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?

10. Assault on Feyerabend - Pt 1

Assault on Feyerabend - Part 1

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The Old World – Feyerabend Family Keep, Middenland

Sigismund knew instantly that something was off. He had walked the corridors of Feyerabend Keep for much of his life, so much that he couldn't remember a time that he wasn't stalking those stone passages. He knew the keep, down to the very air.

There was a chill to the air, and it had naught to do with the approaching autumnal season—marked by the flight of the black cranes on their annual migration to Tilea. This was a chill that seeped through the flesh, sapped the warmth from the blood. There was no physical evidence of such a chill, there was no mist to his breath, there was no shivering, and Sigismund couldn't feel the hairs on his arm rise with the coming of any goose bumps.

But that chill was there, and judging from the look in Cruniac's eye, he felt it too.

As if an unnatural cold wasn't enough, his brow lowered into a glower when he realised that, despite their wearing the uniforms of the Efror Guard, he did not recognise a single man patrolling the barren village or standing to attention within the keep courtyard.

Sigismund was the captain of the guard, he knew each and every man to wear the colours. But these strangers? He had never met them before. He had never seen them before that moment. He hadn't been gone long in his pursuit of Fenchel, months at most. Certainly not time enough for a round of recruitment from what little lands the count held to his name. And not in such numbers. Count Feyerabend wasn't called the "Count of Farmers" by the Middenheim court for no reason—he owned land that was exclusively made up of farmsteads, farms built upon very fertile grounds—fertile enough that the profits of such were enough for the count to maintain the guard, yet never profitable enough that they could upgrade their arms to include handgunners amongst their ranks.

Not that the Efror Guard really needed handgunners, the bulk of their career was chasing off bandits and brigands, with the occasional wandering horde of either greenskins or beastmen. Thus far, for the past century plus change, the Efror Guard had never needed any but the arms and armour that had been used even back when Efror had been the name of a city.

However, short of taking every able-bodied farmer from the count's lands, there was no way that the guard could have gotten such an inflation of new recruits in so short a time. And for all the count's flaws, he was very much aware that he could not compromise his farms and their ability to actually harvest and produce goods.

'I don't like the look in their eyes.' Cruniac's voice was low, barely audible to Sigismund, who was walking right beside him.

Sigismund focused on one of these supposed guardsmen, brow creased. He caught on quickly—there was a blank, almost unfocused look to the man's eyes. No flickering to check the surroundings as he walked, just stared ahead. Didn't even blink, which was something even Sigismund couldn't help but find a touch unsettling.

Another point of concern arose fairly quickly. The village outside the walls of the keep had been deserted, and despite the hopes that it was simply a case of the count moving them into the safety of the walls for whatever reason, it was quickly apparent that there were none within the keep. No children, none of the wives of the staff...

Sigismund's eyes narrowed. And none of the usual staff either. He surreptitiously looked through any open doors as he walked, a flicker of concern rising up. Outside of the guard, the count didn't have that large of a staff, still though, by now at least one or two of the keep's staff should have made an appearance. But by all accounts, it was as though there were none within the keep but these unknown guardsmen.

He noted that down in his mind, to investigate if need be.

At the doors to the main hall, they finally encountered a familiar face, somebody not of the ranks of strangers. Unfortunately, it was Chaplain Fichte. The man grinned, which exposed uneven yellowed teeth. There was an uncomfortable sensation that followed him around, like a foul odour, but one that didn't assault the nose but instead the back of one's eyes, a burning feeling of discomfort. About his neck, he still had the wrappings covering the wound inflicted upon him by Fenchel when the boy first turned mad.

In all honesty, Sigismund wasn't sympathetic to the chaplain and his pain.

'Ah, Captain Sigismund.' Fichte spoke with a voice that was supposed to be friendly, it was recognisably meant to be such, but even before the neck wound, his voice was prone to sounding more like he was whining and simpering than ever actually emoting properly. 'And Sergeant Cruniac, I believe.'

Cruniac leaned back as if pained by the proximity of the chaplain who had stepped into his personal space. 'Chaplain.' He even sounded pained as he uttered the greeting.

'We're here to see the count,' Sigismund said, tone harsher than usual in an effort to skip the trivialities and simply get on with his duty.

'You have caught the little brat?' Fichte asked, eyes widening in manic glee.

'No.'

Fichte's expression twisted into a disgusted scorn. 'Well why are you here? Why are you not out there, catching the monster?'

'The situation has become complicated.' Cruniac spoke with a tone that suggested he was trying to de-escalate the tension that was rapidly rising—Sigismund was well aware that his grip on his sword's pommel was tightening enough that the leather of his gloves was creaking.

Fichte whirled to face Cruniac and jabbed a finger into his chest. 'How complicated can it be to track down and drag some brat back to face justice?'

Cruniac's expression remained bland, though he did raise his eyebrows and looked very pointedly at the finger pressing against his chest—he probably couldn't feel it through the chainmail, but it was still a disrespectful gesture that he was very clearly unimpressed with despite maintaining the stoic front.

Sigismund was tempted to grab that finger and twist at the disrespect afforded to one of his subordinates. Instead, he took a deep breath and spoke despite the question not being directed at him. 'That is for the count's ears.'

'The count's health has worsened in the time you have been away,' Fichte snapped. 'He is in no condition to be hearing excuses for why you have failed in your duties.'

'Isn't one of your duties to maintain his health? So what are your excuses, chaplain?' Sigismund ground out.

'It is only through my efforts that the count yet lives!' Fichte answered with a wounded look to him. The indignant tone he was going for was compromised when his voice squeaked out the final words, like a boy on the cusp of adulthood, voice not yet settled to its final tone.

Cruniac's jaw twitched, but otherwise he managed to hide his amusement. Sigismund felt no need and smirked at the chaplain, whose face twisted into an expression of loathing. Fichte opened his mouth to continue arguing, but the large double doors they were arguing in front of opened from the inside, both doors pulled and held by another pair of the strangers wearing the guard's uniform. But the reason for them pulling open the doors to the hall was quickly made apparent as Count Norbert von Feyerabend was revealed, stood before the now open doors.

Sigismund sucked in a breath at the sight of the count, the same man who had once taken a single look at a child filled with hatred and aimless fury and resolved to teach that child how to harness and tame that rage. Truly the count's health had degraded in the guard's absence. Where before he had departed to hunt down Fenchel to face his crimes, the count had still had a youthful vigour, long chestnut brown hair typically tied into a ponytail, a full beard, and skin yet to be creased by the weathering of time.

This man in front of him? In Sigismund's absence, he had lost the colour to his hair, which was now twisted and matted, ends frayed. His beard was patchy, missing chunks of the facial hair which almost made it look as though he'd gotten into a fight with a pair of shears. And one of his eyes had turned a glassy, milky white, and while the other maintained the previous colour, it was clear that the count was having difficulty focusing his sight—the pupil kept contracting and expanding almost as though somebody were repeatedly waving a torch back and forth in front of his face. And his flesh was wrinkled and worn and gaunt, like he'd aged a century in the span of months and was only still in one piece through sheer stubborn force of will.

'Captain Sigismund,' the count spoke with a slight smile, even as the words sounded as though the man was gasping for breath after a ten-mile sprint.

The worrying part was that Count Feyerabend was once capable of such a feat, had once been more than willing and capable of leading the Efror Guard at their side. But now, either his voice always sounded like that, or the effort of moving from the throne at the other end of the hall to the door had taken everything he had out of him.

'My lord.' Sigismund didn't need to straighten his posture, he never willingly had any posture but that of a straight back, but his heels clicking together and the unconscious hand rising to give the sign of the Wolf conveyed the same meaning, even as Cruniac only needed to stand to attention at the appearance of the count.

'My lord, you should not be on your feet,' Fichte said in his perpetual whimpering tone.

'Nonsense.' Feyerabend waved a hand, gnarled and twisted and covered with dark blemishes. 'I would hear my captain for myself.'

Sigismund didn't turn to look at Fichte with the intention of anything really. He was above such pettiness as to be doing so to give a smug look. If he had to guess, it was simply curiosity to see how the chaplain reacted. Since the chaplain had first arrived at the keep, he could not recall a single instance of Chaplain Fichte being contradicted or ignored by the count.

He was taken aback at the pure hatred that painted the other man's face for but a heartbeat before it was reigned in, hidden behind a mask of polite deference, quickly enough that it could have easily been dismissed as never having happened, that it was a trick of the light.

But Sigismund knew what he saw.

'Of course, my lord.' Fichte waved his arms in a manner that was equal parts a bow and a silent gesture to enter the hall before him.

'I would speak with my guard alone.' Feyerabend contradicted the chaplain's telegraphed intention to follow the two warriors.

'But my lord,' Fichte whimpered, 'surely you need me there, in case the stress causes another attack.'

'I will be fine with two men I have utmost trust in.' Feyerabend wheezed. 'Do you not have your duties to attend to? You have been putting them aside in favour of assisting me.'

'Your well-being is a part of my duties, my lord.'

'And now you have some spare time to catch up on your other duties.' For a brief moment, the count's good eye managed to maintain a firm focus upon, rested upon Fichte with as much authority as he was able to project in his weakened state.

Fichte seemed to argue internally before he gave a very reluctant nod. 'Very well, my lord. I shall leave you to it, for now.'

His words spoken, the chaplain turned and lumbered down the corridor leading away from the hall and towards the keep's chapel. Feyerabend watched him go and then turned, started to walk down a corridor in the opposite direction, away from the main hall, with a silent expectation for Sigismund and Cruniac to follow. He led the pair to the keep's library, paused only briefly to stare at a couple of the guardsmen patrolling the corridors. The guards gave no indication that they had even noticed. Once both of the warriors had passed through the doorway into the hall, Feyerabend turned and locked the door behind them.

'You see that?' Feyerabend coughed, shaking his head. 'I am surrounded by strangers that seem incapable of thinking.'

'Who are they?' Cruniac asked. 'I don't recognise a one of them.'

Feyerabend coughed again. 'I don't know. Shortly after you left to track down my ward, they appeared. Apparently, the good chaplain hired them to fill a shortage.'

There was a moment of silence wherein the count turned his head to face the general direction of the keep's chapel.

'He thinks me a fool that can't see him for what he is. Would that Robert had managed to kill him before he fled.'

'My lord?' Sigismund felt himself grinding his teeth.

Feyerabend continued on unbidden. 'You think it a surprise? He arrives and my health starts to fail me. The worse my health gets, the more power he has to act in my name, while the one person left that I could name my heir suddenly goes mad and tries to murder him.' More coughing, it was quickly becoming apparent that the mere act of speech was taking up all his stamina. 'Meanwhile, my guard is replaced with these puppets that have no ability to think for themselves. I give it maybe a month before my health keeps me from acting on my own. If that were to happen?'

Sigismund filled in the blank easily enough, and his rage and hatred warmed his body until it felt as though he had fire in place of blood within his veins.

'What of the villagers?' Cruniac asked after a concerned look at the captain.

Feyerabend gave Cruniac a look of confusion. 'What of the villagers?'

'They aren't in the village. We had thought maybe you had relocated them inside the keep walls, but no, we have yet to even see any of your staff.'

Feyerabend's expression twisted, contorted, as if trying to work out just what he was feeling. There was a moment of despair, but it quickly faded into the closest that he could get to a righteous fury in his failing health.

'I do not know. But now I fear the worst. Damn him...' He wheezed out and hunched forward, strength momentarily sapped from him. Sigismund reached forward and caught him before he could fall forward and gently guided the count to the table in the middle of the chamber, pulled out a chair for the count to seat himself upon. 'Thank you, Sigismund. Damn that bastard... But troubles here weren't what had you return before your job was done. What happened?'

Sigismund and Cruniac shared a look between them. While Sigismund couldn't speak for the sergeant, he himself was unwilling to add to any burden that the count was already shouldering.

'Out with it,' the count snapped, for a brief moment sounding like his old and healthy self.

Sigismund exhaled softly. 'We've reason to believe that Fenchel is being hunted by others.'

'What others? It can't be Robert's family in Marienburg; they were executed for treason not long ago.'

Sigismund couldn't help but blink in surprise, a cold feeling washing over him. He couldn't explain the feeling, had barely known that Fenchel had family elsewhere in the Old World.

Cruniac shook his head. 'Undead have been attacking villages along the Middenheim road, but one of their targets was a farm where Fenchel was taking refuge. I'd have said it was happenstance, but for the fact that the undead had to turn from their previous route just to get to there.'

Feyerabend's expression contorted again into absolute unadulterated fury. 'I see.' Then his shoulders sagged. 'Well, I believe that Robert is now untouchable.'

'My lord?' Sigismund asked, confused.

'I just got word from one of my few friends in the Middenheim court, seems that one Robert Fenchel has managed to get refuge within the city. More than that, it sounds like he managed to give a convincing story to somebody with the Graf's ear. There is a free company coming here.'

Sigismund felt a jolt of lightning. 'I shall recall all the guard!'

'No.' Feyerabend uttered the word with strength. 'I doubt they would arrive in time to save us, these mercenaries would have had a head start and they left from Middenheim itself. They'll be here before long. And even then, it would be pointless.'

'My lord, why...?'

The count hunched, wringing his hands. 'Imagine for a second we do fight off this free company, what then? Any suspicions that the Graf of Middenheim might have towards us are confirmed, and next time he sends his state troops instead of hiring a free company. We can't win against the full might of Middenland.'

'So we flee, leave Fichte to his fate. If we could get you to the Graf...'

'Look at me! I am not long for this world. I have a chaplain who has wormed his way into power, you say the villagers are missing, and undead are hunting down the one heir I have, an heir accused of madness by that same chaplain who cares for my health.' Again the count's eyes trailed in the direction of the keep's chapel. 'I would savour my last breath watching as everything collapses about us.'

There was a certain satisfaction in the count's voice at the thought. Sigismund swallowed down the thick wad of phlegm that seemed to form at the idea of willingly letting the count die, willingly letting his keep fall to some band of mercenaries.

'You were always so loyal to me, captain. Go get your men and work to avenge your loss, but I am too late to be saved. As reward for your service, go to the armoury and take my sword as your own. Consider it a parting gift.'

He knew the sword in question. It had once belonged to the Mad Count Adelbrecht before the city of Efror had fallen. It was a magical blade, one that had apparently nearly cost the entirety of Adelbrecht's coffers in the years leading up to the fall.

'You can't-'

'I can and I will. I will not see such a blade go to Fichte, or be taken by some mercenary band as ill-gotten loot.'

Sigismund shook his head, but silently acquiesced. The count was right, a valuable blade like that shouldn't be the spoils of battle, but gifted from one owner to the next. 'I shall go... get the blade.'

He turned, made to leave the library.

'Sergeant Cruniac, stay a moment. I have a task for you and would discuss it.'

Sigismund turned to look at his sergeant, who looked confused. 'Just me, my lord?' Cruniac asked.

'A task for a single entity, not for the guard as a whole. The captain will have his role to play, you shall have yours.'

Cruniac still looked confused, but at Sigismund's nod, he turned to face the count fully.

#

The door to the library shut behind Sigismund, leaving Cruniac with the count, who seemed to wilt in his seat, as if he had been putting all his effort into appearing to have some semblance of strength so long as Sigismund had been able to see him, but now felt no need to maintain the illusion.

For the life of him, Cruniac couldn't work out why he was permitted to see the count in such a state without even an effort to appear strong. He had never spoken to the count without at least three others with him.

Feyerabend's gaze narrowed onto Cruniac, pupil still, and despite the posture, the wheezing breath, there was something predatory about the count. The full extent of his weakness was no longer hidden, but in showing such now he had also done something more: a monster was un-caged.

'Yes, you will do for the time we have.'

Cruniac hid his confusion. Feyerabend seemed to notice it regardless, for a mirthless chuckle left his lips.

'They think to control me. But they made a mistake you see, and Fichte? He picked the wrong one. My body is degrading, slowly withering as a consequence. What he doesn't realise is that his control is weakening as my body slowly breaks down.'

'He had you under his control?' Cruniac asked, trying to make sense of the words uttered. Picked the wrong one? What does that mean?

The count gave a low hum of affirmation. 'If he hadn't made a mistake, I would still have a hearty and hale body, but I would also still be under the thrall of his master. Fichte will die as a consequence, and his only chance to correct his mistake has passed. But I have now the means to regain my own fate, my own control.'

'I could go kill him for you, or get the captain to do so. You know that he would. We can then let it be known what has happened.'

'Oh, I do know, but I feel it best if I disappear. But enough of that. Sergeant, I have a task.'

It sounded as though he was truly going to go through with his death. He wasn't planning to run, wasn't even intending to fight. He just wanted to watch the one responsible for his failing health die before then passing away himself. But intending on dying or not, he clearly had a task to be carried out post-mortem.

'Yes, my lord?'

'You are going to go to Fenchel. You must reach his side.' As he spoke, the count moved closer to Cruniac, until he was in such close proximity that Cruniac could smell the scent of rotted and decayed flesh. 'You must give young Robert one final gift from me.'

'What gift, my lord?'

Feyerabend lifted his hands, withered and pale flesh that looked worse in the light, and despite the weakness and frailty that the count had had up to that moment, those hands shot forward with the speed and vigour of a hearty hale man. Those hands clamped onto Cruniac's head, one over each of his temples with strength enough that Cruniac's unconscious reaction of trying to brush them aside was met with an unmoving barrier.

Cruniac gagged as his entire being turned to flame, his nerves beginning to boil to an unbearable heat. His mouth opened with the intent to scream, to let his pain be heard, but nothing could escape as his throat seized up, the air trapped in a still stasis and refused to move. His spine splintered and cracked, shards cutting through muscle and tendon, razors that met no resistance.

But the worst part of this pain that enveloped him was focused on his head. Cruniac was no stranger to migraines, had a history of enjoying a few too many drinks and suffering the consequences the next day. That paled in comparison to the sensation of his brain being frayed, a loose thread tugged at until the sewing came undone. And with each tug, he felt a part of his self disappear, erased. His sense of self was drawn upon a parchment and that parchment had just been put to the flame. He was like stained glass slowly cracking under the pressure being applied.

He stumbled forward, gagging, retching but not. He was still upright, eyes wide, unblinking. He was on the floor, weeping. He was all of this, he was none of this.

Another tug at the tapestry of his soul, and finally it was utterly unravelled and cast to the winds, screaming in agony.

#

Ingwel absently circled a part of the map given to Iycan back at Middenheim. A letter had arrived by messenger hawk only hours previously. Sharpe and his skirmishers had gone ahead to the Feyerabend family estate to determine the truth behind Fenchel's claims and perhaps uncover why the Efror Guard had ignored the farms under their protection being burnt down.

The previous night, three carts filled with dead bodies had been pulled to the village. Whether the count was being controlled or not didn't matter. There was only one reason for the count's estate to receive carts full of the dead when there wasn't a Garden of Morr nearby.

Ingwel hadn't delayed in calling Mort and Solin over, already in the process of laying out the parchments full of everything they knew.

'The keep was built on the Middenland side of the Silver Hills,' he noted. 'According to the notes made by some of the Middenlander scouts, it was designed as a motte and bailey, using a natural hill in place of a motte, with a walled village as the bailey. The specific hill is sheer on one side, more a cliff than an actual hill, and the Feyerabend family used that to good effect. An attacking force would need to either go through the bailey to get to the one side of the hill not too steep to climb or slowly climb a very steep incline, vulnerable to the archers on the high walls.'

The table was a temporary thing placed not within a tent but on the soggy bog-ridden ground. The Legion was only taking a short respite, not stopping for the day. More than that, the Legion was about to have a number splinter off from the bulk of the mass to move on to the given task.

'Ok,' Mort acknowledged, grabbing one of the other loose parchment sheets and sliding it closer to himself so that he could make out the charcoal sketch of the keep in question. 'Large walls. Human-built; no Dawi influence that I can see.'

Solin tilted his head enough to see the sketch without invading Mort's personal space. A finger tapped at the base of the wooden wall forming the bailey. 'They have a moat.'

Mort blinked in surprise, eyes staring down at the detail now that Solin had pointed it out to him, then huffed out a sarcastic breath. 'A moat and drawbridge, how very Bretonnian.'

'Can't argue with what works,' Ingwel said, pausing his examination of the map to peer at the sketch for himself, eyes narrowed in thought. 'With the drawbridge raised, we won't be able to smash our own entrance, and ladders into the main keep are going to be trickier than ideal on that hill. Mort, I want you to command the attack.'

Mort huffed softly. 'My saurus are always good to go, but none of the skinks under my command are going to be useful at range here. They're trained with javelins. We don't have the range for anybody standing atop the motte walls.'

At his side, Solin gave Mort a look of baffled amazement, eyes wide in an exaggerated gesture while his right hand moved in a gesture that... Wait...

'Are you making the sign of the comet at me?' Mort asked with an affronted look.

Solin paused, looked at his hand, and then nodded. 'We're in the Empire's provinces, and you've admitted to needing muskets. It must be a miracle brought by one of their gods.'

'Sigmar has little to do with my choices.' Mort crossed his arms. 'I know the strengths of my regiments, and I know the weaknesses.'

'You're right,' Solin said with a nod. Mort didn't hold out hope that he was going to hear that Solin had taken the right point from the rebuttal. 'We're far enough north that the comet isn't appropriate.' And so Solin shifted, instead making the sign of the wolf.

Ingwel rolled his eyes, but Mort caught the flash of amusement. 'Should I be concerned that you know Empire religious gestures well enough to realize what Solin was doing?'

Feeling rather ganged up on, Mort directed his attention back to Ingwel, resolved to ignore the irritant cackling at his side. 'My point stands. If you want me to lead the attack on the keep, I need to be commanding either any of the redcoat regiments or Freshblood Regiment.'

Ingwel grunted and turned his attention back to his desk, eyes fixed upon the map. His quill quickly etched a note in the sharp, brisk strokes needed to properly capture the written form of High Saurian. While the Legion was encouraged to speak in Reikspiel, writing was held to no such requirement, and most writings within the Legion were in High Saurian unless there was a specific need for a different font. It also served to make any notes private, as very few could read High Saurian outside of the Children of the Gods.

Solin, well-versed in reading Ingwel's writing upside down, raised his brow ridges in an expression of being impressed. 'Well, that could work.'

Mort cast a dour look at Solin for reading their leader's writings without permission but didn't say anything, too used to the favoritism Ingwel showed toward his spawn-brother and the liberties Ingwel gave Solin and Solin alone. Even Iycan couldn't get away with some of what Solin was permitted.

Ingwel looked up at Mort. 'Sharpe and his troop went ahead with Iycan and will meet you there. They should have the bridge down for you. But for this occasion, take a pack of salamanders with you.'

Mort grunted in slight surprise at being offered the use of the fire-spitting beasts. The salamanders weren't often used outside of particularly large battles, as the Legion had difficulty keeping the beasts' numbers up. The beasts didn't like breeding outside of their favored jungle habitat, unlike cold ones or carnosaurs, which were quite content to reproduce on a semi-regular basis. It was a pity, for properly trained salamanders were quite the addition to any force they were attached to, but needs being as they were, they were typically kept as a reserve.

'Primis and Fortis Regiments are good for the outside. Once we're past the motte's walls, we'll keep the estate secure. So who's going inside the keep itself?'

Solin spoke up in a low, thoughtful tone. 'I'll supervise, and I recommend Boney take part in the assault as he needs the experience. I recommend we send in a number from Quaterain and Freshblood Regiments. Let Captain Kro-Loq take overall command of attacking the inside; he needs some experience himself.'

Mort had to take a moment to recall who Kro-Loq was. No doubt he was usually on Solin's half of the Legion's regular splits. He quickly nodded his approval once he remembered that the captain was a scar veteran oft in a position of command over any who were still technically in training to earn their uniform. But it had been long enough that even if he decided to remain as an instructor and leader for the new-blood, he still needed some experience in leading others of the Legion.

'He's inexperienced in leadership,' Mort recalled aloud. 'But he has good instincts, and I can't complain about his ability to teach.'

'High praise,' Ingwel hummed. 'Mort and his regiments attack the walls and Kro-Loq, under supervision, will attack the inner keep.'

Once Ingwel had solidified the decision, Mort watched as he grabbed another piece of parchment, scanning it with narrowed eyes.

'Nothing mentioned about the chaplain, other than the name Iosif Fichte.' Ingwel tilted his head. 'We don't know for a fact that he is a wizard or even anything other than a chaplain serving within the Feyerabend Keep.'

'By that same logic, we don't know that this current Count of Efror is anything but a man who happens to share the title that Adelbrecht once held.' Mort shrugged, ignoring the wince from Solin.

'And if we're lucky, this is all a massive misunderstanding and the count will invite us into his keep and reveal that Fenchel did indeed take leave of his sanity and attacked the chaplain before fleeing.' Ingwel's tone was dry, the only hint that he truly didn't believe such to be the case.

No doubt he was hoping though, hoping for the best even as he braced himself for the inevitable worst.

'What are you going to do while we march to the keep?' Solin asked.

'I am going to be taking the rest of the Legion to check the site of the original city of Efror.' Ingwel crossed his arms. 'Trust, but verify. We've nothing but the word of an imperial noble that the Efror farms were attacked by the undead. The political games of the Empire's nobility are tiresome, and I want to be certain we weren't just hired to remove a man's political rival.'

Mort nodded once. It made sense. Best to avoid getting dragged into a personal feud; the rule about keeping out of internal affairs of kingdoms and realms was one very, very, rarely broken, and only if there was a reason to believe there was more going on than just a civil dispute.

Solin hummed absently, some tune he'd no doubt picked up while mingling with humans, but from the way his eyes were fixed upon one of the sheets of parchment, it wasn't something that he was even aware of his doing. If Mort had thought he was doing it deliberately to annoy him—something that he would not put past the younger saurus—then he would have had words.

'Interesting,' Solin thought aloud. 'The reason the Feyerabend family were allowed to build a keep there was to try to deter criminals from fleeing to the Schadensumpf in their efforts to escape the graf's justice.'

Mort grumbled softly under his breath. 'How many men does the Efror Guard supposedly have?'

Ingwel gave Mort a look. 'About a hundred plus some.'

'You think the Count of Efror would hire brigands?' Solin asked, tone serious, understanding Mort's thoughts quickly.

'Remember that it's not the same count you once got into a swordfight with. Count Feyerabend might not have the same standards.' Mort replied with the same serious tone as Solin. 'His lands are farms, which he can't levy from too heavily without causing problems with his harvest.'

'And a single village outside his keep.' Solin reminded, tapping the drawing of the keep, where the village in question had been very vaguely sketched out, but also had clearly not been the priority for the artist. 'Do the notes say anything about the village?'

Ingwel quickly skimmed another sheet of parchment. 'The village is home only to those under the count's employ, or the family of those same.'

'How big?' Mort asked.

'Not huge. It's a village, not a town.' Ingwel blinked up at the other two saurus. 'And I doubt you'll be facing off against the entirety of the Efror Guard. Remember that they're searching for Fenchel rather than guarding the keep.'

Solin and Mort both nodded. If they were to move on the Feyerabend estate, it needed to be soon, lest they give time for the keep to get reinforced. News had a habit of moving at speed within the Reik Basin; somebody would have let slip that a band of mercenaries had been tasked to march on the Feyerabend estate, though not necessarily the reasoning. Or who the mercenary band was specifically, but four thousand five hundred lizardmen breaking camp and departing in the direction of the Feyerabend Estate was not subtle. It wouldn't take a genius to put two and two together and make four.

Ingwel carefully put the parchment sheets into a neat pile. It was an unspoken message that their conversation was over and they were now dismissed, time for work. Not even Solin would be taking any liberties and ignoring his spawn-brother.

As both Mort and Solin moved away from the ad hoc table and their marshal, the younger of the two saurus started to fish around the inside of his surcoat, while crimson eyes scanned the temporary camp.

'I think your regiments are over there,' he said softly, head lightly bobbing in one direction.

Mort didn't doubt the other saurus. If he thought that Primis and Fortis regiments were in that direction, then they were. As the pair walked, Mort was well aware of the glowers he was the recipient of from a large number of a particular subset of the Legion.

'I still hate you,' he felt the need to mention. 'Nearly every skink in the Legion has been looking at me like I've defecated in their drinks.'

Solin's eyes crinkled in amusement. 'They'll get over it in a week or two.'

Even as he said that, Solin angled the hand that he had removed from the inside of his surcoat, so that the opening of the brown bag he had pulled out was visible in silent invitation. Mort hesitated for two seconds, then quietly pulled one of the mints from the bag and threw the white sphere into his maw, humming with pleasure at the way that it gave a taste of coldness.

'Don't think that this means I forgive you,' he chose to point out regardless.

Solin rolled his eyes while he popped a mint into his own mouth and then stuffed the bag back into his surcoat. 'It served a purpose. Major Adorable isn't skittish around you.'

Mort reckoned that he could hear the strangled scream of anguish that Boney had become known for in the past day, having let out such a scream every time anybody called him by that nickname. Word had gotten out pretty quickly about how the Legion's newest major had gone on a tirade at Mort over being labeled adorable. Now nobody would let him forget.

It was childish; it should have been beneath them... but it was harmless amusement. And Solin was right, after a week or two the amusement would wear itself out. Mort would be patient and weather the storm of annoyed skinks that still hadn't gotten word that Mort hadn't been calling them adorable behind their backs.

They approached the space where Mort's regiments had nestled themselves and were conversing while waiting for the word to continue marching. Unfortunately, there was enough noise from chatting lizardmen that Mort's voice was drowned out. He was about to raise his voice to be heard over the background buzz, but Solin seemingly at random decided to lift both his hands to his mouth, placed a finger from each into his maw, took a few seconds where he seemingly angled his fingers to some unknown standard and then...

Mort flinched as his hearing was assaulted by a shrill tone that threatened to have his skull shatter from the vibrations. In his shocked recoil, the mint still rolling in his mouth momentarily rolled far enough back to trigger a gag reflex. It was just for a moment, then it was back safely to the front of his mouth, away from his gullet. He wasn't the only one to be so startled; the entirety of the Legion had stilled. Every last skink, saurus, and kroxigor turned to stare at Solin, and Mort by extension seeing as he had the misfortune of standing next to the younger saurus.

But there was no amusement in Solin's eyes at the effect his strange sound had caused. On seeing that he now held the attention of Mort's regiments, he straightened his posture, unperceivable to any warm-blood that might happen to see, but the difference it made to Mort and any other lizardmen looking upon him.

It was a look he didn't have nearly often enough.

'Fortis and Primis Regiments, form up on Major Mort. You are moving out shortly.'

Mort shook his head in bemusement but didn't argue at Solin issuing commands to his regiments. Whatever his issues with the younger saurus, he wasn't about to argue results. At the orders projected loudly enough to rattle bones, the two regiments formed into ordered formations, looking expectantly at Mort, waiting for the word to begin marching.

Solin hummed, eyes narrowed in thought. 'You'll have to talk to the salamander handlers yourself. I'm going to collect Kro-Loq and a number from Quaterain and Freshblood Regiments, and we'll meet up with you at the keep. Hopefully, you'll have taken the outer walls by then and we can just go straight in. Good speed.'

A fist patted Mort on the shoulder and Solin then stalked away with an intent purpose to his stride.

Mort shook off the sensation of danger which always filled the air when Solin started to behave as was more appropriate for one of his status. 'Let's move out. I want to reach the Feyerabend Estate before the next sun-up.'

The order given, his subordinates began to march.

#

Mort's desire to reach the estate's grounds before sunrise was accomplished. And in the pitch darkness of the night, he had the two regiments under him set camp, set up the watch rotation, and then rested.

Sieges were unpleasant business. There were those that felt the advantage would always go to those who initiated the battle, but those who believed such had never been forced to battle against a well-defended wall while fielding no siege weapons.

Would that Ingwel have spared one of the solar engines, but alas, there was little to be gained from thinking about what wasn't to be. Besides which, if the plan went off well, there would be no need. They could potentially take the keep without any damage to the walls. That would make for an ideal temporary base of operations. When was the last time the Legion had the benefit of good sturdy walls surrounding them?

Village palisades didn't count.

As the sun rose, Sergeant Kaiika hummed thoughtfully from where he was staring through a spyglass at the motte and bailey.

'Something isn't right about this,' Kaiika said after he noticed Mort's attention focused on him.

'How do you mean?' Mort asked, his head tilting.

'Something about the garrison.' As he spoke, Kaiika held out the spyglass for the major to take.

Mort carefully took the brass tube and held it to his eye, taking a moment to focus his vision upon the estate. Kaiika waited a moment before continuing to share his thoughts.

'Look at the village. What do you see, or what don't you see?'

Mort's sight spied the village. He decided to put his attention there since that was the most recent part to leave Kaiika's mouth. His eye narrowed as he realized that, yes, there was indeed something off about the village. It wasn't anything that was obvious, like a burnt-down structure or a pile of corpses, it was something subtle. Something that, were Mort only recently departed from the Madrigal Isle, he would have likely not thought anything of.

It still took him longer than he cared to admit what it was that had his mind itch.

'No fires, no lights.'

Human villages always had at least one or two fires going all through the night. Since fall had yet to reach the Empire, it wasn't a matter of needing heat, in which case there would be more than just one fire, but because humans had poor night vision. Those who stood guard at night needed some source of light to actually see, though it was a double-edged sword as it also meant that they were clearly visible. But, Mort supposed, where other humans were concerned, that could be a deterrent, an open warning that there were indeed guards on the lookout.

Less helpful with some of the other threats that constantly hounded the Empire, but Mort wasn't about to judge.

His point stood though, that with the sun only just rising, there should have been such flames or have only just been extinguished. But there was not even a hint of smoke rising from the stone circles used to mark the fire pits. Even behind the safety of walls, there was no fire, no sign of any life.

'Not in the village,' the sergeant agreed with a jerk of the head. 'I haven't seen any movement either. It's like they don't care about that village.'

Mort rumbled thoughtfully, then turned his attention to the keep's outer walls.

'You said something was off about the garrison?'

'Yes... just watch them.'

Mort gave a soft sound of... he wasn't quite sure, bemusement or maybe a warning not to be presumptuous as to tell him what to do. Whatever it was, he still did as the sergeant said and watched the archers manning the top of the wall.

Ah. He caught on quicker than he had with the village.

'They're very... still.' He spoke his observation aloud.

It wasn't like humans couldn't stay so still, but those capable of such were more often than not part of the more prestigious orders that the warm-bloods had formed. The likes of the Reiksguard, Grail Knights, the Knights of Morr... Thinking on it, it was typically only knightly orders. There must have been a requirement that they not fidget.

These weren't knights of prestige; these were guardsmen for a minor count that, if Iycan's report had any bearing in truth, was barely considered worth the title, having been scornfully referred to as the Count of Farms. Now, that hardly meant that the Efror Guard weren't capable warriors, but their combat prowess would come from a different place than the strict structured training regime of a knightly order. The discipline for pretending to be a statue would not be a part of a minor count's personal troops' training. Not if he was known for sending them out to his lands at the slightest provocation. At least, Mort hoped not, but he was aware that among the Empire's nobles, there were those who seemed to hold their personal image to unreasonable levels even at the expense of being sensible. The Mad Count might have been just that, but Mort would hope that the guard he once trained to a standard that had given Solin pause would not have degraded so much.

'So still that I almost missed them,' Kaiika admitted ruefully. 'And since we set up camp, they've not even had a change of shifts. Those are the same archers that were there when we arrived last night.'

Kaiika was clearly feeling unsettled by that, and Mort was inclined to agree to an extent. Mort doubted that even he would be capable of standing so still for so long. It was basic needs, no matter how much self-discipline one had, eventually one needed to move if just to get the heart pumping, make sure that the blood was flowing properly and easing the strain on back and joints. Even within the Star Chamber of a slann, the temple guard would periodically move a small distance and back again. Saurus had an advantage in that they were quite literally created for the purpose of fighting and guarding that which needed protection, yet they still had such a basic need. Humans didn't have the advantage, so there was no reason why the guard of a no-name count should be capable of outperforming the oldest surviving saurus of the Madrigal Isle, an Eternal Warden who had honed his body to as close to perfection as he could manage in the name of his duty.

His mind less so, as he had constantly been reminded since working as a part of the Legion.

Mort opened his mouth to comment, but a flicker of movement managed to capture his attention. Movement he might have missed had it not been for how still everything had been before that moment.

A horse galloped across the drawbridge, exited the wooden wall that surrounded the village, and departed at speed.

'Where is he off to in such a hurry?' Kaiika wondered, able to see the broad strokes of what happened, but not the detail of the rider.

Mort hummed. 'I couldn't say. Maybe he's off to get reinforcements...'

He tilted his head, trying to work out whether the Efror Guard, last seen back in the region of the Middenheim road, would have managed to return to the keep in their entirety. If so, was there a reason why they would have? They'd been hunting for Fenchel, and unless they got word that the boy had made it to Middenheim, why would they have returned?

'We have to move now. If he is going for reinforcements, I want to have the walls under our control before they arrive.'

Kaiika trilled in acknowledgment and turned toward the hastily erected camp, chest inflating as he drew in a breath. 'Legion, up and at 'em. We are moving out in ten minutes. On your feet, saurus and skinks.'

Kaiika could certainly match a dread saurian for the volume of his roar. If any questioned the validity of Kaiika's statement, one look at Mort standing behind the sergeant was enough to dispel such doubt.

The tents were torn down quickly, packed away, and everybody moved into formation. Mort was, as he always was, impressed with the speed and efficiency of his subordinates. He held high standards, and it was always a pleasure to see those standards upheld. Those under his command might not officially be temple guard, but Mort would be damned if they couldn't fight as well as any guardian that had ever been gifted the title.

'Move out,' he called at the top of his lungs.

#

Sharpe watched through the window as guards emerged from the keep atop the hill, marched their way down, and started to take up positions within the village. His eyes narrowed while he took in the sight and then hissed out a soft laugh.

'I think they noticed the attack on its way.'

Happy, who had been in the process of cleaning the barrels of the repeater handgun he had looted from a brigand months ago, looked up with a grin to his eyes.

'Oh, here we manage to spend a day and a night not being noticed, and the rest of the Legion goes stomping up with all the grace and subtlety of a troglodon.'

Sharpe smirked in amusement, even while adjusting his position and shifting the coloring of his scales so that none of the guards moving past the building that he and his chosen had taken refuge in would notice his watching them. It would be a point of embarrassment if they were spotted now, after Happy had just made a jape at the rest of the Legion's expense.

His amusement faded as he watched the guards. Something was off about them. It was an uncanny feeling in the back of his head. The way that these humans walked was wrong, jerky, almost as if they were trying to walk with numb limbs. But the expressions beneath those conical helmets never shifted, set to a constant stoically glass-eyed expression that gave nothing away.

Sharpe recalled the implication that the count was being controlled, but watching his garrison, he began to wonder whether they might also have such a claim.

'I don't like this.' He didn't mean to utter the words aloud, but they escaped his maw regardless.

Happy lost any joviality, hands stilled from where they had been giving his weapon a final wipe with a rag. 'What's wrong?'

'Just a bad feeling,' Sharpe tried to dismiss the subject, not caring for sharing feelings he couldn't explain.

Happy shared a long-suffering look with another of the skirmishers and then climbed to his feet, slowly moving over to the window with Sharpe. One of his eyes peered out the window, taking in the same sights that Sharpe had been watching. His eye narrowed, but what caught Sharpe's attention about his friend's reaction had nothing to do with his eyes and everything to do with a rapid flicking of his tongue.

'Do ye smell that?' Happy asked, sounding anything other than his name.

Sharpe felt himself frown, eyes narrowed, but he trusted Happy enough that he didn't question. His tongue flicked out even as he inhaled through his nostrils and was hit by a sickeningly sweet scent beneath the cloying smell of perfumes. The first scent he was far too familiar with to not recognize.

'Death,' he muttered aloud.

'They've been near the rotted dead recently.' Happy agreed with a nod.

Sharpe made to reply, but a bell started to ring. He pulled himself away from the window, allowed his coloring to return to the usual sandy yellow-brown, and looked to his skirmishers.

'We'll wait a few minutes, let the Legion outside really get their attention, and then we move. We good?'

He was met with enthusiastic, if still quiet agreement.

#

It was never in doubt that the drawbridge would become an instant obstacle. Despite the village being empty of all signs of life just moments before, the instant that Mort made an appearance with his regiments, any sensible person would have sent somebody to raise the drawbridge.

He was still questioning the absence of any guard within the bailey village. Why not leave a patrol or two there during the night? Why weaken your own defense? There had to be something going on in the background, something that Mort wasn't aware of, because he could think of no rational reason for what had happened.

As it stood, there had to have been at least a token garrison within the village, maybe a barracks building or two, because the speed at which a large number of men dressed in the chainmail hauberks and tabards of the Efror Guard appeared was not possible otherwise. The chainmail-clad warriors were accompanied by more simply dressed men in gambesons carrying bows.

The drawbridge rose up once the guard was outside of the village.

'Why are they sallying out?' Mort wondered aloud, mind racing.

It looked as though the enemy force numbered about half the size of Mort's command. So was the one in command of the Efror Guard arrogant about the skill level of these guardsmen? Or was there some other play at hand, something which required that a token force slow down Mort's advance?

Behind the swordsmen, the archers were reaching for the quivers at their backs.

'Form bastiladons,' Mort bellowed.

At his command, the saurus of Primis Regiment formed into multiple bastiladon formations with practiced ease, their shields positioned together to form a shell surrounding them. Behind each column of saurus, the skinks of Fortis regiment broke into smaller groups and positioned themselves behind the protective shell of Primis's shield barrier, hunched low and javelins carefully held ready to be thrown or thrust as needed.

The odd ones out, unpracticed with the works of Mort's regiments, were the salamanders and their handler. However, the salamanders and their handlers were trained to work around the Legion. Given a chance, the salamanders would move to flank, to strike at the unprotected rear, same as if they were hunting in the wild. Once it came time for the actual village and keep, then the handler would have his job to guide the beasts in more specific movements.

No matter how much the salamanders were trained, they weren't going to be sitting behind a shield barrier. It wasn't a part of their instincts to take cover behind a row of saurus—if they were ever so inclined as to take cover, it would be by burying themselves beneath the ground. The handler, on the other hand, quickly took a position behind Mort when the saurus called out for him to do so. Best to keep the handler safe, lest they have to deal with salamanders gone feral without the one they had been taught to see as alpha.

His shield blocked an arrow loosed by one of the human archers. He didn't need to raise his voice in an order to retaliate as a globule of flame flew past before he was given the chance. Unfortunately, the archer was unharmed, safely behind a phalanx of swordsmen, one of whom was unlucky enough to get hit by the viscous fiery orb, his shield raised too slowly to save him.

'Fortis,' Mort shouted out. 'Counter.'

Specific order, the skinks of Fortis Regiment would focus on archers, and instead let the salamanders burn the warriors who would protect those archers.

His shield vibrated as another arrow connected with its surface. Mort hissed under his breath, watching as the skinks at the front of the formations behind each saurus column hefted their javelins and threw them, then stopped moving in time with the formation until they went from the front of the row to the back, after which they started to pull the next javelin from their harness.

With the arc of the throw, the javelins flew over the heads of the warriors and began to pepper the ground around the archers. Not all hit their targets, not that Mort expected as much. The archers were still at the extreme edge of throwing range, even with the standards that Mort held his regiments to, he wouldn't expect perfect accuracy at that extreme.

But, some did hit. And even those that failed to land on an archer were enough to cause a distraction as the humans were forced to worry about long sharp weapons falling at them.

Interestingly, it wasn't as good of a distraction as it should have been. Yes, the archers flinched, but it wasn't the panicked realization that they had almost been skewered so much as an irritated pause as it registered to them and then was consequently brushed aside in favor of getting back to using their bows.

'Something is not right,' Mort hissed aloud, more to himself than to the salamander handler.

'It looks like they don't care if they die.' The handler gave an answer regardless.

And damned if he wasn't accurate in that comment. Humans were skittish about death. Seeing friends and brothers die at their side usually had looks upon those dead and dying, moments of realization at how close they themselves might have come.

Though there were some fanatic enough or just disciplined enough to hide away their fear, largely from those same knightly orders that Mort had been musing about earlier, even the likes of a grail knight would have more of a reaction to the death of brothers-in-arms, even if that reaction was the typical blustering righteous anger at the foe.

A warrior fell to the stream of flaming spit by one of the salamanders. Despite his tabard going up in flames, his helmet and chainmail no doubt heated to unbearable levels, the man didn't scream. He fell to the ground and barely even flailed in an effort to put himself out. It was as if he simply didn't care. And not a single one of that warrior's comrades paused or looked back at him; they continued to march forward with a dead-eyed look to them.

Behind the phalanx of the Efror Guard, the drawbridge taunted Mort.

Another volley of arrows from the archers. Mort counted the impacts as each arrow met the barrier that was his shield. It was an almost rhythmic melody, thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud. There were a couple of loud snarls as no doubt at least one arrow had found a salamander.

A chanced glance behind showed that Mort was right in that prediction; one salamander looked particularly irritable as it shook its body in an effort to dislodge an arrow that hadn't quite punctured through its tough hide but had dug in enough that it was stubbornly jutting out of the creature's back.

The salamander gave another hiss and then released a stream of fire that caught three of the warriors. Once the stream eased up, the salamander gave another hiss and stalked to one side, posture low but its spine arched in silent warning that it was pissed off and woe betide anybody that dared to attract its attention now.

Another volley of javelins was thrown at the archers. More of the humans were caught by the projectiles, but still not a sound. Not all of the javelins should have been instantly fatal. Experience taught that at least a few of the archers should have only been stabbed through the leg, a reason to give out a cry of pain and a warning that they were no longer able to move.

At some unspoken word, the Efror Guard split off, just under half of the warriors veering off to one side, while an equal number splintered in the opposite direction. Behind the warriors, the archers remained still, no longer advancing, and after another volley of arrows, actually back-pedaled, looking to put more distance between them and Mort's forces. A small token number of warriors remained in a phalanx between the archers and the legionaries. Barely enough to be more than a bump in the path, but even a bump could slow the advance enough to buy time for the remainder of the enemy force.

Mort saw quickly what the plan was. It had the potential to be clever, he supposed. The warriors would pincer around and attack from two sides; the saurus would need to turn to face the threat that was looking to engage them, which then left their sides exposed to the archers.

Maybe if the Efror Guard had sent a bigger force, it would be a valid threat, but they had left their archers with only the barest of protection. Maybe they weren't accounting for speed from Mort, he had no cavalry with him for this engagement. How large is the Efror Guard's garrison? Mort wondered. The amount sent out was not a vast number—likely sent to die to delay the Legion's advance—and there were doubtless more within the walls of the motte and bailey, otherwise, what was the point of having a defensive structure if it wasn't going to be used?

Mort called out his next orders, making sure to use High Saurian to be certain that the enemy didn't know how he was reacting. Granted, anybody intelligent should know what he was doing, but intelligence was one of those commodities that felt rarer with each passing summer.

The two columns of his saurus adjusted, changed the shape of their formation. Instead of the tight columns, they shifted to a sharp crescent moon and stopped advancing forward. Still, the shields were held together, linked into a shell. The skinks meanwhile nestled themselves within the inside curve of the formation's shape.

That was when the bad news reached Mort in the form of a shrill whistling that turned into an explosion.

#

'They've got a mortar,' Happy hissed in annoyance. 'How did we miss a mortar?'

Sharpe visibly tried to track the trail of the mortar shell, but it was hidden behind a large building which was probably used for storing the harvest kept for the village's purpose. Another whistling shriek pierced the air, this one from the opposite direction.

'Two mortars, actually,' he commented idly once the whistle had turned to an explosion. With a click of his tongue, he turned to the chameleon skirmishers under his command. 'Herrin, you're with me, we're taking out that first mortar that went off. Happy, take Tongue—you're going to that second mortar and breaking it. Banji, you take the rest and get that drawbridge down so Mort can get across.'

Happy gave a single nod to Sharpe and called out for Tongue—named not as a shortening of his full name but as an eternal reminder that he would forever be known as that chameleon skink who got his tongue stuck to the barrel of his musket that one time. Kislev autumn was almost as bad as winter in Estonia. As for winter in Kislev, there was a reason the Legion hadn't willingly set foot that far north at that time of year.

Tongue already had his musket ready as Happy moved to the door, waiting for the sergeant to make the first move. Sharpe hissed out a few words to Banji and took a position to Happy's side. His hand rested upon the door's latch, but he didn't yet push down. One of his eyes moved to peer at Happy, silently questioning, 'ready?' Happy nodded once, and Sharpe immediately yanked the flimsy wooden door open.

Happy slid out the moment the opening was available, scales automatically shifting to match the outside wall. With the green uniform of the skirmishers, it was hardly absolute camouflage against the walls of the buildings, but then outside of a very rare few, a lot of the tales of chameleon skink camouflaging were overselling the ability. It was hardly like walking about invisible; even human eyes could see something, a sense of depth not quite matching. Worst case, they see the chameleon moving, which was an instant giveaway that no amount of re-colored scales could hide. Even a skaven couldn't fail to notice if they happened to be looking at a chameleon in motion.

There was a reason that they typically moved slowly, only deliberate motions to do as much as they needed without waste. To move at the wrong time meant death.

Adjusting the color of their scales made it harder to notice them, uniform or not. It was surprising what was missed when attention wasn't drawn, even from their own ilk. If a wandering gaze brushed past them, missed them even for but a moment, then that was time enough for any of Sharpe's Chosen to fire off a shot and remove that threat.

Happy took the lead, feeling more than seeing Tongue following behind at a respectable distance. Not so far as to be unable to help, not so close that both were at risk if one was noticed. Ideally, while one was in the streets, the other would take to the rooftops. The problem was that this village had such distance between each building that were Tongue to scale a building, he would have to lower himself back down to ground level just to reach the next building. No point.

It was annoying. The village itself wasn't actually a big settlement, it was a village, not a town, but despite the limitation imposed by being behind the outer wall, it was still laid out in such a manner as to have all the buildings spread as far apart as possible, as if the buildings were concerned about getting some disease from their neighbor. Who ever heard of touch-shy buildings? It meant that overwatch on a rooftop wasn't able to relocate, and it meant a lot of open and exposed space for the skirmishers to traverse.

Was it a deliberate defense choice? Happy wondered about that as he slowly inched forward, repeater handgun shouldered and one eye constantly focused upon the outer wall. Usually, tight streets were the choice for defensive purposes, meant that a good solid phalanx represented a barrier that couldn't be circumnavigated. But forcing those traversing the village into wide open spaces meant that those within the keep atop the hill had sight upon those same.

Were there archers on the keep's inner wall watching the village? Was Happy about to get an arrow to the knee for his efforts?

Somehow, despite being on guard, Happy was still surprised by the swordsman that rounded a building and blocked the pair of chameleons' path. On the plus side, the swordsman clearly hadn't been expecting a pair of skirmishers either, visibly flinched back, eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing into a scowl. There was something wrong about his eyes, though, once the swordsman's expression had switched away from the open surprise.

Now, Happy would never confess to being an expert in humans and their expressions, but he was an expert in reading the eyes, regardless of species. It came part and parcel for a member of a species whose primary method of conveying emotion was through eyes and body language instead of expressive faces. As such, Happy was uniquely qualified to say that the moment the swordsman had switched to a stoic mask. It wasn't just the facial muscles that stopped expressing any emotion. His eyes were blank, faded. There was nothing; this wasn't a case of hiding emotions behind a mask—there was literally no emotion in those glassy eyes.

Tongue lifted his musket and fired at the same moment that the swordsman lifted his kite shield. The musket's bark echoed through the air, an alert to everyone that there was a threat within the village, more efficient than if the warrior had shouted out. There was also a cracking sound as the bullet of the musket hit the shield, the top of which splintered in response. The swordsman stumbled back, but there was no blood, no look of pain about him. Nor did he express any difficulty in straightening himself once his stumbled back-pedaling came to a halt.

Happy knew what had happened even without thinking too hard on it. The short of it was that despite the amount of damage to the shield, it had done its job and saved the warrior's life. Well, Happy was all too happy to correct that issue. He lunged forward quickly, hoping to move before the warrior could raise his defense again, and he slammed the stock of his repeater handgun into the warrior's leg, then hopped to the side, positioning himself to see where the warrior had originated, wary about the possibility of more arriving.

One of these days, he would have to see about finding a way to affix a bayonet to the weapon. It was a pity that the Empire didn't seem to agree with the Legion on the utility and practicality of bayonets, preferring their handgunners take the time to pull out a sword instead.

The warrior grunted at the strike to his leg, stumbled again, blood pouring through the wound. He was quick to right himself once more, somehow able to ignore the injury. He turned his body to face Happy, lifted his sword, but in doing so left himself vulnerable to Tongue, who lunged forward with his own bayonets aimed for the exposed right armpit of the swordsman. There was finally a flicker of emotion to the warrior's eyes as the end of the sharp blade managed to press itself through one of the chain links. With the amount of force applied, successfully pierced itself through the chainmail and punctured into flesh and the lung not far beneath. Tongue hissed softly and twisted his musket, further widening the injury, and then yanked his weapon back, removing the blade from its temporary fleshy sheath.

While the warrior fell, gargling as his punctured lung filled with his own life liquid, Happy sighted two warriors from the direction the initial swordsman had come from. They had turned at the sound of the gunshot, shields already lifted and swords held at the ready. Happy hissed out an expletive under his breath and sighted his handgun on the nearer of the two and pulled back on the trigger. The first bullet cracked the shield, and like with the first warrior, he stumbled back. But whether or not he was injured by the gunshot, Happy pulled the trigger again, feeling the weapon kick into his shoulder despite his not having reloaded it. This time, there was no question of if the warrior was injured; he fell to the ground as his chest exploded into a cloud of blood, the chainmail lacking the strength to stand up to the superior firepower.

Satisfaction at the kill didn't deter Happy from adjusting his aim, pulling the trigger. The warrior fell to one knee as the projectile tore through his right shin. Three shots down, another three left before the weapon had to be reloaded. That became another two shots left as Happy lifted the muzzle and fired again, the bullet piercing through the warrior's face with no mercy.

Tongue moved past Happy, already pumping his ramrod down the barrel of his musket. In the background, Happy made out the sounds of more gunfire, no doubt the other skirmishers removing obstacles to their own objectives. Then there was a whistling as one of the mortars fired off again.

'Y'know, it's actually a good thing these Efror Guard decided to sally a group out,' Happy commented idly, taking the moment to carefully reload the four barrels which had already deposited their load.

'How do you figure?' Tongue asked after a moment.

Happy took a moment to answer, busy spitting down one of the barrels of the handgun while his left hand was pulling out the sachet with both gunpowder and bullet ready for the next. 'Well, since they're out there, they aren't here getting in our way.'

Tongue tilted his head, considered that before then shrugging a single shoulder. 'And the more that Mort deals with out there, the less to clean up once they are past the bridge.'

Happy chuckled and carefully tapped his weapon against the ground twice. 'Aye, there is that too.'

Another guardsman made an appearance, quickly shot down by Happy, who silently bemoaned already using up a bullet after he'd just finished reloading. Tongue meanwhile pointed to one of the towers attached to the outer wall.

'Looks like the mortar is on that tower.'

Happy nodded once, eyes narrowing to a frown. 'We did check those towers when we arrived yesterday, yes?'

Tongue made a sound of affirmation.

'Why would they stow away weapons like that?' Happy asked, not really expecting an answer. 'When an invading army approaches, they have to take the time to pull them out and get them into position.'

'Maybe to avoid bastards like us from sabotaging them before they can be used?' Tongue answered in the form of a sarcastic question, eyes narrowing in amusement.

'That's cheating,' Happy grumbled.

Tongue looked like he was about to reply, but the way he abruptly back-pedaled cut him off. The reason for his spontaneous movement was made clear when an arrow barely missed him, which wouldn't have happened had he not all but thrown himself to one side in an effort to avoid it. Both skirmishers lifted their weapons and fired in the direction the arrow had come from. Atop the outer wall of the motte and bailey, an archer jolted and fell backward into the moat that was on the outside of the wall.

Tongue smirked at Happy, even as he angled the musket and pulled out a fresh sachet with gunpowder and a bullet. 'That was mine.'

'I think not,' Happy answered with a playful glare to his right eye while his left swiveled around for more archers looking to take aim at them.

None were apparent, but thus far these Efror Guard were surprisingly annoying about appearing seemingly from nowhere.

A crow sat upon a nearby crate—likely once used to store grain—seemed to stare at Happy, unfazed by the sounds of violence and death. When Happy turned his attention fully to the blackbird, it cawed at him and then pointedly started to preen the feathers on its wing. Happy snorted in bemusement at the wild creature's lack of self-preservation.

He took a careful step forward, shouldered his weapon, both eyes moving back and forth as he tried to find the next threat that would try to prevent Tongue and him from reaching the tower. Even if the Efror Guard didn't know that was the planned destination, only fools wouldn't station some form of defense about the tower providing the best defense they had against threats beyond the wall.

They quickly encountered more guardsmen. Fortunately, the two skirmishers had one last building—looked to be a simple house—between them and the wall, and by extension the mortar tower. A group of seven, ironically exactly enough to one bullet each before Happy had to reload. No, wait, I used a shot already... Happy stifled a groan of annoyance at the realization. Fortunately, Tongue was better about keeping his own weapon loaded, but when it only had a single shot before needing a replacement bullet, it was considerably more important for him. So, six shots between the two of them. Six shots, seven swordsmen.

Tongue patted him on the shoulder and subtly gestured at the wall, where another two archers made themselves seen, bows aimed at the inside of the wall, aimed for threats within. Unsurprising, muskets were loud, and the amount of gunfire sporadically making itself heard probably had even those still in the keep aware of a threat within the village. No time to reload the repeater handgun. He would have to make his five shots count.

'I got the archers.' It was hissed quietly, so as not to draw attention.

Tongue nodded, carefully pulled back the hammer of his musket. 'We don't have the bullets to take all of the swordsmen.'

'We'll have to wing it.'

Tongue didn't look enthused at the idea. Happy didn't blame him. Unlike their saurus brothers, skinks were ambush predators first and foremost. That had always been the case amongst all skink sub-types, even before the shift to using black powder weaponry. It went against their instincts to willingly put themselves into a fight where they didn't have a clear advantage. But what choice did they have? They needed to remove the mortar from play, or else Mort and his troop weren't going to even reach the drawbridge, never mind cross it once it was lowered. That was worse than dying, getting others killed due to inaction.

Happy quietly counted down, reaching zero then leapt out from behind the house, his firearm already moving upward to take sight of the archers. He pulled the trigger, pausing and waiting. Had to be certain that he had hit before he could move on—figuratively that was, as in the literal sense he was still moving in a sideward skip, the worst mistake one could make against archers, standing still. The archer flinched, dropping the bow to clutch a hand to the growing crimson stain on his arm. Not a kill shot, but incapacitated and no longer a threat.

Moving on, sighted the next archer, took note of the string being pulled back. Abruptly stopped his movement; the arrow missed, flying through the space that his throat would have been had he not stopped moving. Started his movement anew, changed direction after five paces. Picked a number, counted down in time with each pace, then he would change direction again. Fired. This archer stumbled backward, grasping at their neck, eyes widened with a sudden surge of previously missing emotion.

Resight the weapon, ignored the gunshot from his right and behind, left eye took note of a swordsman doubling over while blood poured from the new hole in the gut. Muzzle was pointed at the last archer, stopped moving, and then resumed in the same direction. Arrow punctured the air in the opposite direction—the archer had anticipated a reversal, not resumption. Fired the handgun.

Archer fell backward, falling prone, which put the body out of Happy's line of sight. Couldn't be sure he had removed the archer as a threat, could just be taking cover for a moment and preparing to clamber back to his feet with a fresh arrow at the ready.

Couldn't ponder that now, had one shot, and couldn't hold it on a maybe. Swung the muzzle down, pulling the trigger, and didn't bother to watch as the helmet dented inward and allowed blood to leak through. No time to admire his bloody work; he had to pay attention to more immediate concerns. No bullets left.

A swordsman charged at him, sword held high, ready for a downward cleave. Happy opened his mouth, and his tongue shot out, wrapping itself about the wrist holding the blade and then retracted. The pull tugged at the human who stumbled forward and onto Tongue's bayonets, the human's own weight and momentum pushing him down onto the sharp point and allowing it to dig deep despite the armor.

Tongue looked disgusted as he physically kicked at the warrior's body to allow himself to yank the weapon free and then hold it back up in the ready position as if he were using a spear. Only a single harsh shake of the weapon to throw off the blood staining it gave away why he looked so put off about what he had just done.

The remaining four swordsmen positioned themselves in a line, a miniature phalanx, their shields held up in a guarded position. The only reason they were delaying charging at the pair, Happy mused privately, was because they suspected that Happy still had two more shots to his weapon, and none wanted to be part of the unlucky half to die for the luckier pair. Well, they were half right he mused ruefully.

Tongue stepped back, eyes firmly cemented upon the four swordsmen, his hand already digging for another of the bullet sachets. He was forced to abort the motion when the warriors took a unified step forward, apparently unwilling to give time for the skirmisher to reload and make it so that instead of half their number becoming casualties, it would be three-quarters. They paused momentarily as Happy shifted his grip, having the muzzle point at the face of the middle-right warrior.

There was a flicker of motion, but that wasn't what captured Happy's attention. What did was instead the strangled scream from Tongue. One of Happy's eyes moved to his comrade and then jerked his entire head to face the other chameleon, and took in the arrow sticking out of his bicep. His left eye lifted, and he spotted the archer he hadn't been certain he had killed. Blood poured from the torn flesh that used to be one of his cheeks and ears. Despite the seriousness of the wound, there was no expression of pain, no discomfort on the man's face.

Instinct took over, the handgun was adjusted and aimed, the trigger was pulled, and the reward was a click that was a bold declaration to the four warriors in their phalanx that no, Happy did not, in fact, have any bullets loaded, that yes, he was the idiot who forgot to reload when he had a chance.

Oh, right… I fired twice. I'm a Quetzl damned idiot. Oh shitting piss-brain fool-idiot… How does a person forget to count! His mental self-aimed tirade only devolved into further vulgarity from there, though his eyes remained affixed to the threats before him. Not even a dose of self-hatred could distract him.

There was a brief pause from the warriors. Maybe they were silently laughing at Happy and the stupidity of forgetting how many bullets he had fired before getting into a fight. Then there was a burst of momentum as they charged.

Happy didn't hesitate. He grabbed Tongue by the arm—the opposite of the one with an arrow in—and pulled and guided the pair quickly back around the building. No longer in sight of the apparently numb archer, Happy released his grip on Tongue, rotated his weapon around, and held it in an awkward two-handed grip and swung. He timed the swing just so that the first of the warriors to try and round the corner got a heavy wooden stock slammed into their face. Chainmail might be a perfectly valid form of armor against slashing weapons, but it was useless against a heavy improvised club connecting with the mouth, coif or no.

The only reason he hadn't aimed his swing higher had been because the conical helmets used by the Efror Guard included a nasal bar. If Happy was going to take his repeater handgun and use it as a club, he was not going to waste the first attack on anything that might impede the effectiveness of his unorthodox weapon choice.

The human staggered back, blood leaking through the chain links of his coif. Probably swallowed a handful of his own teeth. Hopefully had swallowed a handful of his own teeth. Happy didn't let him go, stepping forward and slamming the improvised club against the man a second time, then a third, a fourth.

He became aware that Tongue was holding out his musket in silent offer. Happy didn't need to think on the decision—he dropped the handgun and accepted the single-shot weapon. Barely had his hands encircling the wooden body before he was lunging, thrusting the blade at the end at the next human to brave the corner. The human didn't make a sound, despite the bayonet managing to force its way through the chain links and into his thigh. That was… odd, a small part of Happy noted. Humans usually got very vocal when any weapon came remotely near their pelvis.

Not the time to think on that. Twisted the bayonet, pulled it back, and then swung the musket so that the stock met the side of the human's head. The chainmail coif prevented the edge from tearing through flesh and bone, but the force was certainly enough to fell the swordsman.

Happy exhaled softly, took note of the other human still on the ground, currently searching the ground around him in a futile attempt to find the sword that was no longer by him. The skink lunged forward, swinging his foot so that it met the swordsman's ribs. The human slumped sideward and fell flat against the ground again.

Not one not to take the opportunities provided, Happy aimed the point of his commandeered sword and stabbed down, aiming for the one spot that he could see that didn't have chainmail covering it. The moment the blade met flesh, Happy stopped looking, instead searched for the next threat. One swordsman on the ground, another swordsman slumped heavily against the wall, glassy-eyed and drooling blood.

"Look out!"

At Tongue's warning, Happy twisted around, swinging the sword in his hand. It wasn't enough. A sharp pain burned a line down Happy's torso. The skirmisher stumbled, dropping the sword and clutching at the pain, feeling the thick liquid leaking from the cut.

The fourth swordsman lifted his weapon, no doubt ready to finish the job. Happy rapidly back-pedaled in an effort to escape the intended deathblow. Unfortunately, his heels met the newly killed guardsman, and he stumbled and fell back. The fact that his tripping over the still cooling body actually saved him from the swing of the sword was of little comfort.

The swordsman stepped forward, a mirror image of how Happy had stood over the same warrior he had just killed. Happy bared his teeth in silent defiance. The swordsman didn't seem to react. There was no sign of anything from him: no amusement, no satisfaction, no glee. He was being killed by some emotionless nobody…

The bark of a gunshot had the warrior jolt. Happy flinched as the human's blood exploded outward and sprayed over him, but it was more from being startled than any revulsion. There was a moment where the warrior, now sporting a dark smear on his tabard, swayed gently, then collapsed. Happy couldn't help the sound of confusion when he spied the iron rod embedded in the swordsman's back, deep enough that the front end had just barely breached the opposite side of the man's torso, having been the reason for the burst of gore now painted across Happy's maw.

"Tongue… did ye just fire a ramrod as live ammunition?"

When Happy turned to look at Tongue, the other chameleon was sporting a smoke-stained muzzle and was blinking rapidly.

"It does appear that I did, sergeant. I'll go retrieve it once I can see clearly again."

Happy couldn't help it. He began to wheeze out a laugh, carefully picking himself up, an eye focused upon one of the still-living swordsmen each. Neither of them looked to be in any condition to resume fighting, though Happy hadn't survived as long as he had by not being absolutely certain. He grabbed the ramrod and yanked it free, taking one look at the bloody mess covering its length and discarding it.

"Never mind the rod, ye've ruined it. No salvaging that thing. How's the arm?"

As he spoke, he advanced on one of the humans, hand gently teasing a knife free from his belt. He ignored the stinging pain that marked a chasm across his torso, blood staining his uniform and making it stick to his scales.

"Useless. Can't even lift it." Tongue sounded irritated at the weakness, a faint tremor in his tone giving lie to the attempt at bravado. The skink was hurt, and he was scared. Probably fearing that he would lose the use of the arm permanently, and Happy could sympathize with that. Being hurt badly enough to remove one from actively fighting was one of the bigger fears of all members of the Legion. "How am I supposed to reload without the rod?"

"Use the one from the repeater, load up the musket, and then give it to me." The words came easy, gave Tongue a task to do so he didn't feel useless, and would distract him from his arm. He'd already proven he could reload a musket one-handed, so he wasn't asking the impossible. "I'll finish that archer off, and we can rest at the mortar. The rest of the Legion can carry their own weight for once."

Tongue made no verbal sound of acknowledgment, but a quick glance showed that he had pulled the repeater close and was awkwardly prying the handgun's ramrod free of its stowage one-handed. Happy left him to it as he approached the injured humans.

#

Artillery strikes weren't anything new. As time went by, the humans of the Empire, Estalia, and the Border Princes were slowly, gradually advancing their weapons to make good use of black powder. Even Kislev was slowly getting a slice of that pie, the late Boris Ursus having made strides to advance his domain in more than just making the bear-god Ursun a state religion.

So, over time, Mort had gotten very used to cannon and mortars and other such potent weapons being fired at him.

Unfortunately, there wasn't really a valid defense against a mortar shot that wasn't 'don't get hit.' Shields did little to protect against a massive iron orb launched at great speeds at a person. What could be done was that one could steel their nerves and not break down at the aftermath. Mortars were slow to load; they made up for that with the devastating effect of each shot that connected with the intended target and the psychological effect on those nearby. No need to make the damage worse by breaking.

Once the first two mortar shells had landed, revealing the existence of the artillery weapons, Mort had been forced into a choice. He could keep his troops in the bastiladon formations, misshapen but still effective against the archers, and still a barrier for the sallied swordsmen. The problem was that the bastiladon formation wasn't good protection against mortars, and if one were to hit, the saurus would be grouped close together, more would be harmed by the hit than was ideal.

On the other claw, he could order the saurus out of the shelled formation. The ideal formation when fired at by mortars would be to order his subordinates into a loose staggered formation, enough distance that losses to the mortars bombarding them would be minimal even on a direct hit. It also helped cut down losses from arrow barrages loosed by enemy archers.

The problem with that last was that it would be the opening the enemy swordsmen needed to charge and engage, and maybe even slip in the gaps to try and take down the skink javelin throwers. Mort was aware of the strengths of the training he imparted upon his subordinates. They were trained to be a wall, not individual pillars. Not that they could never stand alone, but it wasn't their strength to fight as singular entities.

However, with mortars being levied against him, Mort was going to have to have faith in his saurus. This wasn't the undead at Daxweiler; these humans were capable of thought, of planning, of being cunning. Mort would have to trust that his saurus were more cunning, or at least cunning enough to mitigate the chances of these Efror Guard exploiting that ability.

He hissed his orders clearly. Without delay, his saurus spread themselves. Behind the saurus, the skinks stepped back and likewise staggered their formations, no longer protected by the shields of the saurus, they knew how to react.

Another mortar shell landed, the resultant blast picking up a quartet of saurus and tossing them aside like a child throwing a doll it had grown bored of. The gap left by the blast was quickly filled, the rest of the saurus of that detachment swiftly shuffling sideward.

At Mort's side, the handler of the salamanders clicked his tongue, communicating with those beasts under his charge. The red-scaled beasts hissed, their postures having been one of a defensive hunch the moment the first mortar shell had landed. At the urging of the one they'd been taught to accept as pack alpha, they picked themselves up, giving a chirping sound at the handler, who turned to look at Mort with silent question to his eyes.

'Can you get them to circle around?'

'Easy.' The handler's eyes curved into an assured smirk. He clicked his tongue again, a series of clicks, pops, and tutting sounds that meant nothing to Mort, but clearly meant everything to the salamanders, who chirped again, then turned and charged.

Mort stopped watching them, trusted that the handler knew what he was doing. Instead, the major glared at the archers, who had just loosed another barrage of arrows. His shield vibrated as multiple projectiles met the surface. A quick glance showed that while none of the saurus under his command had fallen, the skinks, no longer protected by the shields, had taken roughly a dozen hits, at least a few of which were clearly fatal.

With the salamanders on the prowl, hopefully those archers would be removed from the field shortly. But if the archers noticed the salamanders, they'd have a priority target. Do enough harm and not even the handler would be enough to get the beasts to carry on with their task.

'Fortis,' he hissed in Saurian, 'keep the pressure on those archers. Do not let them get away with this.'

In answer, a barrage of javelins was hurled toward the line of bowmen. Mort didn't try to count the number that got hit, too distracted as another mortar shell came down, threw aside more of his saurus along with a large amount of dirt which now rained down.

From the motte and bailey, there was an explosion. Mort lifted his head, eyes trying to scan the walls for any clue as to what had happened. Presumably it was Sharpe—he did recall that Sharpe's Chosen had been sent ahead, had been assured that Sharpe would make sure that the bridge was down once the time came.

There was a column of smoke from one of the wall's towers, thick and black, the result of a fire ongoing.

As if there had been an unspoken signal, the swordsmen, previously content to stand in their phalanxes, a silent threat and barrier to prevent any movement from the legionaries that wasn't backward, started to slam their swords against the front of their kite shields and then charged forward with clear intent to get into a melee.

No time for the saurus to tighten into a phalanx, as Mort had predicted. He simply called out a warning to brace and then shifted his attention, gripping his sword tightly. Searched for the place where the melee would most benefit from his inclusion. Found it, charged forward with a snarl, and stabbed his broadsword forth. Momentum coupled with his strength punctured through the chainmail and into the targeted swordsman's neck.

The swordsman gargled out a death rattle and fell, quickly replaced with another who stepped over the body of his comrade in order to reach Mort. And yet no expression of anger or fear.

It was almost like he was fighting the undead again, except with the enemy being intelligent.

The annoying thing about this enemy was the knowledge that while most of the Empire had transitioned away from chainmail as the primary armor of choice, it was still effective, especially with the padding usually worn beneath. They wore outdated armor, and yet it was still a barrier that made killing these emotionless humans more irritating than it should have been.

Mort's tail coiled in his agitation. Blocked a sword swing from the swordsman with his shield, then swept his arm forward so that the heavy shield connected solidly with the Efror Guardsman. The swordsman staggered at the force dealt upon him, regained his bearing, and made to approach again but was slammed into a second time as Mort's tail uncoiled and struck the human. This time, the warrior fell to the ground, an easy target for Mort to bring his sword down, forcing it through the links of the mail armor and into the man's chest.

Mort pulled the sword back up and hurriedly slammed his shield into yet another human who moved to take the place of the recently deceased. He managed to aim the shield such that its edge met the human's solar plexus. Cushioned padding beneath the mail or not, the human back-pedaled with a gagging sound. Mort didn't let him get far, stepping forward, driving the pommel of his sword into the man's exposed eyes, feeling the crack. He didn't linger long, stepping back to return to the formation, staggered and loose though it may be.

Another mortar shell landed, close enough that Mort was forced to brace himself as the energy of the shell landing tried to push at him. With a grimace, the Oldblood pivoted his sword, parried and riposted, the point of his blade managing to pierce through the mail enough that the strength of the thrust allowed the length of the blade to tear through the chain links and then into the body beneath.

Then the smell hit the field. The smell of burning, of cooking flesh. Mort risked a quick glance toward the archers, and took note that the salamanders had reached them, and those that hadn't been incinerated by the angry fiery spits had been torn and mangled by claw and tooth.

'Advance,' Mort shouted.

Without hesitation, the saurus closed the gap that had just formed, forcing the swordsmen to keep paying attention to them and not to turn toward the salamanders. In turn, the salamanders had free reign to launch their flaming projectiles at the unprotected backs of the swordsmen, and chainmail was still a poor defense against fire.

There was another explosion from the motte and bailey, another column of smoke from a different tower.

Mort glowered as a swordsman managed to strike against his armor, leaving a scratch on the otherwise smooth cuirass. The one responsible was quickly punished by means of Mort's pommel meeting the side of his head where the ear would be hidden beneath the coif. The swordsman stumbled sideward, where another saurus swung his sword with force enough that the human fell to the ground. Alive or dead, Mort didn't know, until a skink came forward and thrust the javelin in his hands into the body.

It was a simple matter of mopping up the remainder. But, Mort found himself uncomfortable at the way the humans never seemed to break. They all, to the last, fought to their dying breath. That was not normal. These weren't regiments of renown; these were simple guardsmen of nobody count.

'Move up,' Mort called out. 'Advance on the walls.'

As they neared the outer walls of the Feyerabend estate, easily made out the green uniforms of the chameleon skirmishers, positioned along the wall and their muskets firing at targets on the inside of the walls. The drawbridge was lowered.

'Major Mort,' Sharpe's voice called out, though Mort wasn't able to see the skirmisher. 'Welcome to the Feyerabend castle village. The natives seem angry with us.'

Mort snorted, leading the way across the drawbridge. 'That's the usual reaction to meeting you.'

'Hah hah.' There was a pause. 'We just need to mop up the garrison down here and then we can climb the motte and take the keep. Colonel Iycan assured me before he left that the gates will remain open.'

Mort nodded, unsure if Sharpe was able to see or not. He inhaled softly.

'Legion, clear the village.'

#

Sigismund stared down at the village, brow creased in a scowl. He could see the invading army, and he hated that his home had fallen.

The part that confused him had been the strategy employed by the defensive militia. They had sallied out and then just forced the invaders to hold position while the wall's mortars fired down. They didn't care about friendly fire—the mortars had been firing even once the two forces had clashed into a melee.

He would very dearly like to have words with those who had been operating the mortars. There was a part of him that was relieved when the mortars had been destroyed by a group of the invading reptiles who had somehow already gotten inside the walls.

'I should be leading the defense.' It wasn't the first time he'd said those words. It wasn't even the first time he had repeated those words.

Count Feyerabend sighed, though Sigismund made out the faint veneer of amusement that leaked into his tone.

'You are no good to me dead, my boy.' Feyerabend wheezed out the words.

Feyerabend approached, gait slower than even the previous day. Sigismund got the distinct sense that the count was going to die within the day, if not by the enemy lizardmen, then by whatever ailment had sapped his vigor away.

The count lifted a scroll. 'I have a name for our true enemy. This is...' He was forced to pause his talking, great hacking coughs having his body shuddering with such force it almost appeared as though he were being bludgeoned by the famed Ghal Maraz itself. Eventually, his harsh coughing passed, though whatever energy the count had before then was now truly drained away. He was leaning heavily against the wall. 'This scroll has everything I have learnt of...'—Another pause as yet more great wheezing coughs wracked the count's body—'I do not know if he is the one responsible for the undead... but this is everything I know of the one responsible for... for...'—This time, he didn't cough, he just leaned forward, retching, dry heaving. Once he had regained some small measure of strength, he straightened his posture as much as he was able—'Go back to your men. Find... find the one called Pugna Textrix.'

That seemed to be the last of whatever strength that Count Feyerabend had. He stumbled over to a nearby stool and fell upon it heavily, panting for breath as though he had run a marathon the entire length of the Reik Basin without pause.

The name wasn't one that was familiar to Sigismund, and a momentary sliver of doubt crawled down his spine. Who was this individual that his count was tasking him to find? How was he responsible for what was happening? How did Count Feyerabend know? That doubt was shunted and locked away rapidly. The captain's attention was redrawn to the count as he started to cough again with such force that it was almost like he was trying to get his lungs to escape his mouth.

'I should remain, protect you.' Sigismund protested the order, even as he clutched the scroll tightly in his hand.

'I'm already dead, look at me,' Feyerabend whispered hoarsely. 'I would have my death have meaning.'

'What meaning is there to dying to a band of mercenary Lustrians?'

Somehow the count was able to make his wheezing pants come across as a slight chuckle. 'If you only knew. Go, my boy... Take the passage and leave, get to your men. My final order: find Pugna Textrix, and kill him.'

'What of Cruniac?' Sigismund asked after a moment of hesitation. 'I've not seen him since you spoke to him.'

'He is... protecting my legacy. If all goes well, Efror will persevere. Efror did not end with Adelbrecht and it will not end with me or the fall of this keep.'

'And Fichte?'

The count's smile managed to convey satisfaction. 'Will not escape.'

After those last three words, the count closed his eyes and slumped. Only the barest rise and fall of his chest gave away the fact he hadn't simply died. Sigismund reached a hand forward but paused, warring with the desire to shake the count awake or to let him have his rest. His eyes drifted, looking out the narrow window and making out the lizardmen in the village. They were now at the inner gate which led to the walkway up to the motte, to the keep.

His loyalty and desire to keep the count who had all but raised him safe warred against the order he had been given. The final order—a dying wish, if the count was right about his life expectancy.

The blade sheathed at Sigismund's hip felt heavy, an heirloom that was supposed to be passed on to the count's heir and successor. But there was nobody left other than Fenchel, and Sigismund still wasn't certain what to feel about the count's now former ward. He wanted to believe that the boy had fled for his safety, but with everything going wrong at once, it was easy to assume that the boy had played his own role in affairs.

Why flee rather than come before the count or even Sigismund? Instead, he had fled without a word. It had been easy to believe the chaplain sporting the neck wound. There had been proof that the boy had gone mad. Would things have been different had Fenchel not fled as he had?

What was he to do now? Loyalty to the man or to the title? What was he to do? Stay and protect the man or obey the order of the count?

-TBC