ability to walk alongside your enemies while they are incapable of recognising you?'

'Well, the fire. But surely the ability to do one doesn't preclude the other?'

'Ah.' Iycan's grin widened further, and the illusion's eyes widened until it looked as though his orbs were soon to fall from the sockets. 'Except you humans are taught not to. I believe it is one of the strictest rules that your colleges of magic impart upon those learning within their halls. Well, that and to not do necromancy unless you plan a state-assisted suicide.'

'I'm pretty certain they don't word it like that,' Fenchel argued.

'Maybe not. Now, shall we be off?'

Fenchel nodded, though his expression was still uncertain at the revelation that Iycan was an illusionist. Humans—so funny with their hang-ups.

Getting into the city was uneventful. Iycan had long since mastered the basics of not only entering into one of the oldest and greatest of the Empire's cities but also knowing how to avoid getting caught up in questioning from the guardsmen—whether those guardsmen were legitimately looking to catch criminals or just looking to shake-up what they perceived as an easy mark. Unfortunately, Fenchel had all the hallmarks of being one of those supposed easy marks for extortion, so instead of the far quicker and considerably more convenient chair lift, they had been forced to take the longer route along the viaducts.

Not that Iycan was worried for himself; he could easily vanish, and the guards would struggle to recall that he had ever been there to begin with. But getting Fenchel out of such a situation would have been considerably more difficult without unintentionally exposing himself as a mage. That would then be a slippery slope wherein state-sanctioned wizards would be called in, and if any were to see through his illusion and compulsion, it would be they. One dispel cast at him, and there would be trouble, of the sort that Iycan was uninterested in indulging in. He was not as young as he used to be, and as a skink, he didn't have that agelessness that benefited his saurus kin. He had a limit, even with his affinity with the Winds extending his longevity, and while he was still a fair ways from reaching that limit, time had prodded him often enough now to not play games with the humans without necessity anymore. Were he not so gifted in the arcane, he would have passed of old age by now.

It was a pity that the Cathayan merchants that Solin had escorted weren't actually entering into the city proper. They had only used Middenheim as a checkpoint for their travel back east—it would have made getting into the city far more convenient if they could just enter as a part of their caravan. Instead, it was a long uphill walk.

Hope the human doesn't mind the exercise. He felt his illusion grin again. He'd never worked out if the expressiveness of his illusions came of the fact that he himself had no practice in moderating his facial language or if it was some flaw in his weaving the illusion that he had never fixed—it was always all or nothing; the illusion would be expressive or a dead-eyed, blankly stoic carving. Experience had taught that being overly expressive was less suspicious.

Middenheim was, as always, cloying with the scent of smog—a thick miasma that few human cities could rival. Some called it the smell of progress. Iycan disagreed—it was a necessary evil the humans of the Empire had to endure if they wanted to continue to be able to stand up to the forces of Chaos through their triad of faith, steel, and gunpowder, but it wasn't a pleasant smell; certainly wasn't the smell of progress.

All told, however, it didn't look like much had changed in the half-century since he had last set foot within the walls of Middenheim. Outwardly, it still felt more like a fortress that happened to be a city than a city which had grown over time. But outward appearances were often deceiving, and Middenheim was no different. For all that it had looked the part of a fortress, there was a culture within those mighty walls—the sort of culture that only a vast city with a true sense of history was capable.

'Now what?' Fenchel asked once they were inside the actual city, eyes darting this way and that in a manner which revealed that the young human had never been within Middenheim's walls before. 'We just walk up to the palace of Grand Duke Todbringer and knock on the door?'

'Of course not.' Iycan adopted a mock-offended tone—was vaguely aware of his illusion shifting to an expression which matched his tone. In actuality, he was mildly annoyed at the question and re-evaluated his earlier estimation that Fenchel understood real-world politics. Nobody just walked up to the door of the ruler of any sized domain and expected entrance. Besides which: 'The hour is late; we wouldn't get in until tomorrow even if I'd already had a chance to talk to my friend in court.'

Fenchel's face twisted in annoyance at the delay but visibly inhaled deeply and squared his shoulders. 'Very well, in that case, we will need to book an inn for the night.'

Iycan grinned toothily, barely acknowledging the jolt as he was bumped into by a random passer-by. 'Indeed.' He patted at his frockcoat's pockets. 'Don't worry; I'll pay. My treat.'

Fenchel opened his mouth, stilled—which left him gaping like he was trying to catch flies—then peered back down the way they'd come from, eyes visibly scanning for something. When he was unable to find whatever he sought after he deflated and gave Iycan a suspicious look. 'You certain you can afford two rooms?'

'No need for two.' Iycan waved aside the question and pressed eight silver shillings into the human's hand. 'I'll make do. Best inn for the money is the Brass Crown—take that left, keep going until you pass the pottery stall, turn right, and it'll be just there.'

Once the human had disappeared following the instructions given, Iycan turned and stalked the streets in the opposite direction—following a path he had long since remembered, barely needed to pay any attention. Sidestepped a human with a determined gait and speed enough to bowl anybody unfortunate enough to be in his path to the ground, circled a young man who failed to properly hide that he was a pickpocket at work—slapped said thief's hand aside when they attempted to focus on him regardless of the respectable distance—and dropped a silver shilling into a homeless individual's lap.

He stopped at his destination, a public house, though the term wasn't so accurate with this particular building. From the open windows, Iycan could smell food well cooked and, if the scent was clue enough, a delight to the tongue. But the level of quality that the food being served also meant that only those of wealth would be able to enter through that door. This was a public house that catered to the wealthy and the elite.

Without a care for any of the social rules that dictated where he should and should not enter, Iycan walked through the door. Immediately, he was greeted by a tall man—clean-shaven and hair shorn in that way that all worker-class individuals had. But his clothing was of good quality silks and cottons.

'I'm meeting somebody,' Iycan pre-empted the greeter, holding up a pair of gold guilders.

The greeter hesitated at the sight of the two coins, then reached out and accepted them and backed away. 'Very good, sir.'

The inside smelt even better than the outside, no longer tainted by the odour of the city itself—but Iycan wasn't here for the food. There were a handful of tables, all occupied by those that were very clearly of noble birth and used to a life of wealth. His eye immediately centred upon one particular table which only held one person—even by the standards of the other patrons of the public house, this was a man of power and wealth, his clothing fine, looked almost as though they had never been worn before that day. Iycan stalked forward.

The moustached human stilled when Iycan sat himself opposite him. His grey eyes lifted from the heated brew he had been about to drink, one eyebrow twitching while his lips tugged downward.

'Can I help you?' he asked with forced politeness.

'I need a reason to visit Otwin?' Iycan asked, completely relaxed.

Otwin's brow creased, but his posture relaxed. 'Iycan, I take it?'

'What gave it away?' Iycan asked, curious.

'You are the only person that calls me by that name.' Otwin took a sip from his drink. 'What are you after?'

'I have need of an audience with the graf's court. I would also like to spend some time in the library.'

'Since when do you attend court?' Otwin glowered.

The human didn't ask about the fact that Iycan wanted to use the library within the Graf's Palace—in the two decades that the human had acted as a source of knowledge for the skink as payment for a debt, he had no doubt long ago come to realise that Iycan's first and only priority with using him was about information. It was only the fact that the information that was sought had never been to the detriment of the Empire or Middenland that Otwin had continued to do so, debt or no. But an effort to actually get an audience was a new one.

'It's not for me, though I would very much like to be present.' Iycan leaned back, tilted his head to peer around the large dining hall. 'It is for a young man that claims to be the ward of a count to a city that no longer exists.'

Otwin didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took the time to carefully cut a chunk of the meat on his plate—by the smell, it was a roasted elk—and slowly lifted that chunk to his mouth and chewed at such a slow pace that it could only be deliberate. There was savouring the flavour, and then there was chewing even after all flavour had been removed and all that was left was mulch.

He finally spoke quietly, as though afraid of being overheard. 'I can't get you an audience with Graf Todbringer himself. But one of his trusted attendants, one with authority and his ear if need be? That I can do.'

'And the library?' Iycan pressed.

Otwin hesitated, which had Iycan's eyes narrow in contemplation. Both previous times that Iycan had asked for access to the library, it had been granted almost without hesitation. Something is different. What?

'What are you looking for in there?' Otwin asked.

'Genealogy records,' Iycan answered swiftly and—more importantly—honestly.

'Ulric-damnit, fine, I can get you into the library, but mind yourself in there.'

'What happened?'

'I don't know the full details, but it was broken into a while back. Something was stolen from the vault, but I don't know what.'

Interesting. Iycan mused on that little titbit for a moment, then filed it away into a corner of his mind for later contemplation. The vault was not an easy place to get to—it wasn't meant to be accessible for any but the highest authorities of the Colleges of Magic, second only to vaults of Altdorf in terms of security. The vaults contained only magical items, the type that could potentially cause problems if in the wrong hands.

'Well, I don't need anything but mundane genealogy records going back a century.' Iycan finally reassured the human, who gave a light huff of bemusement.

'You and your friend? Come to the palace gates in the morning; I'll get you your audience.'

Iycan's illusion beamed a wide toothy grin, and he held out a hand. 'Excellent. I'll meet you then.'

Otwin accepted the offer, though his grimace wasn't disguised. Once they had shaken hands, Iycan picked himself up and left with a quiet, 'Enjoy the rest of your meal.'

#

The next morning, Otwin was good to his word. He took one look at Iycan and Fenchel and escorted them into the Graf's Palace, navigating the corridors until he stopped at a large double door.

'You'll be meeting in here. Step through the doors and wait. Do not leave until given leave to do so.'

Iycan nodded his understanding with his hand clamped to Fenchel's shoulder to gently guide the younger human through the doors. The chamber was large and circular—with a table dominating the centre of the room. The top of the table was painted to look like a map of the Reik Basin, the Empire, and all provinces clearly marked out. And Marienburg was marked as an ugly brown blemish, an indication of their independence and just what the artist felt about that detail—a deliberate scar upon the otherwise amazing artwork.

'That table must have cost more than most people see in a lifetime,' Fenchel mused aloud, also eying the table. 'The level of detail is amazing.'

'Thank you,' a rich, powerful voice boomed out. 'It was commissioned seventy years ago. I do not recall the name of the artist.'

From the opposite side of the chamber, a new figure emerged from an archway that had been hidden by a tapestry. He was tall for a human, broad-shouldered, and his arms were akin to the trunks of trees. But the belly bulging past his belt line marked him either as a former warrior or as someone who had never been a warrior but was gifted with a naturally hulking stature. His blond curly hair was surprisingly short for one of noble status—only just reaching his shoulders. But his moustache was vast, well-groomed, and dominated his face, almost hiding his eyes with how high it curled up. His garb was that of a member of Todbringer's court, Middenland colouring on proud display alongside the wolf of Ulric.

'Lord Elric Rauscher,' the human introduced himself with a mild smile that conveyed no true hospitality. 'I am told you wish to speak with a member of the court?'

Iycan tilted his head toward Fenchel, who coughed nervously into his fist. 'Lord Rauscher. My name is Robert Fenchel, ward of the Count of Efror.'

'Ah yes, the count of a city that hasn't existed in over a century.' Rauscher's tone was level, giving nothing away about his thoughts. But to Iycan, who was used to reading body language far subtler than humans were typically capable of, he read the sarcastic annoyance quite well.

'The city was never rebuilt, but the land where it used to be is now home to a large number of farms—the county of Efror still lives in that way, though not under that name.' Fenchel shook his head adamantly. 'It is how the count makes his income—taxing those lands that are still his by right of birth.'

Rauscher blinked slowly. 'Truly? Fine, I will hear what you have to say.' There was something to his tone such that Iycan felt his spine straighten at the subtle timbre hidden within those words. It wasn't a threat, but there was something hidden, unspoken.

'My lord, I come to beseech the Grand Duke of Middenland for aid. The count of Efror is... he is being controlled by a dark wizard. He is no longer sound of mind.'

Rauscher barked a single laugh. 'Really now? What makes you suggest such a thing?'

'Five months ago, the count hired a new chaplain. Not even days later, the count started to behave differently. The chaplain claimed that he had fallen ill, and most believed him. But he showed no sign of illness until the chaplain was hired.'

'That could easily have been a coincidence,' Rauscher pointed out, though his eyes narrowed, and his tone wasn't dismissive—he was simply pointing out a possibility beyond "rogue wizard." It was probably for the better that the man was questioning and offering alternative explanations—there were enough tales of overzealous witch-hunters about.

'Other than the change in his personality, he showed no other symptoms. It wasn't a pox or flu; he was never quarantined, and nobody else came down with any illness. Then the count started to waste away. The timing coincided with a decree that I mustn't leave the keep. I... even at the time, I had no cause to believe that it was anything other than illness that had taken the count.'

'Something changed your mind?'

'The chaplain broke into my chambers in the dead of night, tried to drag me away. When I resisted, a courtier stumbled across the scene. The chaplain killed him. He… wasted away before my eyes—flesh decayed, and his bones turned to dust as if he had aged a thousand years before me.' Fenchel hesitated, eyes blank as his mind decided to take him back to that moment—forced him to relive the event.

Iycan crossed his arms, listening intently to the tale being given.

After twenty seconds, Fenchel physically shook himself from his stupor. 'I managed to free myself by stabbing a knife into the chaplain's neck. He didn't die from the injury, however. When I called for help, it wasn't any of the count's guard who came but... empty suits of armour—those that were used for decoration. The chaplain ordered them to restrain me. I fled by leaping from the window. I tried to get help, but the Efror Guard were told I had gone mad and assaulted the chaplain. I had no choice but to flee.'

'You were found closer to Marienburg than Middenheim,' Iycan spoke up for the first time, recalling the report as given by Solin and Boney. It might have been over a century ago, but he did recall that from where Efror had been, to go to Marienburg, one would have to pass close to Middenheim.

'I had an uncle in Marienburg—my first thought was to go to him for aid. But when I got to the city, I learnt that he and his sons had been hung by the neck, sentenced for crimes of treason.' Fenchel's voice wobbled—the fingers of his right hand encircled his left wrist and clamped down tightly enough that his left hand went pale from lack of blood. 'When I tried to look into it, I learnt that there had been no hearing, no chance of evidence being shown. One day they were dragged from their home; the next, they were at the gallows. I was then forced to flee when somebody let out my relation to them. I can only hope that his daughter and my aunt managed to escape—neither were at the gallows at the time I escaped the city.'

Rauscher nodded in consideration. 'Your uncle—would he be the banker that was supposedly hung for collaboration with Graf Todbringer?'

Oh? That was interesting and must have happened before Solin had arrived in Marienburg, for he had not mentioned such an event. Either that or it had happened moments after he had left.

Fenchel nodded, swallowing down a large lump that was clearly forming in his throat. 'Yes, that was the treasonous crime he was accused of. But the fact his sons, one of whom was only nine years of age... that was... was...' he stumbled over his words—the fingers encircling his wrist began to twist as if trying to cause himself pain. 'I do not know if that was just coincidental timing or no, but without family to turn to, I had no recourse but to turn and hope that Grand Duke Todbringer would hear my plea for help.'

'What Fenchel hasn't mentioned is the undead that have made an appearance,' Iycan informed Rauscher. 'That could also be a coincidence of timing, but one of my subordinates stumbled across the farm where Fenchel was taking refuge being attacked by undead.'

'It was the skaven that fo-'

'There is no such thing,' Iycan cut off the young human, tone bland—his only indication of annoyance at the official stance of the Empire regarding the oversized rodents. 'You were kidnapped by strangely rat-shaped beastmen.'

As he spoke, Iycan gave Fenchel a stern look and nodded at Rauscher, who had straightened at the word "skaven." The lord relaxed his posture and nodded back in quiet appreciation.

'And are you going to suggest that the mutants were working with the undead?' Iycan asked after a pregnant pause.

'No, they were hired by Captain Sigismund to track me down if I understood the exchange properly.'

'So undead make an appearance along the Middenheim Road, attacking villages and farms—the timing coinciding with you fleeing an evil wizard who has apparently addled your count's mind, and your uncle is executed for treason.' Iycan recounted what he knew quickly for the lord's benefit. 'Understand why I'm bringing them up. Misfortune is following you—apparently has been since you escaped in the dead of night. Somebody wants you.'

Rauscher turned his attention squarely to Iycan. 'I'm sorry, who were you again?' he asked after a moment.

'Ah, forgive me,' Iycan gave a toothy grin. 'I am Colonel Iycan'ceya of the Outland Legion. It was my colleague's subordinate that stumbled across young Fenchel here as well as the undead.'

'Ah, the "Outland Legion,"' Rauscher repeated the name. 'That would be the four thousand some "mercenary" Lustrians outside the city, yes?'

'We're not Lustrian,' Iycan replied mildly, not sharing the same annoyance others in the Legion felt at the mistake. 'We're considered Madrigalian. It's a similar difference to… you of the Reik Basin and those of Cathay, I suppose would be the simple way of putting it.'

Rauscher mouthed the word "Madrigalian" with a look of blank confusion, then shrugged as he apparently deemed his previous thoughts unimportant. 'You aren't the first to mention the undead along the Middenheim Road. At this point, half of the settlements between Marienburg and the Wouduin Tollstation have been ravaged by the undead.'

Iycan grunted in acknowledgement. 'And every village and farm caught up in their tide is more to their numbers.'

Fenchel's face twisted. 'You think that they were looking for me?'

'It is... a possibility,' Iycan admitted. 'But we can't really be certain. It's conjecture.'

Rauscher nodded his head thoughtfully. 'I will bring this up to the graf. But I wouldn't get your hopes up on seeing assistance with your Count Feyerabend any time soon.' He tapped his finger on the tabletop at the point where the Middenheim Road lay on the painted map. 'The undead represent a clear and present threat and have now caused enough damage that Graf Todbringer has to act now if he doesn't want to chance a shortage of food this winter—what with the number of farms being caught in the tide.'

'I understand. I would like to request sanctuary until such a time as the Grand Duke believes that it is safe for me to leave the city.'

Rauscher nodded. 'I will bring your request to him. I ask that you wait in here until I have an answer.' He then turned to Iycan. 'I understand you wish to... peruse... our library?'

Iycan nodded once. 'Nothing sensitive.'

'The guard outside the door has been instructed to escort you.' Rauscher then whirled around and started to stalk toward the hidden archway. 'Gentlemen, we shall reconvene in two hours.'

'Do you think my request will be granted?' Fenchel asked. His tone was fairly despondent.

'I am reasonably certain that you will indeed be granted asylum for a time,' Iycan answered, already moving toward the door. 'As for aid with your count—all he has is your word, the word of a ward to a count that claims ownership to land where once a city stood. If—and that is a terribly large "if"—he does decide to investigate your count, it won't be for some time.'

He turned away from the crestfallen look that passed Fenchel's face, focused instead on opening the door and being escorted to the library.

#

The library of the Graf's Palace was a vast chamber that had that musky smell of aged parchment, scrolls, and books carefully filed away. It was hardly the library of Altdorf or Nuln, with its archives of designs and schematics and even the failed works for record, but it held its own special level of impressiveness. While parchment was inferior to carving words onto tablets of gold, and no amount of time spent with the young races would ever dissuade Iycan of that opinion, it was certainly a more convenient method of recording history. With the sheer number of tomes and scrolls sorted away in this one chamber, Iycan wouldn't have been surprised to learn that somewhere within there were the original records of the time that Sigmar walked the Basin in a mission to unite the tribes within.

However, Iycan had limited time and a set goal, so his curiosity about the oldest of the records would have to wait. Besides which, he told himself sternly, records that old would be in vaults and lockboxes hidden from idle eyes.

It took a while for him to find the thick tome that he sought, a record of family lines for those Middenlander nobles born and raised. All a matter of public record, though permission was still technically required to search through such records. There was always a level of care to be taken with such dated archives, though unlike some realms, Iycan didn't think the Empire had a problem with the nobility bloodlines thinning through inbreeding.

He carefully placed the tome upon the nearby table and then carefully balanced a pair of spectacles atop his snout, just far enough from his eyes that they did the job. To anybody else looking, they were perched upon his nose almost directly before his eyes.

Even with the glass lenses, he still had to focus his aging eyes on the inked pages. Curse of age, smaller details were getting blurrier and blurrier with every passing summer.

He was half an hour into his investigations when somebody sat opposite him. He tried to ignore the presence, but the vibrations to his nerves eventually had him look up at the false smile of an eccentrically dressed individual. His hair with a vibrant bright orange and waved in an invisible wind in such a way as to look as though it were a flame ablaze.

'Well hello there,' the bright wizard beamed. 'Now what brings a man with an illusion to this library?'

Iycan repressed a sigh and leaned back. 'Just catching up on my reading,' he said.

'And the illusion?'

'I'd prefer not causing a scene,' Iycan said as both answer and warning.

'See now, I get a little concerned when I see an individual wandering around under an illusion with a compulsion weaved into it.' As the wizard spoke, Iycan could see that the human's eyes kept drifting before then having to forcibly return to the skink. 'It's very clever. Hide your appearance, just in case somebody is able to fight against the compulsion to not notice you. Mind, it is getting easier as you speak back to me.'

'Yes, that is the point, so that I can actually talk to people without them forgetting that I'm there.' Iycan's illusion grinned in self-inflicted humour at the memory of when that had happened.

'Now, who would have cause to hide their appearance under an illusion I wonder. Maybe a mutant of some variety, some Chaos begot spawn looking to disrupt my city.'

'Or maybe,' Iycan began, the illusion grin turning predatory. 'I'm just trying to mind my own business. Do you have witchsight, by chance?'

'Yes,' the bright wizard answered curtly, almost offended at the question.

'Maybe try using it for more than noticing that I'm under a glamour.'

The wizard scoffed, but his eyes narrowed and Iycan sensed the man's arcane sense heighten. And then the bright wizard went stock still, eyes fixed upon the disguised skink's palm, pointed at him. To the witchsight, that palm was glowing with a spell prepared and ready to cause damage. The wizard probably couldn't identify the spell in question; it used a different Wind from his own vocation, but he didn't need to know the specifics to identify the risk potential, especially not when it was already pointed at him and above all else readied.

'Do anything to draw attention where it isn't wanted, try to rip my illusion from me, or do anything against me, and I tear from you every thought that you ever had, and every thought that you ever will have, so all that remains is a drooling soiled mess on the floor blubbering without a care. I will then walk away and nobody will even realise until the librarian finds you in the evening. Do we have an understanding?'

The bright wizard nodded jerkily, eyes still fixed upon the palm channelling the winds of Ulgu that remained pointed at him.

'Very good. Now, what brings a bright wizard to a library harassing innocent researchers?'

The bright wizard swallowed. 'Guarding the vault, noticed you and your glamour.'

'Right, it was broken into.' Iycan recalled vaguely. 'Must have been something important.' His tone made it clear he wanted an answer as to what it was that had been in the vault.

'It was a tome. Name... erm...' The wizard swallowed again. 'Can't recall the name, but it was a tome that told everything that ever was and ever will be, but was cursed. A light wizard broke in, had been disturbed in the head and constantly rambling about all the threats to the Empire, apparently sought the tome to find a way to vanquish those threats.'

'So you know who stole it,' Iycan mused aloud, though he still didn't relax. 'Why so paranoid then?'

'We know who broke in. We don't know where the tome is. He...' Another swallow. 'His body was left in the vault. I saw the body myself, I wouldn't wish that anybody. But the tome is gone.'

Iycan's eyes narrowed. 'What was the curse? A tome like that, curse must be terrible if it isn't being regardless.'

'I... I think it was a geas, it forced the owner to never use it for their own gain.'

Iycan chuckled harshly. 'That sounds like Tzeentchian humour at its worst.' He ignored the flinch as he spoke the name of the supposed Changer of Ways, and then clenched his fist, unconsciously dismissing the Ulgu energies. 'Ok, thank you for that very informative session.'

The wizard relaxed at the threat being removed, but only marginally, he was clearly clever enough to realise that Iycan was still capable of defending himself without making a show of what he was doing. Unfortunately for the wizard, he had been so intent on the open threat that he failed to notice that Iycan's other hand had channelled those same energies of Ulgu until they were abruptly released. The wizard blinked rapidly, then looked at Iycan and blinked again, one hand clutching at his head as the inevitable migraine hit.

'I'm sorry, who... I... must have a dizzy spell, I can't even remember sitting down.'

'That's quite alright.' Iycan grinned in a friendly manner. 'You must not have gotten enough sleep last night. Drink plenty of water as that should help the pain.'

'Yes... yes...' the wizard continued to blink rapidly as the light agitated the migraine that was a side-effect of having his memories of the past few minutes forcibly removed. 'That is...' The wizard stood and stumbled away; to any outside observer, it looked like the wizard was suffering quite the hang-over. Once the wizard was gone, Iycan heaved out a deep breath, rubbing at his arms in an effort to regain feeling in his arms, which had gone numb from using that particular spell.

At that point, one of the palace guards walked up to the table. 'Lord Rauscher wants you back in the conference chamber.'

Iycan carefully closed the genealogy tome, having fortunately found what he had wanted before the wizard's interruption. 'Very good. Lead the way.'

#

'Graf Todbringer is unable to lend you any assistance regarding Count Norbert von Feyerabend of Efror.' Lord Rauscher had the decency to sound sorry, that was more than some people would give. 'Unfortunately, as I predicted, his priority right now is on sending men to root out the undead along the Middenheim Road.'

Fenchel sighed, hunched forward and looking almost as though he wanted to hurl.

'However, there is a solution to that problem.'

Fenchel looked up sharply, clearly interested. Iycan hummed thoughtfully, listening with his own interest. The blond lord turned to look at Iycan with a serious look to his eye.

'The Outland Legion. We would like to hire your services.'

'Graf Todbringer wants to hire mercenaries?' Iycan tilted his head, tried to recall if there had ever been a moment in the past where the Elector Count of Middenland had hired dogs of war for any purpose. None came to his mind, but he would admit that he hadn't paid that much attention to who was hiring mercenaries and who wasn't.

'Why not? You have a history with Efror do you not?' The lord smiled thinly, and Iycan worked out that no, it was not Todbringer who was hiring the Legion, but Rauscher himself. Now the question that lingered in the skink's mind was whether this was behind the graf's back, or with silent approval but a distance to avoid being implicated if anything went wrong. 'We do still have records of the original fall of Efror, and how mercenaries from the "Outland Company" had a role in events.'

'What are you hiring us to do specifically?' Iycan asked, mind racing through whether this could possibly be contrary to the Legion's policy of not taking sides in civil disputes. He supposed it might depend on the nature of the job being proposed.

'Investigate young Fenchel's claims of a wizard dominating the mind of the count of farmers. Whilst you are doing that, we would also like you to investigate the farmlands under his domain.' That last was spoken with a new undertone, and the human met Iycan's eyes—actually he was looking slightly above Iycan's eyes, but Iycan was willing to give that a pass as that was where the illusion's eyes sat.

As he spoke, Rauscher unrolled a couple of sheets of parchment and laid them flat upon the table. One was a map while the other was a detailed description of a keep including at least one sketch.

'This is everything we know of Count Feyerabend and his family estate.'

Iycan picked up the report of the estate, impressed enough that felt his brow ridges rise. 'This is detailed. You've already had your eye on the good count, haven't you?'

Rauscher's lip curled downward. 'His entire lineage since the city of Efror was burnt down has been under close scrutiny. Middenheim does not forget crimes against its own. So yes, we do on occasion have a good hard look at the count of farmers.'

Iycan's eyes darted to Fenchel who looked confused. 'Count Feyerabend is descended from the same line?'

Iycan answered. 'He married his only daughter off to a noble family of great wealth but of no real significance otherwise. The family line survived through her, but not the name.'

Fenchel sighed forlornly. 'I see. He once recounted the tale of Count Adelbreckt's madness, now I wonder if weakness of mind is a trait shared with his family line, that a wizard could control him so.'

There was a moment of silence, before Rauscher then spoke up, brow creased and one hand absently pulling at his moustache. 'Maybe so.' Again his tone suggested that he wasn't speaking his thoughts, but this time Iycan had an idea of what those thoughts were.

'Has Graf Todbringer also given thought to Fenchel's request for asylum?' Iycan asked, carefully rolling the parchment and then carefully depositing them within his coat's innards, a silent acceptance of the task given.

'He has.' Rauscher looked again to Fenchel. 'He has offered you lodging within the city, but he also requests you not leave the city walls until such a time as the status of the Count of Efror has been resolved with either his mind declared his own, or freed from control.'

Fenchel nodded rapidly. 'Yes, yes… I can do that. I… I wouldn't want to leave anyway, nowhere left to go with my family dead.'

'Nothing to inherit?' Rauscher asked with a predatory air.

'No. If my uncle were to leave me anything, it is no longer within my reach—the officials of Marienburg have doubtless split all his assets and shared them amongst themselves now.' He didn't sound too bitter as he uttered the words, and what bitterness there was, Iycan got the sense that it was less at not getting what he felt entitled to, and more about not getting to keep any connection he had to his deceased family.'

'I see.' Rauscher's tone remained bland. 'If you could wait here, I will see the colonel off, and then return to sort out your accommodations.'

Fenchel nodded, eyes clouded over as he got lost in his thoughts. Iycan followed after Rauscher as the blond human moved with a swift pace. Once they were two corridors away from the conference chamber, Iycan twisted his head to look at Rauscher.

'What didn't you say, before?'

Rauscher didn't slow his pace, but did look at Iycan from the corner of his eye. 'Those farms that are what the Count of Efror calls his lands? They were the first target of the undead. They don't exist any more. What had the graf send a scouting party to Feyerabend's estate was the lack of response from his so-called Efror Guard. Usually they are quick to involve themselves in protecting the farms from brigands and greenskins, but when the entirety of the county burns to the undead, nothing.'

'So that's why you weren't instantly dismissive of his claims of the count no longer being in control.'

'It gives a reason, it could well be that the necromancer raising the dead is hiding as the personal chaplain of his first target. Who would think to look?'

Iycan swore under his breath. 'And if he is?'

'Kill him, at all cost.' Rauscher grunted. 'By now, if he is addling the mind of the count, who else is now his thrall? You have a history of burning Efror down. Let history repeat if it needs to. End the line of Mad Count Adelbreckt.'

At that point, they'd exited the gate to the palace. Rauscher gave Iycan a significant look, then turned and re-entered the gate, leaving Iycan to do as he will.

With a soft sigh, Iycan carefully patted at his chest, felt the two scrolls and then moved to return to the Legion's camp.

#

Sigismund always felt a mixture of fondness and anxiety when he saw the Feyerabend estate. It was a castle, one that had been built two centuries ago by the first Feyerabend to be titled, and in front of the outer walls lay a small village, where staff who worked within the castle lived. Mostly, that meant the Efror Guard, each generation of Feyerabend hiring less and less serving staff until they had reached the current state of only twenty people living in that village weren't members of the Efror Guard, or related to them.

As Sigismund had gotten older, the village walls had felt more and more akin to a prison, and those moments that he got to leave with the Efror Guard had felt like a relief to overburdened shoulders.

Cruniac frowned, eyes focused not on the castle walls but on the village. 'Where is everybody?'

The question had Sigismund straighten his back and likewise stare at the village. Cruniac was right, the village was barren. It wasn't just the lack of being able to see anybody from the hilltop, but also the absence of the noise that had come to be associated with the village.

There was not a sound unless one counted the soft breeze rustling the grass. Like that, the fondness was overrun by the anxiety. However, Sigismund was a captain of the Efror Guard, and as such he was not going to let an ill at ease feeling deter him.

'Let's go. Maybe the count had them all relocated to inside the castle walls.'

Cruniac looked doubtful, but after only a moment's hesitation, he followed his captain his march toward the ancestral home of the Feyerabend family.

-TBC