Middenheim – Middenland
The past few weeks had been trying. Hardly a surprise, as events seemed to be happening in haste, as if each new moment of bad news was racing the other to win some arbitrary award for undermining all efforts at damage control. Undead marching across Middenland? Better bring in news that some little-known count was involved in some way. Sent off a mercenary legion to resolve the situation? Apparently, the sky decides to have a seizure.
That last detail was especially concerning. Rauscher had never seen the Winds of Magic before, had never wanted to see the Winds. He would wager that most sane people shared that desire, or lack thereof.
Not even a day after that horrifying moment, the Graf of Middenheim had been sent a missive from Altdorf, one bearing the Emperor's seal. The moment he saw that scroll, Rauscher didn't need to read its contents to know what it contained. Emperor Franz had no doubt witnessed the same event that the entirety of Middenland had—depending on how far that expanding ring of energy had traveled, it was entirely possible that there wasn't a single soul within the Reik Basin who hadn't borne witness—and he had summoned a council of the Elector Counts in response.
Smart—whatever else the Prince of Altdorf was, stupidity was not one of his flaws. It would have been easy for somebody far more arrogant or incompetent to ignore the other provinces. Instead, he called for a council. What this council was supposed to actually do, that was beyond Rauscher's comprehension. Maybe it was just a moment of consolidating what theories and intelligence those closer to the northern borders might have. Nordland and Ostland in particular might have more to share, what with being nestled against the Sea of Claws and Kislev respectively. It was possible they were privy to something that those to their south had missed.
Regardless of the why, it left Middenheim temporarily without its graf. Todbringer had left almost instantly, taking with him a retinue of state troops for the journey south to Altdorf. It wasn't like Middenland was now helpless—the graf's court had plenty of qualified individuals to run state affairs while Todbringer was away—but there was always a sense of discomfort in the city when the Grand Duke was away. And to Rauscher's mind, it was asking for problems to not have their highest authority at hand while the world seemed determined to give so many problems one after the other. It honestly wouldn't surprise him if at that moment they were told that the beastmen within the Drakwald had started another rampage, led by that one particular figure that the graf had become so fixated on killing. Though at least if that were to happen, then Todbringer would very swiftly turn around and return to Middenland.
A young man—still a boy really—approached Rauscher as he stalked the corridors of the palace, visibly hesitant to disturb Rauscher while he was stewing in his thoughts. Rauscher swallowed down a grimace and turned to face the lad properly, straightening his posture into something better befitting his station rather than the hunch he often adopted while deep in thoughts of a less than positive nature.
'Yes?' he asked, controlling his tone, keeping it somewhat mild.
'There are a couple of visitors looking to talk with you.' To his credit, the boy was able to hide away any nervousness in his tone, only the wringing of the hands gave lie to the apparent confidence.
Rauscher's eyes narrowed. 'And what about them requires that I take the time to indulge them?'
'One of them is the same man you spoke to a few weeks ago. Curly hair, big nose...'
Rauscher grimaced. 'Wearing a flat cap?'
The boy nodded. 'And a hooded frock coat.'
Understandable that the lad would mention that, as it was an article of clothing that implied some level of wealth or status. And certainly combined with everything else, it made it very clear who was being described.
Rauscher let out a soft sigh. 'And the other?'
The boy's face scrunched up, brows furrowed. 'Not a human.'
I had a feeling that would be the case. In the time after the last meeting with Iycan'ceya, Rauscher had taken the time to go through whatever records could be found of the Outland Legion, previously the Outland Company. Surprisingly sparse, for all that they had existed for going on five centuries—that was the earliest recorded instance at any rate, maybe they had existed earlier than that, but there were no records of them further back than that. They were constantly cycling between Arabi, Estalia, Tilea, and the Empire, though with sporadic visits to Bretonnia and Kislev. Maybe they visited other places, but Rauscher couldn't find any recorded instances of such. The deviations from their usual cycle never seemed to have any rhyme or outward reason, though each time it was noted that they almost immediately involved themselves in a large conflict or crushed an emerging threat before it gained traction or even the awareness of local lords, as if the Legion had been previously aware, or at the very least suspected the situation beforehand.
Rauscher had also taken the time to read up on what was known of the Lustrian lizardmen, despite Colonel Iycan'ceya's comment on the Legion not being Lustrian. What was known about the Lustrians was also sparse, and sometimes contradictory. Why did one city of Lustrians seemingly welcome visitors and let them leave with as much gold as could be carried, while another city was instantly hostile?
Helped put the comparison the colonel had made in perspective—they weren't a single culture, they had their own realms, or something akin to such. Too bad the term "Madrigallian" hadn't come up with anything no matter how much he searched. A land that no men had yet found, in the same vein as the New World before Marco Colombo had sailed the vast distance? Something to wonder about another time though.
Rauscher found his way to the same chamber where he had previously met with the representative of the Outland Legion. As before, Colonel Iycan'ceya was standing, foot tapping, the sound of which was definitely not that of leather against the ground in spite of what Rauscher's eyes would have him believe, but a distinct click-click-click. At first, Rauscher didn't see the other individual that was supposedly there to meet with him. It took a deliberate clearing of the throat for him to realise that he had walked right past the other one, who had been leaning against the wall to the side of the doorway he had entered through.
Rauscher had to quickly suppress a shiver as he took in the large reptilian figure eyeing him, taller than both he and Colonel Iycan'ceya. He wasn't openly carrying any weapons, but at that size, with those claws and those teeth, he likely didn't need weapons to be dangerous. A small part of Rauscher's mind had previously wondered whether Iycan'ceya was actually wearing clothing, or if it had been a part of the illusion he used to make himself look human. He no longer needed to wonder—the giant reptilian before him was garbed in simple slacks and an undershirt, with a heavy red overcoat worn over the top.
'Ah, Lord Rauscher.' Colonel Iycan'ceya beamed with a wide toothy grin. 'How good of you to see us so soon.'
Rauscher continued to stare at the large reptilian whose crimson eyes stared back. 'Colonel, I can hardly keep a guest waiting.'
Iycan'ceya hummed in acknowledgment. 'Allow me to introduce you to my superior. This is Marshal Ingwel'tonl.'
At his name, the marshal dipped his head once. 'Pleasure.'
This time there was no hiding the way he started in surprise. For as large as the pale green-scaled individual was, the voice didn't come across as he expected it. No raspiness, no harshness—it was a surprisingly normal voice, a mix of accents blended together, but that was hardly unusual; some of the smaller villages closer to province borders tended to have such accents. He could place the Marienbergese in the accent, but the other... Reiklandish maybe?
Another part of Rauscher's mind wondered how exactly the large lizardman had managed to traverse the city without making a spectacle of himself. The men of the Empire weren't the most tolerant sorts towards non-humans, even if the Empire was host to other races within the Provinces—Imperial dwarfs and halflings being the most well-known examples. Lizardmen? They didn't even share a basic human-esque appearance; point of fact: to the uneducated, the lizardmen actually better resembled daemons. Obviously, these particular lizardmen had perfected some method of managing to communicate with humans without pitchforks and torches getting involved, but to stroll through the city of Middenheim without causing a scene was quite the feat. Made sense for the colonel, who clearly had some talent with illusions, but the larger lizardman's lack of an illusionary disguise just made Rauscher ponder the minor mystery.
Rested atop one of the chairs surrounding the table was a large black mass of fabric. Rauscher peered at it questioningly for a moment, then dismissed it as unimportant. The lizardman's eyes narrowed and Rauscher got a sense that the large figure was amused. As a result, Rauscher's mood dipped.
'I assume you're here to report on Count Feyerabend.'
The grin left Iycan'ceya's face, and Ingwel'tonl's eyes shifted such that Rauscher no longer felt he was being laughed at.
'Yes.' Iycan'ceya crossed his arms. 'We have a problem.'
Rauscher's eyes lifted to the ceiling and the next words to leave his mouth had a tired exasperation. 'Of course we do.' He didn't even try to suggest that it was only the Legion's problem. After a moment where he mentally steeled himself, he looked at Iycan'ceya. 'Let's hear it then.'
It was Ingwel'tonl who answered. 'You have a Chaos Warhost in Middenland.'
Rauscher was glad that he wasn't drinking anything, but that didn't stop him from choking on his own spit. A feeling of dread pooled up in his gut, like a weight made of gromril settling in his stomach and making him feel sick. 'Excuse me?' He really hoped it was a misunderstanding, a mistranslation. 'I think we'd know about a Chaos incursion—they'd have to pass through Nordland or Ostland just to get to Middenland. Relations with our neighbours aren't so bad that we wouldn't be warned.'
Ingwel'tonl spoke, ignoring or just ignorant of Rauscher's burgeoning breakdown, which was barely held at bay. 'After my subordinates secured the Feyerabend keep, they found themselves then besieged by what was assumed to be a war-band of Chaos. They were after the keep themselves.' He didn't sound sympathetic.
'And you think this is actually a warhost?' Maybe he wasn't able to hide the desperation in the question, but with the subject matter, Rauscher wasn't about to fault his lack of emotional control. 'Surely if it was a Chaos Warhost we'd have heard of their approach, as I said earlier, they have to pass through at least one province to reach us, and Chaos has never been known for its subtlety.'
Iycan'ceya coughed into his hand. Rauscher chose to ignore the way the cough sounded suspiciously akin to the word "Tzeentch". Just a cough, must have a sore throat.
'To hear my brother word it? Warriors as far as the eye could see and then some, with daemons in their midst. There is no way that you can call it a war-band, not with those numbers, not with multiple exalted champions leading them.'
His breath left him, and with his limbs now starting to go numb from nerves at the prospect of being at the heart of an incursion of Chaos, he staggered to one of the chairs around the large table and all but fell upon it. If the numbers were even remotely akin to what his imagination was conjuring, this was... this was so far beyond him that it felt as though he were being mocked by any and all of the gods. What he'd done to deserve such mockery was beyond him, but clearly he had upset them somehow.
Of all the times for the graf to leave Middenland...
'Which one is this dedicated to?' If there was any mercy, this wasn't a unified warhost, for that would imply a new Everchosen.
Both of the Legion's officers shared a look with each other. Iycan'ceya let out a small huff and faced Rauscher fully. 'We don't know.' Iycan'ceya didn't sound pleased at the prospect. 'Their standards didn't have any of the typical iconography outside of the eight-pointed star. Mostly, it was a skull, half white and half black.'
It wasn't an image that Rauscher was familiar with, but he was the first to admit that he wasn't knowledgeable on the subject of Chaos and its followers. 'But you don't think it's a unified warhost?'
Again the pair shared looks, and Ingwel'tonl answered. 'Four of the five champions could have represented one each of the four Ruinous forces, but... something about them didn't make my subordinates think you have to worry about an Everchosen.'
Was he really that obvious? Then again, maybe it had been a concern for them as well, so they were answering their own concerns. 'So you know nothing?' He tried to redirect his feelings into annoyance at the lack of information, which made his voice come out sharper than he had intended.
'We know that the icon does have a history,' Ingwel'tonl said, voice low in warning, subtly warning against misdirected annoyance towards him or Iycan'ceya. 'And a name for the warhost: Malice.'
Rauscher paused, blinked once and then fully turned to look upon the disguised lizardman. 'What?' There was no disguising his confusion as he spoke that single word.
'The iconography belongs to what is known as the "Warhost of Malice".' Ingwel'tonl elaborated, laying down a stack of parchment upon the table and absently skimming the words inscribed upon them. 'They've also gone by the names "Sons of Malice" and "Warhost of Anarchy", but Warhost of Malice is the name most often used with that iconography.'
'And what does that mean?' Rauscher asked after a few long moments where he digested what he'd just heard and forced himself into a state of calm.
Iycan'ceya shrugged lightly. 'We don't know. We've never encountered this warhost in the past. That little that we know? This is second-hand information given to us over a century ago by tired soldiers who claimed to have survived a battle against them. I've sent a missive back to Tiamoxec wondering if those back home know anything that we don't, but even if they do, it'll take time before we hear back from them. We were actually hoping your library might have records on this Warhost of Malice.'
Rauscher bobbed his head absently, mentally making a note to have the palace library and vault searched for any reference of this Warhost of Malice. As much as he wanted to just dismiss any thought of it being a threat based on not being widely known off the top of his head, he wasn't a fool. Chaos, and those that worshipped it, were never to be underestimated.
The large lizardman, Ingwel'tonl, leaned over to the table, eyed the map of the Empire painted atop the surface and carefully placed a copper coin on the space that was roughly where the Feyerabend estate had been. A silver coin was then placed upon the border of the Drakwald.
'The undead are still a problem as well,' Ingwel'tonl then said. 'A large army of undead was seen leaving the ruins of Efror. The scout that was following them lost them after they turned and entered into the Drakwald.'
'You only had a scout following them?' Rauscher silently cursed himself—he wasn't trying to sound judgmental, but apparently his voice was determined to betray him today.
'Numbers.' Ingwel'tonl grunted softly. 'The undead were marching in two formations of a thousand. That's the undead that I saw, and while I can't say for certain, they didn't look as though they were puppeted.'
'What does that mean?' Rauscher asked incredulously, staring at the silver coin that clearly represented the undead and the last spot that they'd been seen. At least two thousand marching undead abominations, with more likely unseen or waiting to be raised.
'I'm not an expert in the various forms of undead,' Ingwel'tonl admitted but continued regardless. 'But... our experience? They have no will of their own, just the command of the necromancer, thus "puppets". Those that we saw? They looked to still have an awareness of their own.'
Iycan'ceya spoke up again. 'We also don't know if those Ingwel saw were the ones who were taken from the catacombs beneath the Feyerabend keep. Probably not.' At Rauscher's look of shock, the disguised lizardman shrugged. 'Morr's protection had been stripped away, and the bodies that should have been there weren't.'
'Graf Todbringer needs to muster the Middenland state troops, organise a strategy to cleanse the province of the undead as well as a plan of defence against the Chaos Warhost,' Ingwel'tonl informed Rauscher in a matter-of-fact tone.
'We can't do that.' It did not please Rauscher to say that.
The reptile's eyes narrowed and gleamed with irritation. Something about the look of the larger lizardman had Rauscher speculate privately that Ingwel'tonl was the sort whose anger was slow to rouse but dangerous once awoken—the type whose anger was cold and calculated. 'Excuse me? You have two threats within your borders; what possible reason can you have to not muster your forces?'
'Graf Todbringer is not currently in Middenland to give the order,' Rauscher answered irritably.
'Why would the Grand Duke of Middenland leave Middenland while he has a known threat roaming within?' Iycan'ceya snapped and then rolled his eyes to the ceiling. 'Don't tell me he's having another pissing contest with the one-eyed beastman?'
Somehow it did not surprise Rauscher that Graf Todbringer's feud with Khazrak the One-Eye was known to these mercenaries. Not with the way that they favoured knowledge over coin—something which had remained consistent about them all through those five centuries that they had a recorded history. But having that feud summarised as a "pissing contest" felt like it was dismissing the full scope of its nature.
'No, he was summoned to Altdorf by the Emperor, what with the sky exploding two weeks ago. You might have seen it—it was quite the spectacle.' Rauscher snapped, patience frayed and snapped from the nerves that had built up for the past few minutes. He chose to ignore the insinuation that Graf Todbringer would put his feud with Khazrak the One-Eye before his duties to his people while a more immediate threat was present. 'So, as it stands, nobody here has the authority to muster the state troops in the sort of numbers which can deal with two thousand undead—at a minimum—never mind a Chaos Warhost which you tell me has actual daemons among the worshippers. The most that anybody here right now has the authority to do, and which I will be making certain is done, is to have the Middenland state troops in a state of defensive readiness whilst we try to get in touch with the graf.'
Both of the Legion officers were still, eyes wide as they stared at him while his breath heaved in harsh huffs.
'You're right,' Iycan'ceya finally spoke. 'We were so focused on the immediate threat that we didn't think what the reaction to the maelstrom would be.'
Rauscher inhaled a deep breath, held it, before he then slowly let it out. 'What do you know of the sky exploding?'
Iycan'ceya shrugged. 'About as much as you, maybe less—your wizards have access to a store of knowledge where they might have found some record that could give clues.'
'Nothing.' Rauscher shook his head. 'All anybody with witch-sight or educated in the colleges of magic has been able to say is that when the maelstrom passed them, they felt a sense of loss.'
Iycan'ceya nodded slowly, his eyes glimmering with recognition. 'That's about what we know.'
Ingwel'tonl tapped his fingers upon the surface of the table. His eyes were clouded with thought. He seemed to look at the coin representing the Chaos Warhost, then to the coin representing the Undead. After ten seconds had passed, he turned back to Rauscher.
'Right now, with the graf not here, you are our client. Which way do you want the Legion to focus? The warhost or the undead?'
Rauscher looked between the two coins, much in the same way that the large lizardman had just moments prior. 'I'll get back to you on that. First, I need to have the library checked for any mention of this Warhost of Malice. I will send a messenger to your camp once we have a direction to point you.'
Both of the Legion officers nodded in acknowledgment of his words and the unspoken dismissal. They left the parchment and two coins resting upon the surface of the table, perhaps in their own unspoken reminder of the threats represented.
#
For all that the modern county of Efror was almost entirely farmland, besides the now destroyed keep of the Feyerabend family, there was a town within the county borders. It rested at the very edge of the county of Efror, such that most people didn't even realise that it was actually under the domain of the now deceased Count of Efror.
Dryad's Fell, so named for a tale that a tree spirit had been felled upon that very ground, its body the foundation for the town to be built upon. It was stuff and nonsense—why would a dryad be so far from Athel Loren? Maybe dryads could be found within the Drakwald, but surely if that had ever been the case, the beastmen would have eradicated them long ago.
Sigismund honestly did not care for the tales that the townspeople told to try and make their home seem even more impressive than it really was. The truth, as far as Sigismund was concerned, was that the town of Dryad's Fell was where the survivors of the city of Efror had gathered, and that then expanded into a town in the century since.
Sergeant Gerwin met Sigismund just outside the town's palisade, dark eyes instantly roving up and down Sigismund's form as he approached. Sigismund chose to ignore the way the sergeant's eyes momentarily lingered on the hilt of the sword gifted to him, no doubt recognising the boar-shaped pommel.
'Captain,' he said with a nod, though his forehead creased and he scanned around as if expecting Cruniac to also be nearby. 'What news?'
'The count is dead and the keep has fallen.' Sigismund's tone was terse, but he swallowed back all of the anger he was feeling into a pit in his gut, didn't direct it at his most trusted subordinate, not when it was supposed to be self-directed.
'Fallen?' Gerwin's eyes widened. 'To whom?'
'First it was the Outland Legion, at the behest of Middenheim. But they didn't get to keep their spoils for long... they were attacked in turn by a Chaos Warhost.'
'Chaos, here?!'
'Yes.' Sigismund bowed his head, swallowed back another surge of self-directed hatred, a feeling that everything he ever felt attachment to was destined to burn. 'But they were unlike any Chaos warriors I fought before.' He shook his head, tried to put to words the way that these warriors had been different from those he'd fought years past. Unfortunately, it wasn't something he could put words to, and simply mentioning their armour didn't feel adequate—it would be focusing on the aesthetics, not the aura, not the air about them.
Instead, Sigismund changed the subject. 'Before his passing, the count gave a final order. Tell me, does the name Pugna Textrix mean anything to you?'
Gerwin tilted his head and hummed absently, then mouthed the name silently. 'Not in particular.'
Sigismund grit his teeth, his anger slowly breaching his efforts to keep it contained. Swallowed again. 'We've been charged with finding and killing the one that goes by that name.'
'Not much to go on,' Gerwin mused, ignoring the glower sent his way at stating the obvious. 'What would you have us do while we research and attempt to track down this individual?'
That was a good question. There were two threats roaming the lands, and Sigismund had an unfortunate sense that the recent phenomenon regarding the sky meant that Middenland wouldn't be focusing on either of those threats, but instead on whatever the spectacle was a precursor to. If that spectacle hadn't occurred, then the Graf of Middenheim would no doubt be mustering the state troops to combat the Great Enemy. But right now? The best that Sigismund could hope for was that the Middenland state military was on a defensive alert. Unfortunately, that would only really protect the main cities of the province, not the villages, not the common folk.
A part of Sigismund wanted nothing more than to have the guard charge into battle against the Chaos warhost, but that was a battle destined for failure, even if he played it smart. There were simply too many within that warhost. If Ulric was smiling upon them, the warhost would divide itself into smaller forces and split into multiple directions in an effort to cover more ground. Should that happen, then and only then would the Efror Guard be able to start making an effort against them.
If he was lucky, those lizardmen would be tasked with pushing against the white-armoured warriors and their daemons. At least it would keep them both occupied and out of Sigismund's life for a time.
'What do you have to report on the undead?' he asked.
Gerwin crossed his arms and stared into nothing. 'We found a large force of undead. And these weren't just zombies and skeletons... I think they were grave guard.'
Sigismund held up a hand, momentarily cutting off Gerwin so that he could speak. 'I've not had experience with the undead, you'll have to explain what grave guard are.'
'It's the term we used for a particular type of skeletal warriors,' Gerwin explained patiently. 'A priest of Morr once told me that they still have their souls—or at least a fragment—still trapped within their bodies. They still move and fight as they did in life; they aren't just bodies found and raised to be discarded. Worse still, these ones? They're wearing the uniforms of the Efror Guard from the time of the razing.'
There was a slight chill that went down Sigismund's spine. After joining and being granted command of the Efror Guard, he had done everything he could to have them reach a peak standard that could rival even the state troops of Middenland, or his original home of Nordland, in spite of the outdated armour and lack of modern weapons. But he had heard of the Efror Guard during the time of the Mad Count Adelbreckt. If these were raised guardsmen from that time period, with all the skill they'd had back in those days? They would potentially be rivalling Sigismund's command.
'So far, the only good thing we observed was the lack of vargheists or varghulfs,'—Gerwin quickly waved aside Sigismund's look with a promise to elaborate further later—'or even anything that looked like they could be vampires. If we're lucky, we're just dealing with a human necromancer with an obsession with Old Efror.'
'And if we're unlucky?'
Gerwin's face scrunched into a grimace. 'We're looking at a powerful vampire who is also clever enough to hide anything identifiable as vampiric.'
Even with his lack of experience regarding the undead or vampires, Sigismund was still versed enough to recognise that a vampire lord would be bad news, enough so that he shared Gerwin's hopes that such wouldn't reveal itself to be the one causing trouble.
'Unfortunately, we're outnumbered.' Gerwin started again, scratching at the corner of his mouth. 'Before we even account for the zombies and skeletons that are naught but chaff to be thrown at us, we are outnumbered.'
'Outnumbered by undead, outnumbered by Chaos.' Sigismund crossed his arms and stared up at the night sky. 'Damned either way.'
'Damned either way,' Gerwin parroted in agreement.
Sigismund stared at the town, the thick stone walls that were likely the only reason that Dryad's Fell was the last settlement of Efror still remaining after all the farms and the keep had been put to the torch. It was a sturdy enough defence that the undead wouldn't have had an easy time of just leveling the settlement without notice from other parties, and with the confusion as to whether the town was part of the county or not, maybe there had been concern about attracting the attention of Middenland too soon. However, walls or no, there was no doubt that once the Chaos Warhost finished with whatever it was doing at the ruins of Keep Feyerabend, Dryad's Fell would be leveled shortly after, for no other reason than it being in their path.
'Gather up every able-bodied man and woman, conscript them into the guard. Mothers, children, and invalids, have them escorted to Norderingen. For the time being, the guard will stay here at Dryad's Fell. We'll train everybody conscripted as much as we can before we start moving out. We'll use that time to work out a strategy or work out what our enemies are actually trying to accomplish.'
Gerwin hesitated for a moment, his lips tugged downward in not-quite disapproval, more from concern than anything else. 'Are you certain? If you do this, there won't be a county of Efror any longer.'
'This town and those within it are all that remains.' Sigismund snapped, his anger at everything happening finally boiling over such that he could no longer hold it back. Despite the sharp tone, Gerwin didn't so much as flinch. 'Once this town falls, and it will fall, there won't be anything left regardless. The farms are gone, the keep is rubble. We get those who can't fight to the safety and protection of Middenland, and then we work on destroying those responsible. First the undead, then Chaos if the provinces haven't yet dealt with them, and Pugna Textrix once we learn who or what he is.'
Gerwin remained stationary for a further six seconds, eyes staring intently at Sigismund. After those six seconds had passed, Gerwin gave a sharp nod and raised his hand, pressing it to his breast in a salute. 'By your command, my lord. I will see to the conscription personally.'
And thus he turned, marching with purpose into the town proper with a resolute expression. Sigismund watched him go, before he then sighed, his anger momentarily warped into self-recrimination over the order that he knew was about to permanently split apart families. He remembered momentarily his own feelings as a youth forced into service by Nordland against the raiders from across the Sea of Claws, and the confrontations that had come from those battles against the Great Enemy.
He was doing the right thing. He was defending his home. If not his chosen home of Efror, then he was protecting the Empire as a whole. It was a duty that he must perform, a service toward a greater good, but that knowledge didn't take that sour taste from his mouth.
#
The skies roiled with red, as though mirroring the blood pooled upon the ground. He looked up, he watched as a monstrous figure towered over all beneath it, teeth gleaming, dripping with saliva. Its flesh rippled in time to its movements, heavy weapon readied.
The creature was felled quickly. The armoured figure responsible for the killing blow roared in challenge, hefted its warhammer and peered around the field of battle. Somehow its golden form was clean and unblemished in spite of the mud and the blood and the defecation that littered the ground.
A greenskin bellowed in answer to the challenge, charged and was swiftly brought low as the golden figure swung the mighty hammer in its hand, blank expressionless battle mask contrary to the screaming of a righteous god's fury. The scion of the storm turned, peered at the spawn of Chaos that battled against the gold figure's brothers. Another roar of righteous hatred, the gold figure charged, hammer swinging even as the prince that the warrior aimed to fell turned, its glowing gaze fixing upon the warrior with blood-fuelled glee and screamed in eternal hatred as it responded to the challenge and swung its weapon in response. The weapons both connected with their intended targets...
Boney sat up sharply, fighting against the gag reflex that wanted him to expel the contents of his stomach. It was a losing battle; he was quick to recognise that. He stumbled, fell from the cot he had been sleeping upon and dragged himself toward a nearby bucket, barely managing to get his snout over the edge before he lost his battle against his own body's desires. Vomit exited, hitting the bucket. But even after, still the skink found himself heaving despite having nothing left to give as tithe to the bucket.
Five minutes, maybe longer, he remained hunched over this bucket before finally he was able to breathe normally, though every time his mind drifted toward the night-tale he had just borne witness to, his body tried to reignite that gag reflex. It was irrational—it wasn't like there was a physical reason for it—but yet his body wanted so hard to rid itself of even the memory of that night-tale that it was trying to force it through any means available.
Another few minutes were spent simply laying on the floor, his head still halfway into a metal bucket that was supposed to be full of water for washing himself. Contaminated now.
Fully awake, and starting to take note of the smell that came from his previously stomach-held contents, Boney picked himself up and grabbed the bucket, mind already reminding him where the latrine ditch had been dug. Best to empty the bucket and then wash it out.
The hour was late, with the only sources of light coming from the scattered fire pits around the camp, and the twin moons, one a sickly green that Boney pointedly ignored lest his gut play up again. It was embarrassing enough to be so sickened by a dream of all things; he wouldn't make the mistake of peering at Morrslieb.
Got a few curious looks from those of the Legion charged with keeping watch at that hour, but nobody asked questions; they simply left him to his business. He found the ditch, poured the contents of the bucket within, and then made a hasty retreat. He really had no desire to linger.
Once he was done, he found himself wandering around the camp aimlessly, too awake now to return to sleep so quickly. Also didn't particularly want to chance experiencing the same dream again while it was still fresh in his mind, as much as he tried not to linger on the strangely vivid image of the warrior in golden armour. Couldn't think of what had sparked that image in his resting mind. The armour hadn't looked like any he had yet encountered.
Boney was stirred from his restless musings by voices. He stilled, head unconsciously tilting to the side as he tried to make out what was being spoken.
'-into the Drakwald?'
'I'd prefer we avoid going in there. The brayherd never take kindly to large numbers going off the road, and fighting them within their territory is asking for trouble.'
'As Todbringer can attest to.'
There was a low chuckle. At that point, the two conversing rounded the nearby tent. Neither Colonel Iycan nor Marshal Ingwel seemed to notice Boney—they were so intent on their conversation.
'So, what do we do if we're asked to hunt the undead?' Iycan asked after a pause.
'Well, we'll obviously have to enter the Drakwald whether we want to or not.' Ingwel shrugged. 'We've just got to be careful and move slowly with five eyes in every direction. Though that's assuming the undead don't leave the Drakwald first. I'll probably task Sharpe with scouting and finding our undead menace before going in force.'
Iycan grunted and crossed his arms. 'Trying to lessen the amount of time we'd be in there? Smart.'
'Sensible,' Ingwel countered, then peered off to one side. 'At this point, I'm surprised the Empire hasn't burnt down the entirety of the Drakwald, with everything hiding in there.'
Iycan hissed out a laugh. 'They've probably considered it at least once. They've probably abstained because they have no way of knowing whether they'd make things worse for themselves in the same way that burning Laurelorn would.'
Ingwel tilted his head and gave a sound of agreement. Boney wondered what the significance of Laurelorn was, why it was that the humans burning it would cause them to be in a worse position. He filed that away as something to wonder about another time.
Ingwel said something more to Iycan and then stalked away, one hand waving in a quiet gesture over his shoulder. Iycan watched him go with crossed arms, and then turned his head such that he was looking directly at Boney.
'Couldn't sleep?'
Boney bit back the startled hiss that wanted to escape him. Instead, he stepped forward. 'Not really.'
Iycan gave a soft hum of thought and moved toward a nearby cart, almost absentmindedly searching under the canvas covering. 'Hah, well. Would have thought it early days yet for you to be having night troubles, but then I suppose being witness to a Chaos warhost would cause restlessness in anybody sane, Child of the Gods or not.'
Boney opened his mouth, ready to point out that his dream wasn't related to Keep Feyerabend, but then closed it and gave a sheepish shrug. Considering a daemon prince had been involved in the night-tale, he couldn't really argue that it wasn't, even if Chaos had just been one small portion of the imagery, alongside orcs and skaven and undead. However, the main focus had been that golden warrior and the others like him, which near as Boney could tell had no real-world counterpart.
Several glass bottles were eased out from the cart, alongside a small wooden box. Iycan eyed them speculatively. 'Hmm, we have Bretonnian brandy, Kislev vodka, rum from Sartosa, and...'—he opened the small box and took a small sniff at the contents—'Cathayan tea. Which would you like to try?'
'Ah...' Boney's hands were waved in a gesture of uncertainty. 'What's what?'
'The brandy is fruity… I think this one is apple flavoured.' As he spoke, Iycan twisted the cork from the top and inhaled deeply of the scent. 'Ah, no, white grape. The vodka is more a spiced brine-water, those that like it do so less for the taste, more the feeling. The rum is sweet, with some spice to it.'
'And the tea?'
'Isn't alcohol and needs to be heated. Think of the chocolate back home, but less bitter, more... flowery?' Iycan trailed off as he tried to work out how to describe the taste to somebody with no comparable experience to compare.
Remembering some of Coadmit's odd warnings on that night and day they'd been travelling toward Tallow Farm, a time that already felt far too long ago, Boney opted against the alcoholic choices for the time being, gesturing lightly toward the box that held the green tea.
'Probably the best choice,' Iycan mused aloud.
Despite his choice of words, it hardly stopped him from taking a quick swig from the still-open bottle of brandy before then putting the cork back into the neck and depositing it with the other two bottles. Wordlessly, he moved to the nearest fire pit and set to work heating some water.
'So, any thoughts or questions?' Iycan asked as he worked.
'About?'
'Anything.'
Boney remained silent for a moment, searching through his mind for anything he might want to voice to the elder skink.
'How powerful are you? Magically?' He finally settled on.
'Why do you ask?' Iycan asked in return.
'You're a founding member of the Legion—that was five hundred summers ago. You're still alive despite your age.'
It had been something subtly nagging at the back of Boney's mind. Skinks weren't blessed with such longevity as saurus or kroxigors. Those gifted with magic had the potential to last beyond their normal lifetime, no matter their race, so it was hardly unheard of that there were those skinks who were blessed by the Old Ones to live far in excess of their usual lifetime, but it was a given that eventually even those such gifted skinks would pass. Longer than five hundred summers was near unheard of.
Iycan's eyes narrowed into a grin. 'No I'm not.' He chuckled softly at the bemused expression that Boney shot him. 'I'm not the founding member. I took the name when I replaced his replacement. Same as my predecessor did. I am Iycan'ceya the Fourth, if you want to be specific.'
Boney blinked, taking a moment to comprehend what he was hearing. 'Why?'
Iycan shrugged. 'When the first Iycan passed from his old age, we hadn't had any plans on how to go forward with his replacement as the keeper of knowledge and intelligence. His successor chose to take the same name in order to prevent confusion with contacts and people of interest we were in communication with. But that second Iycan was killed not even three summers after he took the mantle, so my predecessor salvaged what he could and dedicated himself to making sure that there was continuity even in the advent that it wasn't age that killed an Iycan'ceya. He passed thirty-three winters ago, and I've been Iycan'ceya ever since. It's just become tradition that the right hand of Marshal Ingwel'tonl be renamed Iycan'ceya and acts as if they've always been the same person.'
'So, who takes your role if you pass on?'
'I have a number of trained successors with a clear chain of succession.' Iycan poured the now heated water into a smaller container alongside leaves from the box of tea. Boney didn't miss the fact that the question wasn't actually answered. 'It's hardly a secret among us. If I'm lucky, I'll be around for another sixty summers; I think I'm gifted enough to last that long.'
Now there was a new question in Boney's mind that spawned from what he had just learned. 'So… What about Yade-to? He was a founding member and he must have passed recently if I'm his replacement.'
Iycan clicked his tongue disapprovingly. 'Firstly, don't refer to yourself as his replacement. It's demeaning to yourself to think that your purpose is to fill the space left behind by Yade-to. We aren't expecting you to be a copy of him.' Then the Right Hand of Ingwel deflated. 'And yes, Yade-to was that powerful. So strong that he died of old age at five hundred and seventy summers. More than five times our average life expectancy.'
Boney huffed out a bemused laugh. 'Why was he a major and not a colonel if he was so powerful?'
Iycan hummed. 'From what I understand, Solin was tasked with the position of colonel over Mort and Yade-to specifically because he was the one with the most intimate understanding of warmbloods and what we needed to do to adapt in order to fulfil our given role.'
There was a trace of amusement to Iycan's tone as he spoke that last part, which had Boney wondering what it was that the other skink hadn't said aloud. After a momentary pause, Iycan took a quick look at the cup in his hands and must have deemed it ready for he then passed it to Boney. Boney examined the liquid with faint curiosity—had never seen green liquid before, certainly never been expected to drink it. The closest comparable substance he could conjure up was mulched fruit, but this tea certainly didn't have the same scent to it. A careful sip had his eyes narrow in pleasure.
'So, bad dreams?'
Boney grunted, his mind unconsciously redrawing a recreation of the scene from his night-tale. 'Strange and disturbing.' And real enough in the feelings conjured that my body reacted accordingly, he didn't say.
'It'll get better, with time.' Those five words were uttered with a certainty that implied experience. 'Far too many of our kind seem to think us immune to the mental strain that comes from enacting the Great Plan. Fools, the lot of them. If only we could get Muja to lecture them.'
'Muja being the kroxigor that is also a healer?' Boney asked to both refresh his own memory and to help cement the fact into his mind through repetition.
Iycan nodded. 'And not stupid. Muja started his career as a healer by focusing on mind healing and being an emotional support for any saurus and skinks who suffered from battle shock.'
And from there, the kroxigor had clearly expanded his skill set to aiding physical ails. It was likely only an option for Muja because he was so clearly aged. Just a look at Muja made it clear he had lived at least a thousand summers, likely more. It wasn't a slight against kroxigors to say that the younger examples of their kind did not have the attention spans, nor the physical dexterity for such a role, but the longer a kroxigor lived the more patient and better at focus they got. Most by that time were committed to their role as the muscle, be it as fighters or as the heavy-lifting assistants for artisans and builders. But Muja was clearly determined to make his own choice in life, and with the obvious gentleness that the giant reptile was capable of—Boney did still remember the mock blood bowl game a month ago, and the care that Muja had taken to not accidentally harm the skinks on the field with him—then Boney would certainly not begrudge the kroxigor taking up a role as a healer.
Boney finished the last of the tea, looked mournfully at the cup as though doing so would magically gift him more of the drink. Iycan chuckled softly, and took the cup.
'I'll sort it. You should try to catch up on your sleep now that you're relaxed again.'
Boney reluctantly agreed, and with a sigh picked himself up and started to make his way back to his sleeping space.
#
Ingwel was awakened by a sharp tapping on the wood of the wagon that was for all intents and purposes his office, which also doubled as his sleeping chamber. With an annoyed grunt, he lifted himself from the floor and pulled aside the canvas flap that was the closest thing he had to a door. His spawn-brother matched his unimpressed stare with one of his own.
'What is it?' Ingwel asked with a low hiss that suggested that he considered it far too early to be bothered by anything short of a Lord of Change on the rampage.
Solin looked like he shared the sentiments about the time. A small indication of the apparent importance of the reason for waking was swiftly made evident by the fact that the other saurus was not wearing his surcoat, which made him look smaller—leaner, Ingwel corrected himself—than normal.
'A human just arrived in the camp. A messenger from the palace.'
Ingwel rubbed at the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger, took a moment to take a deep breath and mentally steady himself. 'Ok, I'll see him in a moment. I assume he's been escorted to the main tent?'
At his brother's nod, Ingwel released his grip on the canvas and stalked over to his clothing, hurriedly pulling on the garments before marching to the tent that was used for meetings with the entirety of the commanding elements of the Legion, or for speaking with clients and outsiders. By the time he arrived, he didn't look at all like he'd been hurrying to dress himself—looked every part the immaculate officer that warmblood nobility expected of anybody in a position of leadership.
He was surprised to learn that the messenger in question was none other than Rauscher himself, rather than an actual messenger ferrying a missive. Accompanying Rauscher was a large human in the robes of a wizard, and vivid orange hair that gave away just which college he had learnt at. Iycan, Mort, and Solin were also in the tent. Rauscher's attention was fixed upon Iycan, probably committing the appearance of a non-disguised version of the colonel to memory. It was certainly a difference if one was used to the illusion.
'Three days,' Ingwel said by way of greeting, gently tugging at the hem of his shirt to remove any potential creases. 'I hope you have something for us.'
Rauscher gave a small nod and lifted a tube, the sort that was used to transport parchment safely. 'Our perusing the library had some results.' The tube was carefully upended, the parchment inside allowed to slide into the waiting hand of Rauscher.
There was no disguising the naked curiosity that Iycan levelled upon the parchment—didn't even need to be well-versed in reading the expressions of the Children of the Gods to be able to tell that the skink was only barely restraining himself from moving closer to take the scroll and read its contents.
Rauscher flattened the parchment on the simple table in the middle of the tent, carefully watched over by the wizard, though whether the wizard's concern was the parchment or the man, Ingwel couldn't tell. Once unrolled and flat for reading, even a cursory glance piqued the interests of all.
The etching of a skull, half shaded, was very familiar to three of those who looked upon it; to Ingwel, it was only familiar by description.
It was the wizard who spoke. 'This is everything we've found on the warhost that calls itself "the Sons of Malice".'
'The Sons of Malice,' Mort parroted. Ingwel picked up something in the Eternity Warden's tone that was subtle enough that the two humans likely wouldn't have heard it, probably couldn't even if it hadn't been suppressed. Ingwel wondered if it was the human's choice of the name Sons rather than Warhost that had the other saurus looking like he'd just swallowed a live hornet.
The wizard gave a single shallow nod. 'I won't pretend to be an expert in Chaos or the realms of such. But I am aware that there are more entities within than just the four that we all hate.'
Solin grunted in agreement. 'Yeah, we have a Horned Rat, Hashut...'
Iycan was quick to add 'Arkhar, Lanshor, the Great Beast...'
Rauscher looked ill at the mention of five entities that weren't the four well-known and despised Gods of Chaos. The wizard looked no better, though was better able to keep himself composed despite the clear discomfort.
'Yes, well... My point is the Sons of Malice are followers of one such entity.' The wizard leaned forward and tapped his finger on the parchment, in particular upon some script written in sharp strokes of the quill. 'It has gone by many titles: the Lost God, the Rejected God... the Hierarch of Terror and Anarchy. The last century, it has gone by the name "Malice".'
'I never would have worked that out, it was so subtle.' Solin huffed in bemusement, though his narrowed eyes showed that he was taking the information he was hearing seriously. His tone changed abruptly as he tacked on 'So why haven't we heard of it before?'
Rauscher was the one to answer with a tight, strained smile that was devoid of humour or any real positive feeling. 'Because, typically followers of Malice aren't our problem—they very rarely leave the Chaos Wastes.'
The wizard continued. 'One thing that all the scholars agree upon is that Malice's first and most pressing adversary is the Four. Whenever it gains the strength to enact any form of influence—every time Malice can exert any of its will to the mortal realms—it wages war on the followers of the Four with fury, and then whenever it seems on the cusp of victory... it weakens inexplicably and is defeated shortly after. That part, no scholar has come to a reasonable conclusion on.'
'A cyclic entity,' Iycan mused aloud. 'Grow in strength, wage war only to have victory snatched away. Wait and repeat.'
'No wonder it's called Malice—I think I'd be feeling pretty malicious if that was my existence,' Solin hissed.
'You say its followers rarely leave the Wastes?' Mort prodded the conversation back on topic.
Rauscher, eyes skimming the scroll even though he must have read it before deeming it important enough to take from the library and make the journey to the Legion's camp, gave a shallow nod. 'Rarely, but they do on occasion come south. They still typically prioritise fighting other Chaos warbands and undermining their efforts, but they don't align themselves with the Empire or Bretonnia or any other southern realm—they still attack us just as much as any other Chaos follower.'
'But that doesn't explain why they focused on the Feyerabend Keep,' Ingwel pointed out.
The wizard's bobbing head suggested agreement with the inconsistency. 'The theories that I can come up with are that this isn't actually the work of the Sons of Malice, but an effort to have us direct our attention away from the real perpetrators.'
Solin, now leaning over the parchment, albeit forced to read it upside down from his position, visibly grimaced and pointed at a particular sketch upon the parchment. 'Doubt it, unless you can think up a reason for what this says are daemons specific to Malice being amongst their numbers.'
Ingwel examined the motioned sketch and blanched at the disgusting visage that met him. It had a vaguely insectoid appearance, but with cloven hooves and, according to the sketch, the daemon had a tail, which at its end had another head, this one almost feminine-looking, and with twin barbed pincers emerging from what would have been the neck had the head been attached to a normal body. Ingwel had faced down Nurglish daemons and thought them about as revolting as could be. These daemons of Malice were a different kind of revolting—the kind that came from his mind just crying out at the wrongness of the appearance.
The wizard sighed and shook his head. 'Which means that this warhost has a purpose. Now whether that purpose is to deny the rest of Chaos an asset, or that they believe that they'll find a weapon of some sort, that I couldn't even begin to guess at.'
Rauscher placed the tube which had stored the parchment upon the table. 'Keep it,' he said, waving at the parchment. 'This was a copy I had made of the original. Consider it payment for your efforts at the keep and for warning us of this new threat.'
Ingwel's head jerked up to look upon Rauscher. Considering that they'd technically failed at the keep, he hadn't considered asking after a fee, but then, he supposed that delivering news to Middenheim that they had a Chaos warhost on their lawn was itself worthy of being rewarded with knowledge in kind.
The wizard didn't look pleased, copy of the original or not, but any protest that he might have had was swallowed down. With a great sigh, the orange-haired wizard pointed coughed into a closed fist, which had Rauscher jerk as if jolted by a chill.
'That's not all we have for you.' Now his tone turned slightly more professional. 'Yesterday, we were host to a band of warriors who have been tracking an army of the undead. They chose to depart swiftly after they delivered their news.'
'I assume this is the same undead that plagued the county of Efror?' Ingwel asked without any apparent irony in his tone.
'The very same. By all accounts, the undead have stopped their raiding behaviour entirely. In fact, they ceased the same day that Fenchel was allowed asylum within Middenheim, which lends credence to the idea that they were being used to hunt for him.'
Mort rumbled wordlessly for a moment. 'It also suggests they have somebody in the city that reported that the child is there.'
'Unfortunately true,' Rauscher acknowledged with a downward turn of his mouth. 'A part of me had hoped that with the count of Efror and the chaplain sorcerer dead that the undead would cease to be a problem, but you and these warriors both reported the undead moving even after both were slain.'
It was a bit of a stretch to call Count Feyerabend "slain" if the reports of Solin and Boney were anything to go by, but Ingwel chose not to make a fuss out of that particular choice of wording.
'And with the nature of the undead's "recruitment", they could feasibly attack Middenheim itself at some point in the future, if they deem the capture of Robert Fenchel to be such a priority. Did you get no clue as to why he was so wanted?'
Solin shook his head, arms crossed. 'I didn't exactly get the chance to question either the count or the sorcerer before the sorcerer started flinging fire at us. My impression was that the count was being controlled, fought against it and died as a consequence. The sorcerer was convinced that his life was now forfeit as a result.' The Oldblood tilted his head. 'Whether that was fear of the warhost or something else? No idea.'
Rauscher grimaced. 'Either way, we need you to crack down on the undead. While the Chaos warhost is a more visible threat, we can at least see them and plan accordingly. But we can't fight a war with the undead acting as a wildcard.'
Ingwel blanched. While he'd considered the possibility, he was not happy with the idea of what had just been suggested. 'The undead are in the Drakwald.'
Rauscher hesitated for a moment—it was clear he understood why Ingwel was uneager to send his forces into those forested depths en masse. There was likely no Middenlander alive who didn't understand the threat that dwelled within the Drakwald the moment one stepped off of the beaten path. And oftentimes even while still upon that same beaten path.
It was somewhat telling that even Mort looked uncomfortable at the prospect of entering the domain of the beastmen. Quality versus quantity, and the beastmen certainly had quantity on their side to supplement the advantage that came from fighting within their own territory. It didn't matter that they had no intention of fighting with the brayherds, because the brayherds had every intention of fighting them.
'I can't command the Middenland state troops into the Drakwald without the graf, and we can't wait to see where they emerge. I need you to track them down. And if I am being honest, your legion has far better odds of surviving the Drakwald than any human force that could be mustered.'
'We don't know that the necromancer is actually within the Drakwald with their minions.' Solin snorted irritably as he uttered his words.
'Which is why we need this.' The wizard interrupted. 'If you can spare scouts. With every eye we can get on the undead, the more likely we can predict their next move and protect ourselves. And the more likely we stumble across the necromancer and can cut the head off this snake.'
Ingwel nodded sharply. 'That, we can do. What can the rest of the Legion do in the meantime?'
Rauscher suddenly looked tired. 'I hate to say it, but you are now our first defense against the Chaos warhost, and without the graf, you are the only protection that smaller towns and villages will have. Would it be too much to ask that you move and station yourselves at the northern borders of Middenland for the protection of our settlements?'
Ingwel exhaled softly through his nostrils. 'Unless the warhost divides itself, we'll not be enough to save anywhere attacked.' He gave the warning in a soft tone.
Rauscher sighed heavily. 'I am aware. There are other forces that can act independently of the graf's court, and I will be sending any I can that way also. Hopefully, you won't be alone for long. And… I have an advance payment for you. Something that I believe you will find more than worth its value.'
Ingwel stared at the human, peering intently at him, trying to predict what fee that he might have that would be so valuable to them after the wealth of knowledge about a Chaos entity that had gone unknown to them before that moment. Rauscher moved his hands into a bag that he'd had slung across his hip and fished out an object which he removed slowly, carefully.
The air in the tent turned still as the lizardmen each recognised the item.
'You have no idea how lucky you are.' Iycan uttered those words with a quiet, borderline reverence. He slowly approached and took the object from unresisting hands.
It was not a false statement, or made lightly. Had any of their Lustrian cousins heard even a rumor that Middenheim had in its possession a golden plaque… Ingwel cut that thought short. It was no longer an issue, for they had just been given the plaque freely. Ok, so it had been worded as though it was payment for a task to be performed, but that was fine. It was a task that Ingwel had already been leaning toward agreeing to regardless.
'Where did you get this?' Iycan asked.
'Not from Lustria,' the wizard answered in Rauscher's stead, tone only just shy of open panic and hope that the words were believed. 'It was found in Arabi fifty-seven years ago, and has been sitting in the vault since, as none of our scholars could work out its significance.'
'That fact might have saved you,' Mort snorted, though his eyes were locked on the plaque.
Iycan ran his fingers over the inscriptions and heaved a deep breath, seeming to relish in the moment, before his eyes locked onto Mort.
'In the absence of a slann, I entrust this plaque to you, Eternity Warden. May you guard it with all your being until it can be restored to its rightful place.' Iycan spoke in High Saurian, the words an almost ritualistic rite as one of the most valuable items of their kind was entrusted to the one deemed best able to protect it. That would be until the next time that Captain Horeo arrived with more new members for the Legion, whereupon he would be charged with transporting it to the temple-city of Tiamoxec.
Mort accepted the plaque and visibly swallowed. It had been five hundred summers since the last time his status as an Eternity Warden had meant anything other than his being the direct superior of those trained as guardians, and suddenly he was holding a thick rectangular slab of engraved gold which was considered only marginally less important than an actual slann. Any nerves that Mort might have felt were quickly buried, and he adjusted his grip on the item in question and tucked it between his arm and torso, his other hand hovering nearby as if ready to grip it in a vice grip at a moment's notice.
Ingwel turned to look again at Rauscher. 'You wanted us to protect the northern part of the province?' he asked rhetorically before he gave a sharp nod. 'We'll start to move out by the day's end.'
There were a few more words given, but both humans left shortly after. Ingwel stood, looking upon his two colonels and Mort, the three of whom were looking back at him, waiting for his next action.
'Are we really doing this?' Solin asked, though his tone belied the fact that he had already accepted that it was happening.
'He's right, though,' Iycan mused aloud as the four of them exited the tent. 'With Middenland's highest authority absent, it's us and any independent orders standing between Chaos and those smaller settlements.'
'What "independent orders" would there be nearby?' Mort asked thoughtfully, only partially paying attention, still gazing reverently at the gold plaque.
Solin jabbed his thumb in the direction of Middenheim. 'The Knights Panther have a chapter house there. And if they get involved in anything then you can be certain that the Knights of the White Wolf will involve themselves in an effort to show up the panthers.'
Iycan started in surprise, the kind of surprise that Ingwel had learned came from Iycan having not thought of something that the skink considered obvious in hindsight. After he'd managed to regain his mental coherency, Iycan added 'And the Knights Panther don't owe allegiance to any one province—they are protectors of the Empire first and always. No need to wait for the graf's orders.'
Solin then added as an aside 'And the Grudgebringers were patrolling the Middenheim Road at the same time we were travelling its length. They may have come back this way. So, we can't dismiss the idea of any free companies that are in the area.'
'So,' Ingwel began with a faux-cheerful clap of the hands once he mentally placed the name. 'We're not going to be completely screwed if the Warhost of Malice attacks, just mostly.'
'Story of our lives,' Solin hissed.
'That it is.' Ingwel's cheer turned slightly more legitimate as he took note of a pair of chameleons moving through the camp. His eyes fixed themselves upon Major Sharpe, who, judging from his state of mostly undress and the ruffled state of his shirt—the single article of clothing he was wearing—Sharpe had only just awoken and was on his way to grab breakfast from the nearest fire pit. Sergeant Happy also trailed near the major, chattering with exaggerated gestures at the sandy-brown chameleon. 'Major, a word.'
Sharpe blinked up at Ingwel, one eye slowly moving left to right, taking in the presence of the three highest-ranking officers of the Legion, and Mort. 'Was there a meeting I wasn't aware of?' he asked in a dry tone that suggested that he was hoping that being scolded for missing a meeting was the only reason he was being spoken to.
'Yes, but it was spur of the moment, hardly your fault you missed it.' Ingwel waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. 'I need you to get dressed and gather the chameleons.'
'Which chameleons?' Now Sharpe's tone turned wary, was no doubt recalling every task personally bestowed upon him by Ingwel in the past, every high-risk task that had been almost certain to kill any lesser skink. His eye turned to Mort, but before he could take note of what the Eternity Warden was holding, the saurus turned away, hiding it from sight.
'Make it all of them.'
Happy sputtered. 'Say what now?'
Ingwel quickly amended his previous words. 'All who are able-bodied and capable.'
'Why?' Sharpe asked, his wariness turning to resignation.
'I need you to go into the Drakwald and track down a force of undead at least two thousand strong.'
And Sharpe's resignation turned to disbelief and no small measure of horrified concern. Happy sputtered again, and then turned to Sharpe with an exaggerated groan. 'Oh, Sharpe, this pain in my head, I took quite a blow at the keep I did. Maybe I'm not capable of going into the Drakwald.'
Sharpe's eyes narrowed into a look of feigned bemusement. 'The only thing wrong with your head is that it's yours. Go round everybody up.'
'This is what the humans mean when they say ye can have too much of a good thing. Ye have too much skill, Sharpe. Now ye've cursed us with this shite.'
Sharpe lifted two fingers at the vibrant green chameleon. 'Piss off, you overgrown lime.'
Happy sniggered and quickly scuttled off to do as told. As he did so, Sharpe returned his attention back to Ingwel, the trace of humour that came from his interaction with Happy rapidly fading as the other left.
'What exactly am I leading my skirmishers into?' He spoke seriously, his voice now barren of the resignation or any sign of reluctance as his sense of duty, as it always inevitably did, came to the fore. It was one of the things Ingwel liked the most about the chameleon—he always put his own misgivings aside once the moment came, and he had a penchant for coming through with the goals given to him, even when logic suggested that he wouldn't be able to snatch victory from a given battle.
Ingwel glanced over his shoulder at the other three. 'Get everybody ready while I explain Sharpe's mission to him.'
He barely heard the reply. He was already leading Sharpe back towards the tent.
#
Skaros had spent hours simply staring at the rubble that used to be the keep. It was infuriating. He was close, so close that he could taste his desire, but the stone walls had come down, buried everything. It was irrelevant. A delay.
But that delay gave the men of the Empire time to muster their troops and sally out to meet the warhost. Skaros wasn't afraid of the inevitable confrontation—the weak men of the south could never hope to compete against the might of the followers of Malice.
But twelve times past, twelve Everchosen had been felled by those same weak southerners. Skaros wasn't afraid of the Empire, was resolute in his belief that the Empire were weaklings incapable of standing up to him. But he was no fool—if a champion of the four fell gods of Chaos could be fended off, not just once but twelve times…
Once was luck. Twelve times? That was a sign that the Empire had a guardian watching over them. Sigmar might be a weakling compared to Malice, but Sigmar was still a god. Only a fool underestimated the strength of a god. And Sigmar didn't have a crippling flaw that constantly undermined him at the cusp of his desires. Oh, how Malice rankled at the curse that defined his existence—a bitter fury that was felt by each and every last one of his worshippers.
Soon he would have to have the warhost divide itself into five smaller hosts. Divide and conquer, as they say. He would divide, and the division would spread and conquer, and allow him his goals in the meantime.
But for now, his men would dig.
There was a shout from somewhere behind. Skaros turned, watching as a warrior approached with an appropriately deferential posture.
'My lord Skaros, we found something that might interest you.'
'Oh?'
Nearby, Kranax looked up, still sporting wounds from his near miss as the gunpowder had brought down the keep. The Nippon warrior approached, towering over the nameless warrior who had come near to Skaros, though he didn't do much more than glower at the lesser warrior when Skaros silently signaled that he wasn't in need of any disposal.
The warrior, already nervous, only hunched over at the presence of one of Skaros's lieutenants. 'While we were patrolling the hills, we found a cave.'
Skaros's helmet-clad head tilted and his hum of thought echoed metallically. 'I had wondered, did the Lustrians bury themselves simply to die on their own terms, or had they an escape route? I suppose now that question is answered.'
He remained still for a moment and then turned sharply toward the white-armoured warrior, who stumbled back at the sudden motion.
'Show me.'
The warrior uttered some inane acknowledgment, but Skaros ignored him for a brief few moments in favour of turning toward Kranax. 'Keep everybody digging, just in case this is a dead end.'
Kranax gave a single nod, after which Skaros followed the warrior. It took about an hour of mostly uphill climbing, but eventually he was led to an opening which even a cursory glance into revealed that the innards went deep into the hill. He let out a low chuckle, his eyes lingering on a wilted, lifeless black rose.
'Oh, this is good,' he uttered to himself, letting out soft breaths of amusement. He looked at the gathered warriors, those who had discovered this gem of a find. 'Go, tell Kranax that he can have the men stop digging, and that he and the other three champions are to come to me. Now.'
The warriors disappeared quickly, moving to obey without question. While he waited, Skaros admired the entrance to the catacombs. A small part of his mind mused at the wilted flower of Morr. Had something happened? Something unrelated to his own ambitions? Nothing that he had done yet would have stripped the blessings of the death god from this place.
Maybe that had something to do with the Lustrians' presence. Fools, ignorant fools. Oh, they were so close. Even if the Architect of Fate wasn't on their side, it was satisfying to know that he was also not on the side of Malice's other enemies.
His previously silent guffaws turned into loud bellowing laughs that echoed through the catacombs.
-TBC