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?

11. Assault on Feyerabend - Pt 2

Assault on Feyerabend - Part 2

---

The Old World – Ruins of the CIty of Efror, Middenland

Over a century ago, there once stood a city. It was never going to claim the same greatness that the likes of Nuln, Altdorf, or Middenheim could claim. It had neither the age for such prestige, the unique architecture, nor even the origins that the more commonly known and regarded cities of the Empire boasted.

But for having been built up as a work of passion by a little-known noble of not-so-great renown, a man who had been granted land and sought to build up that land into something to truly be proud of, Efror had become great in its own way. For two centuries, the city had built up, solidified itself as a bastion of the Empire. It had expanded, where once it had been a village with houses built from sticks and thatching, into a town of buildings of good solid oak, and into a vast walled city of stone and iron.

Atop a hill, at the heart of Efror from its earliest days until the moment it fell, stood a massive stone church dedicated to Ulric. It was around that church that the village of Efror had slowly expanded outward into a city, a capital of a county of the same name. History had long forgotten when that church had been built, by whose hands the foundations had been laid. Even before the land was granted, that church had stood there.

Maybe the church had existed since before even the time of Sigmar Heldenhammer, before his ascension to divinity. At this point, who could truly say?

Even now, with the city that had once come into existence with that church as its centre burnt down, the land long since reclaimed by the grips of nature, the husk of that church still lingered, still stood strong despite the damage caused that day. The walls still stood, proud and strong, stone bleached white and visible even through the cocoon of ivy that had climbed the structure. The doors might no longer exist, the roof might have a gaping hole, and everything valuable had long ago been looted and sequestered away by opportunists hunting the ruins for ill-gotten gains, but that church still stood. It was one of only two structures of the once proud city to still remain after the city had been razed.

The other structure to remain as a testament to the long-destroyed city was the castle that once marked the home and office of the Count of Efror. It had weathered worse than the church. Where the church of Ulric almost felt as though the nature around it hadn't buried it and removed it out of some form of respect for what it stood for, the old count's castle was standing against nature, fighting to remain despite the efforts of time.

Where the church, ruined as it may be, had an air of peace within its walls, as though Ulric held a presence there, a reminder that he was still watching over the lands and those who revered him, the air about the ruined castle was dark and foreboding. Much blood had been spilt in the City of Efror before it burnt, and most of that blood centred around that castle and the last man to call it his home.

That was it. That was all that remained of the city that once stood there. The surrounding lands were made up entirely of farmland. But those farms had at some point in the preceding months been destroyed, burnt down, and now left for the wilds to reclaim their hold on the land.

Ingwel exhaled softly. His eyes refused to move from the castle, even as he stood within the doorway to the ruined church. Ulric might not have been his god, but he held a respect for the various gods of the Empire. Just because they weren't his gods did not mean they didn't exist. Hopefully, that acknowledgement and respect would keep Ulric from smiting him as he stood within the church that had been dedicated to him.

It was amazing that the aura about the church was still so strong. Ingwel had memorised everything Solin had told him about the razing of Efror and the buildup. He knew full well what had happened within this church, what long-buried secret had been unleashed—at that thought, his eyes momentarily drifted to the hole in the roof, able to see through his awareness how the hole had been formed from something smashing out from the inside.

Chaos might not have been responsible for the Mad Count's actions, but it had fed upon those acts done in the name of grief and paranoia. Blood spilt had been greedily supped upon and death had fuelled death in turn.

Nearby, Captain Preda patted his Cold One absently even as his sharp eyes scanned the surrounding lands.

'Nothing here,' Preda finally rumbled out.

Ingwel hummed thoughtfully, turned his eyes back to the ruined old castle. 'We still haven't looked in there.'

Preda looked uncomfortable at the notion, and Ingwel noted that reaction with interest. He himself felt uncomfortable with the notion of going anywhere near that castle. The chilling air about the structure triggered a primal instinct to stay away, to not go near. Truth be told, that alone was motive for Ingwel to investigate. They were Children of the Gods; their kind could face the Ruinous Forces with nary a sliver of doubt where the Young Races would feel primal fears and know that they were looking upon some terrible thing that was, unfortunately, far greater than themselves.

The air about that castle was unnatural. While Ingwel had always had every intention of checking the interior, the air had managed to persuade him to leave it till last.

Preda's posture straightened, eyes narrowing as he focused past Ingwel's shoulder and at the Mad Count's castle. A low breath escaped the captain's nostrils.

'Marshal, look.' His voice was hushed.

Ingwel turned back to the castle and let out a startled curse and unconsciously took a step back, deeper into the church's interior. His hand patted at his coat, found the pocket where he had tucked his spyglass, and he carefully eased it out and extended the brass tube.

There was movement from the castle. It was far enough from the church that no details could be made out, but that was what the spyglass was for. The brass instrument was pressed to Ingwel's eye, and he directed the other end, focusing it toward that movement.

The castle's entrance wasn't facing the church; it was actually facing away from them at an angle. Had the church not been perched atop a hill just high enough to see over the curtain walls and into the courtyard, they might never have spotted what was happening. The portcullis had lifted itself. That had been what had managed to capture Preda's attention. But it was the following movement that had Ingwel's blood turn from its usual chill to a frozen slush.

From within the castle's keep and marching in long rectangular formations were undead. They were marching, ten abreast and a hundred deep. Then another formation of equal size. Through the gate, they marched, after which the front of the formation turned and led the army of undead in a desired direction. That direction didn't pass close to the church or the hill upon which it stood, for which Ingwel was immediately thankful.

The undead moved without the lumbering lurch typical of the reanimated dead. Had Ingwel not been able to make out the skeletal visages, he would have mistaken them for ragged-looking humans or humanoids, wearing worn armour and the colours of the Efror Guard.

The grace with which these undead masses moved triggered an uncomfortable sense of watching the uncanny. For the briefest of moments, Ingwel wished that Iycan was with him; the colonel would probably be able to pinpoint exactly what it was that made these undead in particular feel different from the typical lumbering zombies or skeletons.

'Why were they wearing the Efror colours?' Preda asked, his own spyglass pressed to one eye.

Ingwel didn't answer, too busy taking note of the direction that the undead horde was moving while pulling a map from his coat. He unfolded the cloth map and traced a finger from the spot where the ruins of Efror lay to the direction of the mass of reanimated dead.

'They're moving toward the Feyerabend Estate,' Ingwel spoke his realisation aloud, voice low, not quite a hiss but nearing that point.

Preda jolted as though somebody had just dropped an ice cube down the back of his coat. 'Coincidence?'

'I'm not going to gamble on that,' Ingwel answered. 'There were too many for us to fight, not unless we can find a clear advantage.' He wasn't just referring to Preda's cavalry unit and himself, but to the bulk of the Legion nearby. 'Major Boney didn't say the undead he fought at Tallow Farm were wearing Efror colours...'

Preda crossed his arms, watching the marching columns with a dark look in his eyes. 'He also said those ones were simple zombies. Those... felt different.'

Ingwel nodded, glad at the confirmation that it wasn't only he who had noticed something different about the large army marching away. 'Different parts of the same whole? Or separate forces?'

Preda shrugged a single shoulder and turned, looking at the innermost confines of the church's ruins. The rest of his cavalry unit were looking at the two officers from where they'd made their temporary camp deep within the church's interior.

Ingwel copied the captain's gaze. 'Captain, I need you to pick out your fastest rider. We need to warn Mort and Solin that they have an undead army of at least two thousand marching toward them.'

Preda nodded once, a single sharp nod, and pointed a finger toward a particular saurus, this one slightly smaller of stature than most of his brethren. Not that most young races would be able to tell, he still towered over the majority of humans. 'Yackl, mount up. We need you to run a message.'

The saurus, Yackl, stood sharply, clicking his tongue as he did so—the motion so rapid that Ingwel had a feeling that Yackl was still young enough that he was firmly ensnared by the geas. A Cold One stalked toward him, chirping softly and butting its head gently against Yackl's chest.

'Where am I going, and what's the message?' Yackl asked once he was halfway through the motion of mounting the large raptor.

Preda winced ever so slightly, possibly at the realisation that his wording had momentarily torn any ability to choose from the younger saurus. The captain turned to look at Ingwel, silently asking him to make the request.

'We need you to ride to the Feyerabend Estate ahead of the undead and warn Major Mort and Colonel Solin about the threat marching their way.'

Long experience meant that Ingwel didn't even need to think on how to word it without triggering the geas—while it was an order that Yackl wasn't allowed to refuse, he wanted the saurus to remain coherent and able to think beyond the confines of the order to deliver the message.

Yackl nodded once in understanding, though a moment of confusion clouded his eyes. That confusion quickly faded once he turned his head and took note of the still-visible columns of undead. Not that they were identifiable as such without a spyglass at that distance.

'Shall I also pass on where to meet up with the rest of the Legion?'

Ingwel nodded slowly. 'We'll meet back at Middenheim.'

Yackl quietly repeated the message he was to deliver. 'Understood,' Yackl said with a firm tone. 'By your leave?'

'Ride fast and stay safe,' Preda managed to say the words without a commanding tone. Judging from the fact that Yackl didn't immediately urge his Cold One forward, it had been enough to prevent the geas. Yackl nodded again in silent thanks and quietly clicked his tongue, which had the raptor slowly move forth under the direction of its rider. Once out of the church's empty doorframe, his heels tapped the raptor, which immediately picked up speed and sped down the hill.

Ingwel sighed softly and turned back to the interior of the church, where the rest of the cavalry unit was watching with undisguised interest. Time to rouse them up, they needed to move. No need to investigate the castle; the main point of interest they might have found had already departed.

If the graf of Middenheim wanted to investigate further once news had been passed on, then that was on him.

#

Solin arrived at the Feyerabend Estate with a cohort of saurus and a smaller group of skinks. While the saurus were in the typical redcoats of the Legion's uniform, the skinks were instead dressed with simple leather jerkins over red tunics and carried not muskets but bows. Trailing a few paces behind Solin was Boney.

'Question,' Boney spoke up as they neared the walls surrounding the bailey.

'Answer,' Solin said with a lightness to his voice. Then, without a pause to his stride, he turned his head to look at the skink major. 'Go ahead.'

Boney jerked his head toward the other skinks. 'Why do they not wear the coats?'

Solin hummed, turned his head back toward the lowered drawbridge. 'They're not usually involved in combat. They're the Freshbloods, our hunters. Got to feed the Legion somehow.'

Boney grunted in acknowledgment of the answer, but it added a new question to his mind. 'And you've brought hunters here because?'

Solin chuckled lowly. 'Because we're the ones who are going to be fighting in the corridors of the keep. Bows are better for that.' Solin stopped moving for a moment, turned to face Boney fully, though really it was so that the troops could catch up. 'Speed over power, they can use their bows at a quicker rate than muskets can be fired. Won't be so painful to listen to within stone corridors either.'

One of the skinks, who had at that moment caught up enough to catch that last comment, gave out a laugh. 'Doesn't smell nearly so terrible either. I don't know how they do it, must have lost all sense of smell from prolonged use of those booming monstrosities.'

Solin grinned toothily at the skink. 'It's not so bad; you're just being snooty.'

The skink snorted. 'You realise the smell is almost as bad as the noise when it comes to hunting for meat? Animals aren't stupid; they smell gunpowder, and they know they're being hunted. Arrows don't smell, don't make noise.'

'Yeah, which is why you're the hunters, not soldiers.' Solin shrugged, then tilted his head and amended with a quick, 'Except for certain occasions.'

'Got to remind those redcoats that we're just as capable with our bows as they are.'

One of the saurus huffed in amusement, pointedly looked at the sleeve of his red coat. 'My sword would like a word with you.'

'Ah, stuff it,' the skink chuffed, tongue flicking out in a long drawn-out motion. 'I'm talking about fighting at range and you know it, ya cad.'

The saurus gave a sound of mock hurt at the jab, hand moving to his breast as though reacting to an invisible arrow. Laughing quietly, Solin turned and continued to lead the group. As they neared the drawbridge, a chameleon skink appeared atop the wall to the side of the bridge, musket shouldered, though Solin was able to make out that the hammer hadn't yet been pulled back.

'Halt, who goes there?'

Solin gave the skirmisher an unimpressed look. 'Druchii, clearly.'

'Har de har, colonel.' The skink lifted the musket so that the muzzle was no longer pointed toward the group. 'If that were true, you're the prettiest dark elves I've ever seen.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' Solin said. 'Where's Mort?'

'The major is in the bailey village taking stock of the dead. We've taken the bailey and have the motte under siege. No word from the occupants that they're willing to surrender. Sharpe is organising the garrison of the bailey's walls. Once you're in, I'm ordered to lift the bridge.'

Solin craned his head to look toward the hill upon which the main keep was planted. 'How many casualties have there been?'

The chameleon let out a drawn-out breath. 'Us skirmishers? Two. Mort's regiments? I don't know, but it was bad. They had mortars and were willing to use them even while Mort's troops were engaged in melee.'

Solin sucked in a breath. 'That's... cold even for the Empire.'

The skirmisher nodded. 'The guard were weird too. It's like they don't feel anything, they're just... acting. If it wasn't for the fact that they're clearly breathing, clearly able to think for themselves, I would have thought we were fighting undead that hadn't yet rotted.'

Solin's posture stiffened. 'The chaplain was accused of controlling the count,' he reminded.

'Mort said the same thing.' The chameleon huffed out. 'Even if these are thralls, we can't not defend ourselves, we have to fight them.'

'Yeah,' Solin rumbled. 'I'll go meet with Mort. Carry on.'

The saurus continued into the village, followed closely by his command.

#

Mort carefully wrote down the name of the next of his saurus to be confirmed as dead. Once he had secured the exterior of the keep, formed an encircling siege of the stone structure, he had set others to start gathering the bodies that littered the field outside of the estate.

Their final rites would be performed once Solin arrived and entered into the keep with his unit. Best to do it while there was a clear moment; they couldn't take the bodies with them if something were to force them to move. They needed to perform those rites there and then, and then gather the ashes so that they could be cast to the sea for the journey home to Madrigal.

What a travesty, Mort snorted in disgust. Firing mortars into their own just as much as mine.

The dead guardsmen would likewise be burnt, but there would be none of the ceremony behind their cremation. A simple affair of chucking those bodies to the pyre so that they could not be used by those inclined to necromancy. A problem that Mort had never actually thought would be a relevant issue to the Legion before Daxweiler, just a duty because of a slim chance.

Sergeant Kaiika approached, his shield held over his head on the chance that some unseen archer took an opportunity.

'Major, the colonel has arrived.'

Mort nodded once, letting out a faint hum of acknowledgment. He finished writing down the next name, then carefully rolled the parchment and tucked it away for safekeeping.

'Lead on,' he ordered the sergeant.

Kaiika quickly guided Mort toward the gatehouse that marked the passage through the second of the three layers of defensive walls blocking passage to the keep—that particular wall cutting access to the slope leading up to the top of the hill where the large stone structure stood proudly. Solin was standing nearby, hadn't yet stepped through the open gate, crimson eyes looking instead at the flying bridge—lowered so that the constructed pathway that led to the hilltop at a shallower angle was accessible.

'Mort,' Solin greeted.

Simple and professional, Solin still considered the village to be a battleground and was therefore keeping their feud tucked away, so Mort did the same as he acknowledged the other saurus.

'What am I looking at?' Solin asked after a moment.

'We've only seen swordsmen and archers,' Mort explained after a moment. 'Mortars on the outermost walls, but they haven't had any gunpowder weapons on a small scale.'

Solin tilted his head in momentary consideration then nodded as he clearly came to some conclusion. 'Even back in the day, the Efror Guard didn't have any handgunners, probably too expensive for a minor count to buy in bulk from Nuln. Now Efror is a county of farmers, I doubt that they had a change in finances that would allow the count to stock up on them.'

Mort grunted in agreement—didn't fully understand, but if anyone would understand the logistical politics within the Empire, then Solin was no doubt the one who would have it memorised. 'What about crossbows?'

Solin's eyes narrowed in thought. 'They did use crossbows back then, but not on a large scale. But if you haven't seen any yet, I doubt we have to worry about them. Bows are simpler to craft, so the current Count of Efror, or the captain of the guard, might have decided to simplify their logistical demands.'

Mort shrugged a shallow shrug. 'I'll take your word for it.' His eyes lifted up to the hill and he jerked his head in silent invitation to begin moving up the inclined walkway.

As the pair walked, Mort was aware of the number of skinks and saurus following behind at a polite distance. None were in the uniforms of Mort's regiments, so they were clearly Solin's unit for taking the interior of the keep. The Eternity Warden angled his head to examine them, to see if any were recognisable to him. He instantly made out Boney; his feathered hat was an instantly recognisable feature, even if his scales were the typical turquoise that the warm-bloods seemed to be convinced was the only colour that lizardmen came in.

It was the other skinks that captured his attention quickly. They weren't in the coats typical of the majority of the Legion, though they were still wearing the red that had become the de facto colour of the Legion; simple red tunics worn beneath equally simple leather jerkins, breeches in a more natural colour. But what really captured his attention were their bows, held in loose grips.

'The Freshbloods?' he asked quietly. 'I thought you were joking.'

'Bows are better for interior fighting,' Solin answered. 'If they hadn't been available, I would have borrowed some of your skinks.'

Mort gave the other a significant look, to which Solin raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

'In the stone corridors of that keep, I'll take even the javelins over muskets. My hearing will thank me later.'

A sharp exhale through Mort's nostrils was the only hint he gave as to his amusement. They reached the gatehouse to the final wall, the one that encircled the level plateau atop the hill, the one that marked the final defence of the keep. Mort lifted his shield and held it over his and Solin's heads as they passed through into the courtyard. Bodies littered the ground, with opportunistic archers taking occasional shots at any within the keep's grounds. Mort's subordinates hadn't had the chance to clear the bodies away, not the bodies of their kin, not the bodies of the enemy.

'My troops have got a battering ram ready,' Mort explained, pointing with the hand not holding the shield toward the battering ram. It wasn't the greatest example ever made, but they hadn't had time to build a wheeled and roofed structure for it, no chains to pull back and use basic physics to help add power to each slam against the keep's doors. It was basically just a log with handholds added so that ten saurus could lift it with five on each side.

Solin's expression suggested that he was less than thrilled that he hadn't a bigger ram. Considering he wasn't voicing any opinions, he either acknowledged that it was likely the best he was going to get—it would take time to make a bigger ram and the structure to wheel it in, and in that time the walkway could get damaged from some sneaky ploy from the defenders—or else he was just restraining himself from any sarcasm because it wasn't the appropriate place or time. Solin lifted his gaze toward the keep, pointedly looking at the slits in the walls where the archers within had a clear shot.

Solin finally spoke. 'My saurus can use the ram if yours offer their shields while we work.'

Mort nodded, offering some protection was the least he could do, and he would have offered even if Solin hadn't said anything.

A jolt vibrated along Mort's arm; his shield jolted momentarily from the arrow his shield had intercepted. Moments later, one of Sharpe's skirmishers fired a shot at the slit that the arrow had presumably come from. There was no way to know whether or not the shot had hit the archer, but there wasn't an immediate follow-up, so either the archer had been hit or had just had their nerves shaken enough to deter them. Considering the strangely numbed expressions of each and every guardsman they'd fought so far, Mort was inclined to think that it was the former.

'Saurus,' Solin called out, ignoring the arrow that would have punctured his left eye had Mort's shield not been hovering overhead, 'grab that battering ram. We're taking this keep.'

'Primis,' Mort bellowed moments later. 'Shield the redcoats from the archers.'

There was no delay, no hesitation. Maybe some were still influenced by the geas, had lost all self-control at the direct orders from superiors, but that wouldn't have explained all of the saurus in the courtyard moving. No, the saurus were disciplined and had a cohesiveness that came from a lifetime of fighting and training side-by-side. The two oldbloods had given orders and even those old enough to still retain their free will had moved and obeyed with no hesitation.

Nine of Solin's saurus cohort moved to the ram, only nine because Solin led the way and took position at the front-most position of the ram, fingers encircling the grip that had been carefully screwed into the log. Mort quickly followed the other oldblood, keeping his shield over the colonel like it was an umbrella shielding him from rain.

'Lift on three,' Solin shouted once he knew that all other places at the ram had been filled. 'One. Two. Three.'

On that three, the ten saurus heaved, lifting the heavy log, heavy enough that it would have taken twice as many humans to perform the same feat. They paused a moment, during which the archers within the keep had clearly recognised the threat and started releasing arrows, the projectiles raining down in a dangerous storm that would kill any unlucky enough to be caught in the shower. Mort ground his teeth as at least a few punctured into his shield though none managed to breach all the way through. A stinging sensation on his forearm suggested at least one had punctured past the wood and was now stabbing into his flesh.

'Forward, go.' Solin snarled after a momentary look at Mort, eyes quickly zeroing in on the arm that kept the large shield held aloft. 'Step. Step. Step.'

With each repetition of the word "step," the saurus cohort took a single footfall in sync with each other, using the rhythm of Solin's chant to keep themselves in tune with their neighbours.

More arrows came down. One of Solin's saurus grunted in pain, and Mort twisted his head to see that the saurus in question had an arrow sticking out of his thigh.

'Tehec, check your shield's position, you're leaving a gap!'

Tehec, looking suitably chastised for his mistake, re-angled the shield, plugging the gap that Mort had been able to see. A quick mental note was made to have Primis Regiment run drills once they were back with the rest of the Legion. That gap had been inexcusable.

The ram neared the large solid oaken doors that marked the entrance into the keep proper. It was fortunate that the ram wasn't needed for any of the gatehouses, else they would have needed to spend the time building a larger wheeled ram. However, being only the entrance door, reinforced as it was, it was still easier to breach than the purpose-built gatehouses.

'Charge the door in three,' Solin called out, a warning and order in equal measure. Mort braced himself, the hand not holding up his shield coming down to rest on Solin's shoulder, a tether to guide him as he focused on keeping his shield up while running at full speed. 'One. Two. Three!'

Again, at the countdown's end, the saurus under Solin's command charged, snarling and rearing back the ram even as they ran. They crossed what remained of the courtyard's length, running through the hailstorm of loosed arrows. At five paces from the large door, the ram started to swing forward, the saurus putting their strength into the swing even as they still hadn't finished their sprint. The brass end attached to the ram connected with the doors, the sound of the impact a loud crack of thunder.

'Back up, step, step, step!'

At Solin's urging, the ram was pulled back until it was ten paces from the door, and then the oldblood gave a roar of 'Charge!' which had them sprint forward again, bringing the ram's head into the oaken barrier. Again, thunder cracked at the impact, the door shook, vibrating as it struggled to remain intact with ten saurus slamming a tool specially designed to bring down such barriers.

'Again!' Back, step, step, step!

As they backed up, a musket barked, shouts could be heard from within the keep, the first sign of emotion the humans had shown since Mort had arrived. Once more, the ram met the door. And again. And again.

Until finally, the oak splintered and cracked, and a final charging crash reduced the doors to splinters. Just the other side of where the doors had once stood, three swordsmen readied their blades but were quickly shot down by the skink hunters who had been waiting for that moment. The arrows pierced through the chainmail, the armour unable to block the narrow bodkin arrowheads which had been designed and made with the purpose of penetrating armour.

The ram was dropped carelessly, no longer needed. Solin moved a hand to the hilt of his zweihänder, though he didn't immediately charge forward, waiting for the skinks to finish firing their arrows through the opening.

'Go, take the keep.' His order was projected for all under his command to hear.

As one, the saurus and skinks under his leadership formed up into two groups, one seemingly under the leadership of Major Boney, the other under the command of Captain Kro-Loq. Once they had all passed through the open entrance, Solin made to follow.

Mort patted him on the shoulder before he took a single step. Solin tilted his head, looking at the Eternity Warden with a curious slant to his eyes.

'Quetli watch over you.'

Solin's eyes half-lidded in a grin. 'And Quetzl watch your back.'

And with that, Solin charged into the keep to catch up to his subordinates.

#

Boney held his sabre carefully, keeping the lessons from Captain Yen in mind, grip firm but not too much so. The sword instructor had disarmed him a good few times before Boney had managed to get the grip just right, and Yen had made it clear that there was still room to improve even on something so basic, but had at least acknowledged that now the major wasn't going to be killed in his first serious clash of blades.

Something about the interior of the keep felt... cold, but not in the sense of the temperature being cold. There was a chill that seemed to grate upon Boney's spine, made him want to shiver despite his kind not typically doing such. It also made him want to cleanse himself in a spring, bathe until this chill stopped making him feel like he was tainted.

'I don't like this place,' one of the skink hunters hissed softly, arrow in one hand, bow in the other. The skink's eyes were constantly roving to each corner of the entrance hall, taking in the various other doorways leading from the hall deeper into the keep.

One of the saurus hissed something under his breath, moved to the nearest door and pressed himself to the wall to its side. He fixed his eyes upon the skink who had spoken with a silent request visible to his gaze. The hunter positioned himself and pressed the end of his arrow against the string of his bow, didn't pull back yet though. The saurus twisted at the door's latch and shoved the door open while keeping himself aside from the new opening.

It saved his life. No sooner had the door swung open than an arming sword swung down in a chopping motion that would have, if not killed the saurus who opened the door, certainly would have made an effort at cleaving a limb from him.

The skink archer pulled back his arrow and released it quickly. There was a grunt of pain from the other side of the door, followed by a gargling.

'Got him.' The skink's tone was smug.

'Nice work,' Boney said, though it was more of a mumble. He still managed to make himself heard though; the hunter beamed at him in return.

From behind them, Solin stalked forward, hand still rested on the yet-to-be-drawn zweihänder at his back. Boney wondered if the reason that the colonel had yet to draw his blade had anything to do with its length versus the comparatively narrow corridors they were moving through.

The oldblood's eyes didn't show annoyance at the walls that were surely inhibiting his ability to swing his blade, however.

Captain Kro-Loq visibly straightened as Solin neared. Solin paused, took in the various exits with a raised brow ridge. After a moment, he gave a light shrug.

'Crow, take your cohort and you take that exit.' The oldblood pointed at one of the doors seemingly at random. 'Boney, you take yours and go the opposite direction. If either of you find stairs—up or down—send a runner back here and Mort can organise a chain of communication.'

As he spoke, he gestured back toward the now permanently open exit to the keep, where Mort's saurus had formed a phalanx preventing any attempt at exiting without express permission. Mort himself was in the middle of the phalanx, and his stoic expression gave nothing away.

'What about you?' One of the saurus asked.

Solin shrugged in seeming apathy, though his eyes were hard, serious in a way that his projected image of himself wasn't. 'I'll be supervising. If you shout I'll probably hear, this isn't that large a keep.'

Boney hummed absently, already in the motion of gesturing to his cohort to move toward the exit that Solin had directed him to. 'Saurus, take the front, leave gaps between you for the skinks to see and shoot through.'

It was strangely cathartic to have orders obeyed so swiftly. It wasn't like his expedition when he'd left to go to Tallow Farm: the skinks he'd travelled with at that time had been friendly, treated him as such whilst they also gently tutored him. This time, he hadn't built that rapport in advance, he hadn't caught any names, other than the captain leading the other cohort, and his order was instantly acted upon.

He breathed in, quickly reminding himself that he wasn't some all-powerful overlord. They trusted him to look out for them as much as to coordinate them. If they felt Boney was making a wrong call, he had no doubt they'd be all too swift to tell him where he could stick his orders.

The first real resistance came when one of the leading saurus started to round a corner but quickly jerked back in time to avoid an arrow which splintered against the stone wall behind where he would have been had he not reacted in time.

'Three bowmen,' the saurus hissed softly.

One of the skink hunters notched an arrow and pulled back and gave a significant look to another who quickly followed his example. 'On your word, major.'

Boney nodded, then hissed out in Saurian permission to do as they will. Moments later, cursed softly and repeated the order in Reikspiel. The two hunters gave amused chuffs, and twisted around the corner, bowstrings tensed from the force they were being pulled back. Both of the skinks released their arrows, flinched back as the archers on the other side did the same. The three arrows that were launched toward the pair of hunters missed, though one came close to grazing the top of one's head—if Boney were to guess, the human archers had expected saurus to appear again and were aiming high in anticipation of the taller threat.

There was a crashing sound. Only the one.

'I think I was the one that missed,' one of the hunters hissed softly, scales darkening in embarrassment.

'Not your fault,' the first hunter reassured him. 'Not like we had time to properly aim.'

Even as the pair spoke, they were notching their next arrows.

'Were those longbows or recurve? I didn't get a chance to look.'

'Looked like longbows to me.'

Both twisted around the corner again, bows held up and let loose their arrows. There was another crash, while both skinks were quick to retreat the moment they'd released their grips on their arrows. Another pair of arrows smashed against the stone wall behind them.

'I was the one that missed this time.'

'Yes, how dare the humans learn to relocate?' There was an amused tinge to the words. 'Sotek forbid that humans actually use the intelligence they were gifted with in combat.'

Again the pair twisted around launched their arrows and shouted out in victory as, judging by the sound of a body hitting the ground, they'd finished the last archer.

'Oh, we both got him.'

'Huh... good shot.'

Boney shook his head in bemusement. 'You certain?'

'"Are we certain," he asks.' One of the hunters chuckled. 'One arrow through the chest, one in the eye.'

Boney suppressed a wince at the revelation of an arrow going through an eye, the mental image making him feel slightly squeamish. Decapitations, disembowelment, or any other unfortunate death, Boney could stomach, but the idea of something hitting the eye? He suppressed a second shudder.

'Move up.'

The saurus stepped into the corridor, sabres held in defensive postures. Though their backs were to Boney, he had a feeling that their eyes were constantly moving to the doors that dotted the walls on either side of the corridor. Once they neared the first such door, they paused. One of the saurus looked back to Boney, who had advanced only a step behind the larger reptiles. There was an unspoken question in the gaze, and Boney translated it easily.

Boney in turn made a quick gesture toward the hunters, who all aimed their bows toward the other doors further down as well as the end of the corridor.

'Do it.'

At Boney's quiet permission, the saurus closest to the door threw it open and moved in, quickly followed by another. There was a shout, and then the clash of two blades meeting. Boney slid through the door, his own sabre at the ready.

A quartet of swordsmen were trying to fight back against the two saurus. Despite outnumbering the large reptiles, the two humans were unable to fight past the saurus's defence, sabres deflecting any strikes of the arming swords that came near. But conversely, the four humans were putting their kite shields to good use, managed to keep them safe from any attempt that might be made on them, as well as used to deny the saurus any chance to manoeuvre around them.

Behind Boney, another saurus stepped through the doorway. A quick hand gesture managed to convey Boney's intention to the newcomer—at least, Boney hoped it had; he wasn't paying attention to the saurus, had stopped the moment he identified who had appeared behind him—and he swiftly darted forward before the humans could properly register his existence.

The nearest human quickly noticed Boney's rapid circling advance, but the skink was quick and had timed his movement for the moment that human was distracted by a saurus swinging a sabre at him. The sound of the sabre meeting the shield rang the air, but Boney ignored it, swung his sword in an arc which met the back of the human's knee. The blade failed to penetrate the chain links of the swordsman's chausses, but the impact was felt. The human's leg buckled, he dropped to one knee, one hand automatically reaching out to steady himself. It was an opening that was quickly exploited by the saurus he'd been facing. The point of the sabre punctured through the links of the coif and penetrated into the throat of the human, but then being pulled free in order to deflect a sword stroke from another of the swordsmen. The human with the hole in his neck—rapidly leaking his life fluid and gargling what might have been words but could have just as easily been the sound of air leaking through the new opening—slumped to the ground.

Another of the swordsmen was killed when the saurus who'd entered behind Boney had managed to circle around and thrust his blade into the spine of the unfortunate human.

The two remaining humans moved together and slammed the broad sides of their swords against their shields in silent challenge. Thus stood back-to-back, they prepared to continue fighting against what must have surely been seen as an inevitable defeat.

To their credit, they did continue to last a surprising period of time. Instead of five seconds, it took about thirty to finally breach their defences. But it was a battle they were never going to win.

Back in the corridor, the rest of the cohort had continued to move up, pausing at each door long enough for two or three saurus to enter in an effort to make certain that there were none waiting to jump out and attack them from behind. As each room was deemed safe, the saurus would exit, rejoin the bulk of the cohort and continue the advance.

Boney moved to join another door, entering with the initial two saurus. This room must have been the library, shelves stacked with books lined two of the three walls, the third wall had a fireplace, though there was no flame within, long neglected into extinguishing itself if there had been before the siege had begun. Over the mantelpiece was a large painting, a landscape with a city of tall towers of white rock.

On another wall hung a portrait of a human male. The subject of the painting was a tall man—though being that the painting had no way of accurately conveying the scale, Boney couldn't say for certain if that assessment was truly accurate—with middling dark-brown shoulder-length hair and a thick beard that trailed down to his chest. The man had piercing eyes, which were the exact shade of grey that almost looked more like a vivid blue. He was garbed in plated armour with a furred collar. The figure held a longsword, the tip rested against the ground while his hand rested upon the pommel.

Seconds after he had taken in the details, Boney turned, followed his cohort from the chamber to continue on.

#

Sigismund listened to the bursts of violence that echoed across the stone walls. His hand rested upon the lever which would open the passage that could lead him to safety, an exit that the attackers wouldn't have known of. His order had been clear: he was to go; he was to return to his men. He was to track down somebody called Pugna Textrix. Not a name of one from the Empire.

It would be like seeking a needle, a needle hidden not in a haystack but in the realms of Chaos.

He wanted to ask more, know who exactly this Pugna Textrix was and why the count had made his dying order to be the death of this individual. Was he the one responsible for the count's failed health? Was he behind Fichte? Questions-questions-questions.

Another bout of violence washed over him, the sounds of blades singing and shouts of aggression.

His fingers tightened on the lever, arm tensed, ready to pull. And then, with a snarl of fury, he pulled himself back and turned. Damn his orders; Count Feyerabend needed him. He was not going to leave the man to die surrounded by enemies on all sides. He should have sought out and killed Fichte the moment the count had revealed that the chaplain was responsible for his failing health. He would have done so, should have done so. He would have made the traitor feel agony in his last gasping moments.

There was still time to correct that mistake.

He stomped towards the court hall, hand now wrapped about his blade's hilt.

#

By and large, the clearing of the keep was without trouble. The majority of its defenders had been outside of the keep, whether in the village or the field outside the walls being mortared by their own defences.

Boney found himself standing before large double doors, his cohort lined and ready for the moment they entered. The skink major inhaled a deep breath and nodded at the two saurus on either side of the doors. At his un-worded command, the pair grabbed the handles and tugged, forced the doors open. The moment the barrier had an opening wide enough to allow any to pass through, the saurus started to trail through, closely followed by the skink hunters and Boney himself.

One of the saurus was immediately killed when a trio of arrows buried themselves in his chest, while a second got away with only a single arrow to his thigh, and a third managed to escape with only a cut where the arrow had grazed his forearm.

The hunters immediately loosed their own arrows at the archers who lined the large court hall's sides. There was a moment, after the skinks had fired their first barrage, where everything seemed to still, as though everybody needed a moment to decide what happened next. The moment passed, and amongst the members of the Legion, there was an unspoken agreement on how to divide the threats between them.

The saurus members of the cohort turned to the left wall and charged, while the hunters grabbed their next arrows and turned their bows toward the archers lining the right wall.

One of the leading saurus managed to swat an arrow from the air that would have punctured his chest, and then leapt with a feral snarl. His sabre came down, cleaving through the archer who had shot at him, had him fall to the ground in two pieces. The other saurus weren't so dramatic on their charges but were no less lethal for it, managing to reach their targeted prey in short time with minimal injury, blades blurred in lethal arcs.

At the same time, the hunters fired a rapid barrage of arrows at the opposite side's archers, though they weren't stationary as they pulled back their arrows. The hunters were moving, spreading themselves out. It wasn't like the archers who were charged at, the skinks had no way of knowing who was aiming for which human. As a consequence, those archers were often peppered with multiple arrows.

Meanwhile, Boney advanced down the hall, eyes fixed upon the figure sat upon an oversized chair, probably what passed for a throne for a count. The man sat upon that throne was a wretched thing that looked as though he were already one step from entering the realm of Morr, but his eyes were clear, sharp, and focused squarely upon Boney. It was quite likely that this was Count Feyerabend. On either side of this feeble-looking figure were four swordsmen.

The swordsmen acted without any sign that the count intended for them to do so. Their blades were clanging against their shields as they started to advance, forming into a phalanx. For the briefest moment, Boney wished that he had mastered the ability to cast an arc of lightning that would trail from one foe to another. As it stood, he wasn't convinced he could take on eight swordsmen by himself, and his favoured blast of wind was less useful a spell whilst confined to the insides of a keep. Not that he couldn't cast it, but it would be far weaker than was useful.

An arrow slammed into the shield of one of the swordsmen. In response to the ranged threat, the swordsmen ceased their rapping of blade against shield and hunched low, covering as much of themselves behind their shields as they could. Another arrow connected with the conical helmet of one of the swordsmen, but unfortunately failed to puncture the steel and bounced away, clattering to the ground.

As the saurus, now finished with the archers on their side of the hall, started to regroup and form their own line, Boney inhaled. The Winds of Magic were saturating the air, energy ripe for use, he just couldn't cast his preferred spell in a meaningful manner. And he absolutely did not want to sit back and let his cohort do all the work.

The chill in the air gave an idea, and he inhaled again, pulling in the Winds. In the enclosed space of the keep's interiors, he couldn't weaponise the wind on its own, but there was another use. He pulled at the air, shaped it, harnessed it and pulled.

The air turned frigid. Behind Boney, the very air froze into shards of ice, which were then nudged, pushed forward so that they flew forth and pelted against the swordsmen, sharp edges cutting and forcing the humans to look away lest they risk their eyes and...

And...

Boney yelped, the unfamiliar and unpractised use of magic surging, threw off his grip upon the Winds and the energy vibrated in his very core, numbing him even as he hurriedly dispelled the magics before the surge could get worse. There was still a jolt to his nerves, a momentary sensation of his spine being stretched and then snapped taut.

The skink panted, shaking his head as the feeling of numbness blinded his senses to the Winds. He was quickly reminded of why trying to use an unpractised spell was a terrible idea. He'd been fortunate: a draining of energy as he'd suffered was one of the milder results of a miscast. Once the numbness faded, there was likely going to be a headache bordering on a full-on migraine, but that was still better than the very Winds he was harnessing exploding with all the force of a beam of Chotek.

He wasn't certain if his cohort had noticed. The spell might not have run its full course, but even the partial success that Boney had managed before he'd been forced to dissipate the energies was sufficient enough a distraction for the swordsmen to get cut down with minimal effort from the swiftly moving saurus who circled around and attacked the unprotected flanks of the eight swordsmen.

Judging from one of the hunters lightly patting Boney's shoulder, at least one had noticed his miscast. A look at the skink in question had the hunter simply shake his head lightly in a silent promise not to draw attention.

The frail figure still sat in his throne, clapping his hands. Once, twice, then he doubled over with a heaving cough that made Boney's chest ache in sympathy.

'Congratulations. Just as your kind destroyed Efror a century ago, now you repeat history.'

Ignoring the clumps of wool muffling his thoughts, Boney approached the count. 'This doesn't have to end with your death.'

The count grinned a sickly smile, yellowed and crooked teeth on display. 'It ends with my death regardless of what happens next. I am on borrowed time, little lizard.'

Boney's eyes rolled at the condescending tone, though he quickly regretted that act as it caused his eyes to throb in time to his heartbeat. He resisted the urge to clutch at his forehead, the numbness fading quicker than he had anticipated, couldn't show weakness, not here.

A door behind the throne slammed open, and a new figure stormed into the hall. Boney recognised him easily, despite the absence of the chainmail coif he'd been wearing back at the chapel's ruins. The warrior clearly recognised him in turn, his eyes narrowed, and his face twisted into a snarl. And he charged.

Boney barely managed to bring his sword up in time to block the cleaving slice from the longsword that the human now held instead of the simple arming sword he'd had before. A second barely parried blow had Boney's arm ache as it vibrated from the force. A third attack, this one a downward chop, again Boney barely managed to block the blade in its path, brought his offhand up to support his resistance against the pressure that continued to push down at his sabre, barely keeping the gleaming edge of the larger sword from continuing down until it reached his flesh.

The human slammed a foot into Boney's chest with such force that the skink found himself laying flat on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to work out where the transition was from standing to prone.

The whistle of an arrow mid-flight drew Boney's mind back to the moment, and he watched as the human warrior managed to swing the blade and swat not just one arrow fired at him but three. The human's teeth were bared in a snarl, his eyes fixed themselves to Boney, and he lunged. Once more, Boney managed to bring his sabre up, didn't have time to marvel at how he had managed to keep a firm grip while being knocked down. Redirected the lunged thrust, but the human twisted his blade and managed to wrest the sabre from Boney's grip, sent the blade clattering off to one side.

The human was forced to refocus for a moment as two of the saurus lunged at him. With deft feet, the human twisted around the first saurus, slamming his pommel into the back of his head. The second saurus's sabre was blocked by the shield the human still carried. The shield was then thrust forward so that it slammed into the lizardman's face with a crack.

Boney tried to clamber to his feet, but the numbness in his limbs made his movement sluggish. He barely caught sight of the stunned saurus who'd taken the shield to his face back-pedal enough to avoid being killed by a vicious slash, though it was not enough to escape unscathed; a stream of blood started to cascade from his hip.

The human's attention was refocused on Boney just as he'd finally gotten to his feet. Their eyes met, and the human moved, swinging his blade in a blow that Boney knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was about to decapitate him.

The blade made a metallic clanging sound as it met resistance that hadn't been there moments before.

Boney blinked, taking in the sight of the sword that had been moments from ending his life, and the azure metal of the zweihänder, which had just spared him that fate.

When Boney turned his head to see the owner of the greatsword, he was startled to see Solin's expression. There was no calm, no stoic mask, nor relief at his managing to save the skink. No, his eyes were fixed on the human, and they were narrowed in anger. His tail was curled, coiled, and almost shaking with the amount of tension in the appendage.

The blades parted when Solin shifted his stance and pushed with enough force that the human took a few steps back before managing to regain his balance.

'Sssstand down,' Solin ordered, but his voice was different; no longer was he maintaining a similar accent to the humans of the Provinces, this was a pure Madrigalian accent spoken in Reikspiel.

And Boney found himself promising that he would never do anything to have that voice turned on him. That was a voice of final warning, the last chance before the full fury of its owner was brought down upon the recipient.

The human took another step back, eyes widened momentarily. He recovered quickly and examined Solin, posture tense. After three seconds, he moved his shield in a peculiar manner, as though miming blocking an attack coming at his right. He repeated the motion several times before his face twisted and he started to pull at the straps that kept his shield fastened to his arm. It was a matter of moments later that the shield was discarded.

'Sigismund, stand down,' the count spoke up, trying for an authoritative tone but his efforts were undercut by another hacking cough.

The warrior, Sigismund, now free of his shield, grabbed the sword with a two-handed grip and focused solely upon Solin, who hadn't moved in the slightest since he'd forced the human back. Now that he wasn't more preoccupied with surviving swings from the sword, Boney was able to properly see it, and he recognised it. It was the same sword from the painting in the library: a brilliant silvered steel sword that was almost a mirror in how reflective it was, a cruciform hilt, and its pommel was shaped into a boar's head.

'I imagine quite a few of your foes have been felled because they failed to notice that.' The human spoke his first words since entering the hall.

Solin adjusted his grip on his weapon and tilted his head in silent inquiry.

Sigismund pointedly looked upon Solin's hands. 'You're left-handed.'

Solin let out a faint huff. 'You'd be surprised how few notice that.' His voice was contained once more behind the previous mix of a Marienburgese and a Reiklandish accent. But his posture didn't change, and his eyes were still narrowed in anger.

Sigismund grunted and adjusted his stance, brow creased as he continued to examine the Oldblood.

'Sigismund, I order you to stand down!' There was a surprising burst of strength from the count this time, no hacking cough. 'That is the one who slew the Mad Count.'

Solin finally looked away from Sigismund to cast his eyes upon the count. That was all Sigismund needed to charge forth in hopes of catching the Oldblood off guard. Solin leaned back, avoided the swing, then stepped forward, swinging his zweihänder so that the pummel met Sigismund's chest. Sigismund stumbled, eyes widened in a confused stupor. That stupor turned to fear as he barely ducked beneath a cleaving swing from Solin. He staggered back to put a measure of distance between them, eyes now appraising not Solin but his blade.

Solin tilted his head again, adjusted his grip so that his left hand was no longer on the hilt but instead gripped just beneath the twin lugs a third of the way up the blade. Sigismund cursed and adjusted his own stance, eyes constantly switching between Solin's feet and his hands.

Boney watched, feeling his breath still. Even in that moment when they were not meeting blades, there was a sense that they were still battling. Solin shifted his feet, adjusted his stance, and in turn, Sigismund did the same as both seemed to try to outfight the other before they'd even had their blades meet in a clash, as though the stances they were in would be the deciding factor. A shifted stance would have the other reorient their own into something perceived as a better match.

Boney didn't know much about swordsmanship beyond the basics, hadn't had time yet to learn much. But this was not how he pictured a fight between two masters of their respective blades, yet somehow felt rawer.

Finally, the pair moved, the blades met each other, and then Solin twisted, shifted his body, and slid his blade down the length of Sigismund's. The human, in turn, angled his own blade and pivoted, which positioned the point of his sword so that it now aimed for Solin's thigh, to which he pulled down, moving the blade to stab.

Except the Oldblood stepped forward, pushed his own blade against that of Sigismund, and forced the tip of the human's blade away, in turn, making Sigismund stop pulling down lest he leave his own neck unprotected.

Four seconds of repeated micro-movements and attempts to get past the bind. It came to an end when Solin pushed his blade so that neither blade was in a position to do harm to the other, and before Sigismund could work out why the saurus had deliberately forced the weapons into a position that favoured neither of them, he was quickly reminded that he was not duelling against a human but a lizardman. One whose tail had been coiled the entire time with the same tension as a ballista pulled taut.

Sigismund gagged out a startled breath as a limb of pure muscle whipped into his chest with enough force to have him stumble back, trying to get the breath stolen back into his lungs. In that all-too-brief time, Solin had stepped forward, latched one hand onto the wrist of Sigismund's dominant arm, and twisted, disarming the human before then slamming their heads together. Sigismund fell to the ground with a groan.

'Good fight,' Solin commented, angling his blade so that it would only take a single thrust to end the life of the floored human. His voice was still cold.

Sigismund moved, looking like he was about to try and climb to his feet regardless, though the slightest of wiggles from the zweihänder had him still as it dawned on him that he was now completely at the mercy of the saurus.

'Stop this now!' the count roared, finally pulling himself to his feet. He managed three steps before his weakness caught back up with him, heaving forward, gasping for a breath that failed to fuel him, while thick bile leaked from his mouth with each exhale.

The smell of the bile had Boney gagging. The rapidly forming puddle turned from yellow-green to a dark red as more than just bile started to dribble from the count's mouth.

It took twenty seconds of gasping heaving breaths before the count regained enough strength to speak again. Tellingly, he didn't try to advance again. 'Sigismund, I told you to leave. There is no need for you to die with me.' He lifted his arms in a gesture toward himself. 'I am already dead, I told you that already.'

Sigismund made to get up, but was again reminded of the zweihänder readied to run him through. 'My lord,' he growled from the floor, twisting his head to be able to look upon the count.

The count ignored Sigismund, turning his attention to Solin. 'Let him go, please. I need him to…' Another bout of gut-wrenching coughs wracked the human's body.

Whatever the count planned to speak of, it was lost to the ages. Before Boney's eyes, the count visibly withered, his flesh decaying away at a rate far too rapid to be natural. After the skin had rotted into non-existence, the skeletal remains swayed on the spot then tipped forward, slammed into the ground, and seemed to disintegrate into dust, leaving behind just the soiled clothing laid upon the puddle of bile and blood that still stained the floor.

Sigismund howled a deep anguished scream. Indifferent to the blade threatening him, he scrambled to his feet and scurried to the remains of the count, hands reaching as though planning to grab the non-existent body, or the clothing. He stopped just shy of actually touching the clothing. His chest heaved, his expression twisted into a mix of hatred and despair.

Solin rested his blade back upon his shoulder. His expression was still closed, eyes still narrowed, attention still affixed to the human.

'What was he trying to say?' Boney wondered, barely aware that he'd voiced his curiosity aloud.

Sigismund shot a baleful glare at Boney, only stopped when Solin stepped closer to the skink with a pointed glare of his own.

'How should I know?' Sigismund finally ground out.

Behind them, the doors slammed open. Boney jumped, startled at the echoing thud, hadn't even been aware that the doors had shut at any point after he and his cohort had entered into the hall. Everybody turned, attention drawn to the open doors, and the figure that stood in their place.

Boney wasn't an expert in humans and their appearances. He'd been able to tell that the count was withered and unwell, had almost been able to smell the stench of death about the man from the moment that Boney had entered the hall.

The man that now stood at the doors to the hall staring at the scene, he had a similar not-quite smell to him, but other than some details that felt off to him, nothing about this new human had the same look of death grasping its claws into him. Skin was flaky, one eye looked larger than the other, but not so much so that it made a real difference to his appearance, and his hair greyed hair was thinning.

'Fichte!' Sigismund shouted on recognising the man. The warrior pivoted around, straightening his back as though trying to look larger. His mouth was twisted into an angered sneer. 'Fichte, you bastard.'

The newly appeared human, Fichte apparently, placed a hand over his chest and gave a mocking gasp, before his expression tightened. 'What a waste of time this has been.' He spoke with a simpering tone. 'You couldn't do one job, captain. I needed the boy back here, and you failed. Somehow you brought a war to our door.'

Sigismund laughed mockingly. 'I did no such thing. The boy got the ear of the Graf of Middenheim. Whatever he had to say about you has brought attention to the county.'

Fichte blinked. For the time it took for a heart's beat, there was a look of confusion. It was swiftly locked away behind a stoic façade, but Boney knew what he saw. Fichte let the silence following the comment linger, then scanned the hall.

'Where is our esteemed count, captain? Where has he hidden himself?'

'You mock me!' Sigismund bellowed, taking a step toward the chaplain. In doing so, he unintentionally stopped blocking the sight of the count's death.

Fichte's eyes locked onto the puddle of bile and blood and dust, and the clothing that was laid soaking within. His eyes narrowed and then widened. He didn't even try to hide the panic that painted itself upon him, though Boney very much doubted that Sigismund was in the frame of mind to notice. That or Sigismund would assume that it was in regards to the captain's fury.

'No… nonono!' The chaplain's head pivoted left to right, took in the others in the hall with him and Sigismund, the skinks all aiming their bows at him, the saurus with sabres held at the ready. A snort leaked out from the human's nostrils, and he managed to rein in his panic enough to compose himself. He inhaled. Exhaled. 'My life is now forfeit. But damned if I am not killing all of you first.'

At the clear threat, one of the skink hunters released an arrow at Fichte. The human lifted a hand, and the projectile bounced off of nothing, then he adjusted his palm's facing and a gust of blue and pink fire burst forth, shot across the hall and wrapped itself around the skink who had tried to kill him. The skink screamed in pain, a scream that was quickly cut short.

Boney flinched back. He ignored the scent of burnt flesh, favouring instead to look to the ground until his eyes came to rest upon his sabre, lying where it had landed after he'd been disarmed. He scrambled forward and grabbed it, shouting out a warning.

'Horror.'

He'd never seen the spell but had been warned of the potential threat it represented. Those incinerated by the fell flame would be twisted into a slave of the Ruinous forces. True to what he'd been told, once the flame subsided, where there had been a skink was now a small deformed creature with luminous pink flesh, four spindly arms, and yet it looked nothing like what was described, for its form was a constantly twisting and undulating mass. But what had been described was also the most common shape that it seemed to return to with semi-regularity.

Its cruel eyes were locked upon Boney. The chittering daemon hopped on the spot, and Boney was forced to dive as a jet of eldritch fire projected itself at him. He felt the heat, close enough that he smelt the linen of his shirt heat near to the point of igniting.

Solin let out a hiss. His foot made a sweeping motion, and Sigismund's blade was sent sliding to its owner's feet. In response, Sigismund snatched the weapon from the ground, armed himself.

The Pink Horror was quickly subjected to a barrage of arrows from the surviving hunters. After the fifth arrow, its form crumpled, twisted, and split itself down the middle, forming two smaller Blue Horrors where before there had been a single pink. The Blue Horrors let out identical chortles and ran at the nearest targets, more of the skinks.

One leapt, latching onto an unfortunate hunter with its four arms. It continued to cackle while the skink shouted in pain and tried to force it from his person. The pained shouts grew more panicked as the seconds ticked past, and then there was a loud cracking sound, followed by a wet squelch and a cessation of the pained scream. The daemon didn't get a chance to revel in its kill; while it was still admiring the crushed skull of the hunter, one of the saurus charged, cleaving his blade through the daemon.

Fortunately, Blue Horrors didn't seem to share the trait of their pink counterparts and split into more daemons on death.

Unfortunately, there was still a second Blue Horror, which, having failed to catch any skinks—a combination of distance and the skinks rapidly back-pedalling away—chose to avenge its twin and leapt at the saurus. Unlike the first, this one didn't latch onto its target. Rather, the moment it made contact with the saurus, it exploded, turning into a miasma of swirling colour and energy.

The saurus gagged and retched as the energy washed over him. Soon the hall was filled with the sounds of bones splintering and cracking as they powdered and turned to clay, shaped by the corrupting influence of Chaos. In moments, where there had been a saurus, there was instead a wretched creature that had no mind, no will of its own, just a burning need to hate, and to destroy, maim, kill. A tumour-laden arm swept to one side, knocking aside a saurus and sending the large lizard flying. The mutant wretch let out a ghastly wail, a mixture of pain, fury, and despair all tied into that one high-pitched scream of agony. It lunged toward the downed saurus, saddled his prone body and started to slam its meaty appendages down, again and again, with earth-shaking force, the tiles beneath the pair cracking with the force of each impact.

The mutant was euthanised quickly. Another two saurus, these prepared for the threat, came forward to put it down while arrows were fired into any of the far too many eyes that chanced opening.

Boney turned his attention back to the sorcerer. Sigismund and Solin had both approached; whether by chance or design, they had circled in different directions, so the sorcerer was flanked between the two, one hand held and pointed toward Sigismund while he angled his body so that he could look between the two threats to his person.

Boney wondered if the reason he wasn't projecting more of his baleful fire was because he didn't want to leave himself exposed to the attack from the one he didn't target. Boney inhaled and held his breath, focused his senses through the mental wool and stuffing that clogged his senses, focused his arcane sight upon the sorcerer.

Now that he was looking for it, he could see/feel/perceive the barrier that the sorcerer was maintaining, even without the occasional arrow pinging off it. With his arcane sense still muffled, Boney strongly debated with himself on charging the sorcerer and offering support, forcing the sorcerer to have another threat to keep track of.

His arcane sense flared, the awareness of magics being cast noticeable even through the fog brought about by his earlier miscast. Sigismund managed to duck aside as another jet of foul fire burst forth, avoiding the fate which had befallen the skink hunter. A tapestry upon the wall burst into flames, a victim of the foul magic. A pair of saurus—only equipped for melee but unable to get close to the sorcerer, who had more dangerous threats already up close—rushed to douse the flame, to prevent a spread of the dangerous fires.

Boney cursed, hissed out soft expletives, and grabbed the nearest of the skink hunters by the shoulder.

'Come here.'

The skink neared, one eye resting upon the sorcerer even as he stepped next to Boney. The sorcerer had raised his arms, dragged more of his eldritch flame upward and surrounded himself with the blue and pink flames.

'Aim and shoot when I say,' Boney ordered the skink.

He barely heard the answering hiss, more aware of the arrow being pulled back against the string of the skink's bow. Boney focused on pointing his palm at the sorcerer, at forcing his arcane sense through the mental fog and slowly growing headache, at perceiving the foul energies that the sorcerer was enshrouded in.

'Steady, steady…' Boney wasn't certain whether the mantra was for the hunter or himself, but it was soothing for him while he forced his mind to perform whilst suffering the mental equivalent of pins and needles.

His mental grasp probed at the sorcerer's energies, gentle and careful not to be noticed. Once he had a good sense of what his arcane sense was picking up, he stopped being gentle and tugged.

'Shoot!'

The hunter released his grip. At that same moment, Boney's dispel took effect, the flaming cyclone was abruptly extinguished, and the barrier shattered just in time for the arrow loosed by the hunter to fly straight and true until it punched through into the sorcerer's chest. The sorcerer's arms slumped, his mouth open in an 'o' of shock.

The moment the scene was fully comprehended, Sigismund lunged forward and drove his sword down upon the sorcerer, stabbed his blade deep into his gut, and then pulled, forced the weapon out sideward. The sorcerer fell, left in a pool of his own blood.

Boney slumped to the ground. His head throbbed as the mental wool stuffing was torn away, leaving a migraine as his reward for pushing through the haze. His eyes drooped as exhaustion hit. The hunter was saying something, but sound faded into nothingness as consciousness left him.

#

Solin blinked at the arrow which abruptly punched into the sorcerer's chest, the way the air lost a vibration that had lingered at the edge of perception, unnoticeable until that moment it vanished, and the brutal way that the human captain cut down the sorcerer once it dawned on all that the chaplain's barrier had vanished. He didn't spend much time assessing the now-deceased chaplain. His attention was instead drawn to Boney, who stood, blinking, swaying on the spot, then slumped down, similar to the collapse of the animated armour in how he looked like a puppet with the strings being cut.

A momentary panic overtook Solin, and without a second thought, he sprinted over to the prone skink, carefully peeled one eye open to look at the amber orb beneath the lid. The pupil reacted to the light, but there was no awareness. The soft breaths escaping the skink's nostrils, quiet but strong enough that a palm in front of Boney's snout was able to feel them, managed to ward off the panic and replace it with a moment of relief, which was swiftly replaced in turn with irritation and a slight tinge of disappointment.

Solin released his hold on Boney's body, watched as the sleeping skink curled up. He pointed at the skink hunter, still standing where he'd loosed the arrow which had ended the battle. Said skink was looking worried. 'Ey, you. Erest.' When the hunter looked up at his name, Solin redirected his pointed finger to the sleeping major. 'Did the idiot just dispel? After he miscast earlier?'

The hunter nodded slowly. 'He miscast?'

'That hailstorm he created. No wonder he's out of it.' Solin hissed in slight irritation, then jabbed his finger seemingly at random towards others in the hall. 'Ey, you, you, you, and you. Keep an eye on the major. The rest of you, Sergeant Rood has command, finish clearing through the keep.'

The saurus sergeant led those placed under his command from the hall, exited through the door which Sigismund had entered through, other than the four that Solin had singled out, who instead moved Boney and propped him against one wall, out of the way of any who might potentially trip over him.

Solin turned to Sigismund, his eye automatically resting upon the longsword that the human still held. It was a far too familiar blade, one which had already once managed to kiss deeply at Solin's flesh. He opened his mouth, having not really finalised any decision as to what to do regarding the human. Unlike the majority of the garrison, he seemed to actually be aware and able to think for himself. He'd been loyal to the count, but not blindly so, he had pointedly refused the order to leave him to his fate.

Something about that whole scene had felt off, but Solin didn't know enough about Count Feyerabend to pinpoint why his mind itched.

Too convenient. He dies after dropping Fichte's name, points at a target that Sigismund honed in on. But dies right before saying anything else. But Fichte's reaction meant that he wasn't supposed to die, actually panicked at the idea.

There was a sound of feet hitting the ground, soft enough but with a distinct clicking that meant that it was either a skink or a saurus running toward him. Solin turned his head, just enough that he could see through the large doorway while still keeping one eye firmly locked upon the human captain.

Sergeant Kaiika slowed his pace as he spotted Solin, gave Sigismund a confused look but made the snap decision of accepting that if Solin hadn't killed him then he didn't need killing.

'Colonel, we have a problem. Mort needs you outside now.'

Solin tilted his head, confused. 'What?' What problem would have Mort requesting my presence? Curious, and concerned, Solin swung his zweihänder over his shoulder, sheathed it, and made to follow Kaiika as the other saurus started to lead the way. Solin did pause, however, and shot Sigismund a significant look. 'Well, come on then.'

'Excuse me?' Sigismund growled lowly. The sword in his hand was lifted, not quite into a ready stance, but one that said that the captain was expecting to need to defend himself in short order. 'Why should I go anywhere with you?'

'You have three choices,' Solin said in return. 'Either you come with me willingly, you come as a prisoner, or I kill you. I don't trust you enough to let you roam.' Not when there are only two in this fort I trust to be able to stop you if you decide to continue fighting against us.

Sigismund glared at Solin, eyes burning with a fury and hatred that did little to move the saurus. After a moment, the human spat upon the ground and then sheathed his blade, making it clear that he wasn't happy with the choices presented but preferred moving under his own power, even if it was only an illusion of freedom.

Outside the keep, Mort instantly cast a suspicious glare at Sigismund, but was quick to turn his attention back to Solin, while gesturing to another saurus, this one leaning against a large raptor that was resting its head upon his shoulder. Solin recognised him as one of Mort's cavalry-saurus, though they hadn't been involved in the siege of the keep, instead gone with Ingwel.

'Yackl here just gave us some bad news,' Mort started. 'We have a legion of undead making its way here.'

'How many?' Solin instantly asked. 'And how soon?'

'At the speed they were moving, they'll be here tomorrow morning,' Yackl answered, absently scratching the Cold One just above its eye. 'There are a lot of them, colonel, too many for you to fight on their terms.'

Solin's arms crossed, and a soft expletive was hissed under his breath. He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but he was cut off by a shout from the motte's surrounding wall.

'We have an army marching toward us.' Sharpe's tone was tinged with uncertainty as he called down to them. 'Looks like they'll be on us soon.'

Mort gave Yackl a dour look. '"Tomorrow morning" was it?' he asked in annoyance.

Solin ignored Mort's irritation, called up at Sharpe instead. 'How many undead?'

'They aren't.'

The eternity warden's jaws shut with a click. He shared a look with Solin, then both Oldbloods stared up at the wall. 'Well who are they?' he asked.

'I don't know, Mort. Shall I go down and politely ask them who they are and why they're marching toward this keep? I'm sure they'll answer all my questions with a nice cordial attitude.'

'Do they bear the colours of the Efror Guard?' Sigismund asked, holding a commanding tone as he asked the question despite being the stranger in their midst.

Sharpe briefly appeared, head poking over the edge of the wall to look into the courtyard. 'Who in Sotek's cloacae are you?'

Sigismund's expression pinched, but Mort pre-empted any argument with an impatient 'Answer the question, it's actually relevant.'

Sharpe's head disappeared again. 'No, I do not see any purples or boar heads on display. I see white, and I see black.'

'Not your men then,' Solin mused aloud. 'Well, let's go to the lower walls and greet the newcomers.'

The lower wall was still being manned by a combination of Sharpe's skirmishers and the skinks under Mort's command, with the salamanders that Ingwel had granted Mort use of moving back and forth with impatient snarls. The drawbridge had been lifted so there was no way through the walls without smashing down a portion of the same.

The question that Solin had was whether this approaching army had the means to smash down the walls. There was no way of knowing if they were even a threat; they could be another force sent by Middenheim regarding the information that had been given about the count's supposed enchantment. In light of recent events, Solin wondered about that. There was definitely a sorcerer, that was indisputable, but something still rang false about the whole scene.

A trio of figures broke away from the bulk of the army. A white flag was held up by one of the three, signalling that they were approaching with non-hostile intent. Mort snorted, his arms crossed and an expression of disbelief crinkling his eyes. Solin quietly agreed as the armour worn became recognisable. Heavy plate mail, fur-lined cloaks and helmets with large curved horns jutted out of the tops.

'Chaos,' Mort snarled, his grip on his sword tightening.

Solin nodded silently, eyes narrowed. He didn't stop examining the trio approaching, took note that the hell-forged armour, while very distinctly that of the warriors of Chaos—though not with any of the distinctive markings that labelled them as followers of any one of the Four in particular—was a bleached white instead of the usual dark grey.

'How did a Chaos war-band get this far south of the coast?' he asked after a while. 'We've not heard so much as a whisper of Chaos this deep into the Empire. At that size, we should have heard something.'

Mort shrugged. 'Maybe... they avoided contact until they achieved their goals?' It came as a question, because Mort didn't fully believe such a thing was possible. Chaos wasn't exactly known for showing restraint. They caused destruction, they raided, and they destroyed. Avoiding civilisation in order to reach a specific target unseen went contrary to what both saurus knew of Chaos.

The trio of Chaos warriors stopped a respectable distance from the walls. The one in the middle, larger and more imposing than the two flanking him, took another four steps forward and held up a hand in a gesture of apparent greeting.

'To whom do I speak?'

Solin snorted. 'Chaos worshipper being civil? Now I've seen it all.' With a shake of his head, he leaned forward, making himself more visible. 'I am the one in command of this hold. Who are you?'

The Chaos warrior tilted his helmeted head. 'A Lustrian commands this keep?'

Solin snarled softly as he endured yet another instance of being misidentified. After a moment, he relaxed his posture, and his eyes curved. When he opened his mouth to speak his next words, he put all the friendliness and cordiality he could into his tone.

'And you sold your soul to an abominable entity. How does it feel to strumpet yourself out like that? Because where I am standing, it makes you look sordid and lamentable. You'd have gotten more if you'd just stepped into a Marienburg house of ill repute. At least that way you'd've had some dignity left. Or did you already try that and get laughed out of Marienburg? I suppose the clients do have standards, low as they may be.'

The Chaos warrior seemed taken aback at the vitriolic barrage of words thrown at him with a tone as sweet as sugar. He turned to look at the pair he'd ridden forward with. After a moment he regained his wits enough to speak again.

'What are your kind doing in the Reik Basin?'

'Mind your own business,' Solin snapped, his feigned friendly voice dropped in favour of disdain.

The Chaos warrior shook his head and raised his voice, clearly losing patience. That he had had any to begin with was unusual, and Solin felt a need to continue prodding to see how deep this well was. 'You will open the gates and allow us entry, or we shall take it by force and make sure to make you suffer.'

'You don't frighten us, Chaos warg-humpers! I wipe my cloacae at you, toy of the Ruinous forces, you and your brain-dead waste-monkeys.'

'Look here-'

'You have naught to say that I want to hear and you bore me, you still-minded leakage of a latrine-ditch. Your mother was a troll and your father was legless.' Again, the Chaos warrior was left standing stupefied as Solin's verbal bombardment reached him. Solin stared down at the warrior in open challenge. 'Go away or I will sneer at you twofold.'

Solin pulled himself back, ducked out of sight of the Chaos war-band. He found himself being stared at by everybody nearby. Particularly insulting was the disparaging look that even a nearby salamander was shooting toward him. Mort shook his head and made a show of rolling his eyes heavenward, visibly trying to hide his amusement.

'Taunting the Ruinous forces now? You know, for how much you despise the Bretonnians, you certainly picked up on their flowery prose. The only thing you were missing was the accent.'

'It's the highlight of my day,' Solin commented glibly. 'And don't insult me by giving credit for my wit to the lady-botherers. I can be very sophisticated when I feel the need.'

Solin turned his head to watch while the three Chaos warriors retreated back to the massive army. Even though the bulk of the Chaos war-band still wasn't close enough to be counted as actually besieging the motte and bailey at that moment, they were still close enough that even if the entirety of the Legion's troops within the walls were at the gate right that moment, they'd still not be able to escape. Their numbers were such that even with the walls, if the war-band attacked, it was the Legion that would come out on the losing side of the argument.

'You couldn't have at least tried to find out what they are after?' Mort huffed after a moment.

'The real question to ask,' Sharpe mused thoughtfully, 'is how likely it is that they think our occupation force is larger than it actually is.'

Solin pulled his spyglass from his surcoat, aware that the two majors had pulled their own free. 'I don't care what they want,' he answered Mort while he extended the brass tube. 'It's Chaos. I'm not big on letting Chaos have what Chaos wants.'

'Good answer.' Sharpe's wry tone gave away his grin.

With his spyglass raised to his eye, Solin observed the war-band. Like the three warriors who had come for the parley, the warriors were all wearing armour that was white in colouring. More interesting was the image displayed upon the standards held by a number of the warriors. It was a skull over a six-pointed variation of the typical Chaos star. The skull was split into two, the left half white with black detailing, while the right side was the opposite, black with white detailing.

'I don't recognise those standards,' he admitted to Mort, who hummed in agreement.

'Nor I. The skull makes me think Khorne.'

'If they're associated with the former chaplain of this keep, then doubtful. The chaplain was a sorcerer.'

Mort let out a grunt at the reveal, body stilling for a moment as he registered that there had been a sorcerer within the keep, then relaxed as he took it for a fact that the chaplain had been killed.

'Iycan would be useful here right now,' Mort muttered in irritation.

'Wasn't he here?' Solin asked.

'He left during the night, after he made certain that the motte couldn't be sealed off from us,' Sharpe explained. 'He said something about investigating nearby caves.'

Solin hummed in acknowledgement, carefully adjusted his spyglass and watched the Chaos warrior who had been sent to parley with the castle. He had started talking to somebody, but the one he was speaking to was blocked from Solin's view, a large armoured troll standing in the way. He briefly entertained the idea that the Chaos warrior was talking to the troll, but for all that Solin looked dimly upon the intelligence of Chaos worshippers, they weren't so dim as to consider a troll an authority figure.

The troll moved, at the same moment the Chaos warrior stepped back with a deferential posture. Solin sucked in a breath as he took in the newly revealed Chaos leader. While to those unfamiliar with Chaos he looked like a more decorated Chaos warrior, cloak made of a finer material, more runic inscriptions, and a gait that spoke of being accustomed to being in charge, there was an unmistakable aura to this warrior.

His armour was a pristine white while the runes inscribed upon it were a gleaming gold. He looked clean, polished, but at the same time not, there were marks that should have been blemishes but somehow didn't look like dirt and smears. He almost evoked an image of a Grail Knight, less colourful, more jagged and spiky, but that same presence.

'Take heed,' Solin warned with an absolute seriousness to his tone. 'We are in the presence of an exalted champion.'

Sharpe's audible inhale gave away his nerves at the reveal. 'You are certain?'

'He's right,' Mort answered in Solin's stead. 'There is always something different about exalted champions. He fits.'

'Undivided or has he pledged?' Solin asked Mort, trying to find any mark of a specific Chaos entity. Other than the black and white skull, he couldn't see any identifying runes or marks.

'I want to say Undivided,' Mort said, slowly, 'but since when does a war-band of Chaos Undivided choose such a distinctive look?'

'But it also doesn't match any of the Four's usual looks,' Solin rebutted.

Any further debate was cut short as the Chaos champion began to advance toward the wall. Behind him were four lesser champions. Solin was interested to note that, in the brief examination he afforded them, they each fit the looks of a champion of one of the Four. About halfway to the walls of the motte and bailey, the four lesser champions stopped, held themselves back.

The exalted champion continued his advance, seemingly ignorant of the chameleon skinks aiming muskets at him from the wall. His horned helmet tilted, the slit that passed for a visor angled to take in the threat, but he didn't falter, so it wasn't ignorance; he was just ignoring the threat.

Was it arrogance? Or did he have some arcane defence against bullets?

He stopped his advance at the same spot that the original Chaos warrior had stood for the attempted parley. For a full minute, he stood there, staring at the wall, the only movement being his head pivoting back and forth along the wall's length.

In his hand, he held a large barbed blade, a wicked-looking thing that was clearly meant to inflict pain just as much as it was a weapon to kill his foes. It looked like it was forged not from metal, but from chitin, making it look as though he were wielding not a sword, but the stinger of an oversized hornet that had mutated into an even more maliciously cantankerous manifestation of hate than a hornet usually could claim.

After that minute of silence, the exalted champion lifted his blade, held it up as if in silent salute, then brought it down. With the downward chopping motion, the sky momentarily turned dark, not as if night had fallen in the span of a second, not as if there was a sudden moment of overcast skies blotting the sun. It was as if the very nature of light had reversed, and instead sucked away the colour and vibrancy of the world into an ink-stained grey and black.

When light returned, it was in the form of a bolt of energy roaring down from the sky and slamming into the gatehouse of the wall, which exploded on contact with this eldritch energy. The air returned to its normal vibrancy.

Solin watched this happen, watched the gatehouse turn to rubble, creating a hole in the wall surrounding the village, as well as forming a crude bridge over the surrounding moat. The skinks that had been atop the gatehouse were gone, dead. If there were any bodies left to show of their existence, they'd been thrown aside, and Solin hadn't seen where.

Behind the quartet of champions, the mass that was the Chaos war-band started to advance.

Even with the wall standing, it would have been a losing battle to defend against the war-band. Without the wall? Even with a chokepoint, the balance of power between the Legion occupation force and this Chaos war-band was even more skewed in favour of the war-band. And they couldn't count on the chokepoint being a chokepoint, not when their leader had the ability to just bring down a bolt of energy and destroy any fragments of the wall that tickled his fancy.

So, it was with utmost seriousness that Solin turned and shouted to those under his command.

'Fall back! Fall back to the keep!'

-TBC