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?

15. Chaos in Middenland

Chaos in Middenland

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Village of Mohrungen – Northern Middenland

The sounds of combat roared through the air, screams of rage and fear to a chorus of clashing blades and thunderous gunfire. The village of Mohrungen was only a small settlement, barely of any note to the various forces of the Old World, so insignificant that it wasn't even graced with a palisade surrounding the cluster of buildings. But that insignificance was not a defence, especially not against forces that thrived on nothing less than destruction and chaos.

Witch-Hunter General Matthius snarled as he leaned back to avoid an axe held by a foul warrior of Chaos. With a grimace, his hand pulled a pistol free from his bandolier, pointed it at the warrior, aimed for the space between helmet and cuirass, that small point where there was no protection from hell-forged steel. His finger pulled back, and the hammer upon the gun slammed forward, igniting gunpowder which in turn propelled the small bullet within the barrel forward through the air until it met the neck and punctured flesh. The warrior fell to the ground, either dead or dying—Matthius didn't care to check, not while those who still stood were there to be judged and found wanting.

He dropped the spent pistol, tugged a second free of the bandolier across his chest, though he didn't immediately aim this one. Instead, he held up the longsword in his other hand, observing the chaos around him. There weren't as many as before, and not all of the missing numbers were from those who had been felled. As much as Matthius wanted to believe that the wretches had been intimidated by the righteous fury of himself and those he had volunteered to defend the village, Chaos and the worshippers of such were not intelligent enough to feel the fear that any sane being would have gripping their heart at such opposition. That meant that those who had disappeared had done so for a purpose, no doubt nefarious and something that Matthius needed to keep an eye open for.

It was somewhat infuriating that this situation had occurred. He had heard no talk of Chaos warbands within the provinces. One would have thought that such a threat would have been noticed. To the witch-hunter, this was evidence that there was corruption to be rooted out, the heathens of Middenland and Nordland falling for the temptations of sin, for what other reason could there be for the lack of any reported sighting? It was something he resolved to correct—he would be paying special attention to the villages and towns of the northern provinces, those who favoured any other than Sigmar.

But that was a problem for another time, for at that moment, the devout witch-hunter had a warband to worry about. He would do his sacred duty and purge the harlots of Chaos, send them back into the hell that they belonged. Fortunately, Matthius had managed to use his authority to organise the village's defence militia—if they could truly be called such, wearing pot helmets and carrying shields that were clearly once the doors to homes. Fortunately though, an axe for cutting down lumber was as good a weapon as any other—and they had been fending off the attack for the past half hour. Not without casualties, but Matthius was quick to remind any who were shaken by those deaths that they at least died in service of the Empire, fighting against the Great Enemy. Better to die for the cause than to live without the blessings of Sigmar.

A Chaos warrior lunged at Matthius. The axe was intercepted by Matthius's silver sword, pushed aside, and the pistol in the witch-hunter's other hand barked, expelled its bullet, and downed the warrior.

The distant chorus of gunfire sounded again, and this time Matthius took a moment to consider what it actually meant. Warriors of Chaos were not known for the use of gunpowder and were surely not disciplined enough to comprehend the notion of volleyed fire. Maybe the corruption in Middenland wasn't so bad if the Grand Duchy had sent some professional state troops to assist. Handgunners would certainly turn the tide. Under Matthius's direction naturally, it was the duty of the capable to lead the masses to victory.

'This way,' he called out to the two dozen remaining militiamen.

He reloaded his pistols as they moved, the momentary reprieve from warriors charging at him a welcome relief. It offered a chance to take stock, to catch his breath. Four pistols were all carefully reloaded and then nestled upon his bandolier for ease of use.

The twenty-four remaining volunteers of the defence militia had looks about them that suggested to Matthius's keen eyes that they were shaken, not quite at the point of a panicked rout. Not yet, but nearing it. It would not do to have them waver in the face of the Great Enemy. Thus, the witch-hunter inhaled, ready to lecture them into a righteous fury that any sensible and true son of the Empire should surely be fuelled by in the face of Chaos. A second glance suggested that the weak point in the morale of the militia was one particular man, one who Matthius vaguely remembered as being the father of the witch that Matthius had uncovered just a day prior. It could well be that the witch had corrupted her father, or maybe her own corruption had originated from this individual. Matthius made a careful note in his mind that should the man survive the battle, he would need looking into.

They rounded one of the outermost buildings of the village. Matthius felt some measure of vindication, for his assessment had been accurate: the forces of Chaos were now facing outward and clearly fighting against reinforcements sent by Middenland's state military. It was refreshing to come across competence. And with the warriors of Chaos now facing away from Matthius and the militia, there was an opening to exploit.

'Charge!' he ordered, tone brooking no room for dissent.

The fact that they were charging into the exposed backs of Chaos wasn't quite enough to dispel the doubts that they were feeling. Maybe they had been right to doubt—No, Matthius crushed that thought ruthlessly, it is never right to doubt our duty to crush Chaos—for partway to the exposed flanks of the armoured warriors, another group of warriors charged at the militia from the side. It wasn't quite the same level of devastating that a charge to their flanks would have been, but the militia wasn't prepared for it, and only barely managed to reorient to face the new and far more pressing threat before they were crushed in one fell blow.

Matthius swore under his breath and fired a pistol at one of the warriors, then thrust his sword into the armpit of another while fumbling to replace the spent pistol with another.

The chorus of thunder sounded again, this time far closer to Matthius and his volunteers than it had been before. The warriors were cut down by the volleyed fire of professional Empire handgunners. The threat removed, and before any of the volunteers panicked enough to break from combat even, Matthius turned to face the state troops, ready to take command.

He stopped short when he caught sight of the line of daemons, all eyeing him and the volunteers. Clearly, the warriors of Chaos had known that they were outmatched and brought foul daemons in an effort to shift the scales in their favour. But they would find it to not be enough, for Matthius was here, and he was ready to purge these abominations from the land.

They seemed to be purposefully mocking the men of the Empire by wearing clothing, but to one as educated as Matthius, it just made them all the uglier, all the more deplorable. They could mock the Empire with their parody of human behaviour and societal norms, but it did nothing to hide their dark non-existent hearts.

'Daemons!' he screamed, a loaded pistol pulled from his bandolier and pointed toward the line of the ugly abominations. 'DIE FOUL WRETCHES!'

Before his finger could squeeze down on the trigger, Witch-Hunter General Matthius felt a hand grab his shoulder and pull. He turned with the motion of the tug, allowed himself to be pulled around, if just to punish the one who would stop him from his righteous duty. Except the one who had turned him around was another of the daemons, this one larger than those others, clad in a heavy red overcoat with a sash worn from one shoulder to the opposite hip. It had a look to its eyes that suggested it was furious.

That was the last thing that registered in Matthius's mind before the daemon's fist connected with his temple, having already been in motion even before Matthius was fully turned to face the daemon.

His vision went dark as his consciousness was forced from him.

#

Ingwel stared down at the unconscious witch-hunter, swallowing back his anger at the way the human hadn't even hesitated to point a gun at the skinks that had just saved his life. The humans that the witch-hunter had been leading—they were no fighters, at best they were game hunters, which made the choice to arm them with lumber axes a gross misuse of their strengths—looked at Ingwel with some measure of panic, which the oldblood would acknowledge wasn't unreasonable.

Ingwel reached down, scooped up the still unfired pistol, and turned it toward the Chaos horde, sharp eye quickly picking out an actual daemon—it looked to be an abominable hybrid of spider and crab with an almost lupine-looking skull-shaped head in place of a head, and it had long barbed scythe-like pincers jabbing at anything in front of it—and Ingwel felt no remorse at firing the pistol at the wretched creature, shattering a portion of that skull-like visage. He then dropped the pistol and looked to the humans.

Ingwel took a second look at the humans and felt his concern grow as it registered that all of them were visibly aged beyond what any human should be fighting at. All were male as well, which somehow didn't surprise him—the witch-hunter was clearly one of those who saw the females of his own species as lesser in some capacity. It was a strange quirk of the warmbloods in general. Even the High Elves, who were arguably the ones most likely to actually be sensible, could be very dismissive of their females' abilities in matters of violence and warfare. It wasn't Ingwel's job to be judgmental of warmblood quirks, but the strange attitude that halved their own potential numbers in times of need was just baffling.

The witch-hunter's retinue had clearly been made up of whoever hadn't been conscripted to the state troops, and he had excluded any females because... because. They were no fighters, at best they might be practised in using a bow for hunting, but they had no place in the thick of the fighting.

Ingwel pointed back to the village proper. 'Go home, barricade the doors and protect your homes from any that get past us.'

It was an order that they were all too eager to obey, they weren't being tasked to fight and die by a strange non-human they'd never met before and had no cause to trust. Instead, they were being tasked to protect their homes in the ways they could best do so and weren't being directly involved in the fighting.

Ingwel didn't wait for them to finish running back into the village proper. He adjusted his grip on his sabre and called out for his warriors, a wordless shout that still held meaning to his kin, not quite Saurian but more a variant of the language specific to coordinating in battle. In short order, those of his saurus not yet already clashing with the Chaos warriors rallied up on him, forming up in ranks with him in the middle of the first row. Originally, these two regiments of saurus warriors had been held back from the fighting, used instead to offer protection to the skink musketeers until they'd managed to circle to strike at the flank, as well as serving to cut down any of the warriors of Chaos who might break from the fight and try to either enter into the village itself, or just make their effort at flanking the saurus.

He scanned the clashes of his saurus against the warriors of Chaos. He ignored the unconscious form of the witch-hunter, having already dismissed the human from his mind. It wasn't quite going to be striking at the rear flank; the battle wasn't a solid line of melee, the daemons present in the horde had seen to that. But even a strike at the side was better than nothing.

After another volley of musket fire, he called out a quick order to the firing line, watched as the formation repositioned with a practised swiftness. From their new position, they'd have a better angle on the melee even after Ingwel and the two saurus regiments he'd led introduced themselves to the brawl, and they'd be better able to cut down any that broke free from the clash. Satisfied that the ranged support was in an ideal position, Ingwel's attention returned to the fight, then charged, eyes locked upon the form amongst the warriors of Chaos which stood out. This one wore a cloak where the majority lacked any such unnecessary vanity-piece. If this one wasn't a commanding figure or champion, then at the very least he was a notable warrior. Ingwel's regiment moved alongside him, perfectly in tune with his movement.

The warriors must have sensed the new threat approaching at their side, turning with one axe already swinging in a wide arc. Ingwel stopped his forward motion, allowed the axe's swing to pass him by before he then lunged forward, the point of his sabre aimed for the armoured form's armpit. His lunge was aborted quickly when the Chaos warrior's second axe moved such that had Ingwel been committed to his course of action, he would have found himself an arm lighter. Fortunately, he managed to avoid the downward chop to his arm, used his offhand to grab the wrist of the hand holding onto the offending weapon, and he twisted.

Against a normal human, that twist would have sprained, if not outright broken, the wrist. Against a warrior of Chaos, it was an inconvenience that likely barely registered. But the inconvenience of having his wrist twisted was still enough to put the warrior in a position where Ingwel could then throw his body shoulder-first into the warrior. Backed up by the powers of Chaos or not, the man within the armour was still a human, and the force of an angry saurus body-checking him was enough to have him stumbling back with a startled oath. It was impressive—if only grudgingly so, because admitting such about anything Chaos-related always left a sour taste in one's mouth—that the warrior managed to keep his footing and was even able to ward Ingwel off from a finishing strike, swinging his axe to intercept Ingwel's follow-up.

Ingwel allowed a small hiss to escape his throat, eyes locked to the warrior who had already straightened himself and now had both axes held at the ready. The warrior's attention was then forced from Ingwel as the warrior to his side was run through by the saurus to Ingwel's left, a distraction which cost the warrior, allowing Ingwel the opening needed to bring his sabre down, the keen edge managing to cleave down through the warrior's shoulder and almost rend the arm from the torso entirely, had Ingwel not pulled the blade back halfway through its journey. The warrior staggered and fell to one knee, dropping his axe in favour of grasping at the wound, blood pouring through the torn flesh and steel. A following swing from Ingwel removed the head from the warrior's shoulders.

A repetitive thudding had Ingwel quickly twisting around. His sabre was shifted and twirled around to catch the axe of another warrior, forcing it away from its previous course without taking any of its momentum. The owner of the axe didn't stop his charge in light of the deflected attack, which quickly proved to be a mistake, for Ingwel sidestepped, allowed the warrior's charge to pass him, whereupon he quickly found himself surrounded by the saurus who'd formed the ranks behind their marshal. That warrior had his life stripped from him in short order, incapable of protecting himself from a dozen angry lizardmen and nowhere to retreat.

Another warrior quickly filled the space left behind by the deaths of his comrades, screaming oaths to Chaos and to Malice. Ingwel blocked the swing of one axe, then the following swing from the other. Again and again the warrior swung—left-right, left-right, swing-block, swing-block. Each block of the axe, Ingwel's eyes tracked the weapons, watched them move with a cared consideration. Left axe swung in a downward cleave, parried, the right axe would then arc around in a side-to-side blow, blocked, and then the left would come again in an upward strike, was redirected to sail harmlessly to Ingwel's side, then the right would come in a downward strike that mirrored the first effort of the left axe. And then it would repeat every swing after in a cycle that had already happened before.

So Ingwel cut that cycle short, blocked the left and while his blade intercepted the axe, he used the brief opening to have his left hand shoot out in a fist, slammed it into the warrior's helmet. Had he been human, he would have been nursing a broken hand for his efforts. He wasn't human, he was a saurus, his body was designed by the Old Ones to be just as much a weapon as any that he might pick and wield. The helmet's hell-forged steel buckled under the blow, not so much as to be a fatal injury to the one wearing it, but certainly enough that the warrior stumbled back in a momentary panic. That panicked reaction was Ingwel's opening to thrust, the sharp point of his sabre—the blade a gift from the same source as his brother's oversized weapon—defied expectation and punctured through the breastplate and into the flesh beneath, to where he knew the heart to typically lie in a human. The warrior, now dead, even if his brain hadn't caught up to that fact yet, stilled, arms suddenly lax, head bowed as though staring in disbelief at the fatal stab. Ingwel didn't care to let the knowledge of the warrior's demise register, slammed his foot into the dead warrior and forced the body from his blade.

No time to dwell, another warrior appeared to fill the space left, stepping atop the body of his comrade without care. Ingwel ducked the overly wide swing of the two-handed axe this one carried, stepped forward and then used his left hand to shove at the warrior, pushing him into another caped warrior. The two warriors connected with the rattling sound of heavy metal meeting heavy metal. No time to capitalize on the moment, another Chaos warrior charged at Ingwel with a scream. This one telegraphed an overhead chop that never got the chance to happen—Ingwel lunged forward and thrust the tip of his sabre into the underside of the warrior's jaw. He quickly pulled the blade back and turned, slamming his tail into yet another Chaos warrior with enough force to buckle the cuirass, then decapitated the warrior as they doubled over wheezing.

Ingwel's attention refocused upon the new caped warrior, darting forward and bending to one knee. The warrior managed to avoid the sharp blade that would have hamstrung him and brought his axe down in an attempt to disarm Ingwel, but the saurus was quick to right himself while parrying another Chaos warrior's attack. He quickly grabbed that latest interloper, ensnared the arm holding the axe, and then twisted, using momentum and the warrior's own weight to toss the warrior to the ground, where another saurus was quick to stab down, killing him while he was still stunned from the throw.

The caped warrior charged again, both axes swinging with reckless abandon. Ingwel intercepted the first swing, pushed it aside and then quickly adjusted his stance, blocking the second, then the third, before swinging his sabre and pushing back against the fourth swing. He didn't so much parry the blow as hold it at bay, held it back just long enough for the warrior to believe that Ingwel was looking to lock into a bind. Then, Ingwel twisted his blade so that it slid down the haft of the axe and the blunt edge of the weapon met the warrior's wrist with enough force to startle him into a relaxed grip. The warrior shouted out a shocked oath, which was cut short when Ingwel, at the same time as blocking the fifth attempted axe swing, also stepped forward and swung his knee upward.

Metal covering for protection or no, the warrior would feel that blow, and humans had such strong instincts when it came to reacting to any threatening motions towards them. The warrior hunched forward, less from pain and more from an instinctual need to protect his anatomy. It was the opening needed for Ingwel to bring his blade up and then down, leaving the caped warrior a full head shorter. No time to bask in the moment, he quickly stepped backward to put some distance between himself and another Chaos warrior's axe, parried the follow-up swipe, back-stepped again—last he could make with the ranks behind him taking up space—eyes carefully noting each swing of the heavy two-handed weapon being used, before he then stepped into the next attempt at cleaving him down and stabbed his sabre through one elbow, twisted, wrenched the blade free, and stabbed into the armpit of the same warrior. While his blade was still buried in the flesh of his enemy, Ingwel grabbed onto the opposite shoulder and pulled, repositioning the gargling warrior into the path of yet another great-axe, which managed to force its way through the hell-forged steel. The axe was less willing to be extracted with the same apparent ease that it had pierced, which allowed Ingwel the time to pull his sabre from the now thoroughly dead warrior and into the throat of the inconvenienced owner of the great-axe.

Attention shifted, Ingwel locked eyes with another Chaos warrior, moments before that warrior was put down by the latest barrage of skink musket-fire. The next warrior was cut down by the cleaving swing of another saurus, who, on noticing Ingwel's attention, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

A look about the battlefield showed that the warriors were starting to break, their morale battered and bruised. There was an attempt to rally around their remaining standard-bearer, though there was some obvious sense of uncertainty about them, likely the absence of a champion in their midst to guide them.

'Reform,' Ingwel roared, his rasping voice projected loudly in Saurian so that all over the field could hear him. Any gaps that had formed in the formations were quickly filled, and those who had drifted away from their ranks in the bedlam of battle quickly back-pedalled to rejoin their cohort.

It did not take any real measure of time before the regiments of saurus he'd taken with him to this village were reforming around him. It was one of those unspoken rules of combat: while one side was trying to reorganise themselves, the other did the same. It gave both sides a chance to work out just who was still on the field of battle and who yet remained. It also typically marked that moment before one side broke and started to flee the field of battle, though against Chaos worshippers, it was uncommon that they actually did break in such a way. Not unheard of, but uncommon regardless.

As both sides reformed into their ranks, Ingwel got a true sense of just how battered these warriors of Chaos were now. The moment that the fighting had devolved into smaller skirmishes, entire formations cut in half by the cold-blooded might of the saurus, was the moment that the warriors of Chaos had lost the battle. The Chaos worshippers might have been vicious warriors, but the Children of the Gods were spawned for this purpose—in some ways, they did better in skirmishes than in the rank and file of war, skirmishing being far closer in nature to the hunting of prey in the jungles. Not that it stopped even their Lustrian cousins from perfecting the art of ranking up and meeting their foes head-first in battle.

The horde of Chaos warriors had been cut to not even a third of their starting number, and Ingwel could no longer see any daemons in their midst, cut down if not by the muskets, then by the superior prowess of saurus against the very prey they had been made to destroy. Meanwhile, Ingwel's forces hadn't lost even a fraction of the numbers that Chaos had. Though he was not fool enough to suggest that the disparity in that ratio of kills and deaths was purely a difference of skill, the Chaos horde had been taken by surprise after all, struck from behind whilst they'd been focused on their presumed easy prey and the supposed token resistance that had been formed by the witch-hunter. Even if acknowledging the witch-hunter's efforts somehow left an even more sour taste in the mouth than giving token respect to the skills of Chaos warriors did.

The battle was short, following that moment. The warriors of Chaos clearly understood that they'd lost, but chose to leave this world kicking and screaming, just as they had first entered it. Most didn't even get the chance to meet the saurus regiments in a melee, the two skink regiments and their muskets saw to that.

#

Five hours after the battle's end, Ingwel stood at the side of a table within a hastily erected tent, carefully examining the map he had laid out upon the table's surface. Carefully written notes peppered the map, with occasional marks to indicate the specific points where those notes were pertinent. What he saw wasn't good, and that was despite that knowledge lingering in the back of his mind, the idea that the notations weren't even a third of the way finished. A large number of scouts had yet to return, and then there were going to be the reports shared by the others contributing to this campaign.

The notes that were written down told a story to those versed in the prose. The warhost had been content to linger within the ruins of Feyerabend Keep, but then with little warning they had scattered, split into many smaller fragments, and spread themselves to the winds. No rhyme, no reason for each smaller band to go in whichever direction they had decided upon. And yet...

His eyes briefly drifted to one of the already marked down villages, taking in the name that marked the settlement: Bealivun. Next to the village of Bealivun, there were inscriptions marked in blue, identifying the presence of a number of the Legion's members, alongside the major who had been placed in command. But that wasn't the part that Ingwel's gaze lingered on; it was the red ink a small distance from the village. Red ink that detailed the report from one of his mounted scouts. A Chaos horde was moving in the direction of the village of Bealivun. It was just one of many. With any luck, Major Zakarius would hold his ground.

The tent's entrance fluttered, allowing entrance to a heavily armoured human with a thick chestnut brown moustache, a helmet tucked beneath one arm. From his shoulders hung a cloak with a fur trim of yellow with black spots. The human raised an eyebrow at Ingwel but didn't otherwise react.

Behind him trailed another human, this one not wearing the full plate mail of the first, but instead worn and battered clothing that was clearly designed to be sturdy rather than decorative: rugged breeches, riding boots, and a studded leather jerkin. The sleeves of his undershirt were dyed in the colours of Middenheim, a mark of his loyalties despite not being a part of the state army. The brimmed hat on his head was the only ornate piece to his garb, the feather pinned to its side so large as to be almost gaudy. He held no facial hair, and of the hair atop his head that could be seen, it was clearly shorn in the style of the working class.

'Captain Dankrad Lulling,' the unarmoured human introduced himself, after a moment of startled staring at Ingwel, whose reaction was to simply stare back, unimpressed. 'Captain of the Middenheim Border Patrol Free Militia Company.'

'Dankrad Lulling?' the armoured human repeated after a moment. 'As in the Dankrad Lulling who rode a cart full of black powder into a greenskin camp in the dead of night.'

Lulling grinned a toothy grin. 'That's me. Orc bastards don't play by proper rules, so why give 'em the courtesy of a proper fight. 'Sides which, I hear that they want a proper fight, so I ain't giving it to 'em.'

The armoured human huffed in barely contained amusement, the sort that implied that he was only containing it because it wasn't the proper thing to be amused by. 'Quite.' He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. 'Lord Meinhard Hoffman of the Knights Panther. And I assume that you are Marshal Ingwel'tonl.'

Ingwel nodded a single nod, not too quick as to seem arrogant, not too shallow as to seem like he was trying to be disrespectful. 'Guilty.' He peered toward the tent's entrance. 'Are we expecting any others?'

Hoffman shook his head. 'Not here. My understanding is that the Knights of the White Wolf are further out to the east, in case any of these Chaos hordes try to rush toward Ostland, and then they'll be moving back towards us while picking up any free company militias they can find along the way.'

Lulling scoffed lightly. 'Ah, the easy job. There are other free companies around, but I was given the role of playing nice and chatting with you fine fellows and any other. Right now we're focusing on basing ourselves one company to a village, all as close as it gets to the Efror county without actually crossing that border.'

With that bit of news, Ingwel grabbed a quill and carefully dipped it into the nearby inkwell. 'Which companies and which villages specifically?'

Lulling leaned forward, taking in the map. After a second, his face adopted the blank look of one that couldn't actually understand what he was seeing, but Ingwel was far more versed in reading facial language than any human could dream of being, so he spotted the moment of comprehension before that blank look came into existence. This was a man pretending to be less than he was. If he wanted to play at being illiterate, that was his decision and Ingwel wasn't going to question it.

'Ahh,' Lulling sounded, even as his eyes scanned the map, then tapped the map. 'Can't remember the name, but there was a village there, there, and there.'

The captain gave the names of the free company militias as Ingwel inscribed the details onto the map, for a change written in the human font. Hoffman also leaned forward, taking in the notes.

'We have quite a few forces scattered around,' he noted.

Ingwel sighed softly, eyes locked onto the marks that indicated not just the part of the Legion he was leading, but also the other three portions at the last positions he had been told they'd reached. No doubt the Legion would each divide itself further as needs arose, but each time they did so made it easier for them to be cut down through the superior numbers of their enemies.

'Up until a week ago the Chaos warhost wasn't actually moving, but then they broke into multiple smaller warbands and scattered, became more... chaotic.'

'Not really familiar with Chaos—mostly greenskins and beastmen—but Chaos don't usually hang around a place, do they?' Lulling asked. His confusion was genuine.

'No,' Hoffman answered with a grimace. 'Do we know what they were doing?'

'Digging up the ruins of Feyerabend Keep,' Ingwel said with a sigh. 'One of my subordinates made a judgement call to destroy it when he realised that the warhost wanted it intact for whatever reason. They stayed at the ruins and were digging up until a week ago—which was when they splintered and started with the raiding behaviour. But my scouts say that a large number of them are still at the ruins.'

'They want something.' Hoffman's lips tugged downward in a grimace. 'But I know my history, the Feyerabend family has... had nothing of worth, never did. Even the title of count only came through marriage.'

Ingwel gave a sound of agreement, everything the knight had said matched up with what Iycan had learnt. 'Unfortunately, we're not in a position where we can stop them from searching. Even splintered as the warhost is at this moment, those that are remaining at the keep's ruins still outnumber us by a not inconsiderable amount.'

'An' even if we all group up an' try to take 'em regardless, that'd leave all these others to loot, rape an' pillage without contest.' Lulling nodded his understanding of the plight that Ingwel had been nursing for the past few days.

Hoffman hummed thoughtfully. 'We should split our attention between defending and hunting. Half of our numbers go to the villages most likely in the path of any of these hordes, whilst the other half tries to catch them before they can reach those same villages.'

'Agreed. The problem is that it's difficult to keep track of them all. I only have so many scouts who can track them down, remain unseen, and then make it back to report what they saw, during which time the hordes might very well have changed their destination on some whim we cannot fathom.'

Lulling opened his mouth to add to the conversation, but a shouting from outside the tent cut him off. The shouting got louder, as presumably the source got closer, and then the tent's flap was swept aside with a grandiose flair that suggested the one doing the sweeping was deliberately trying for such.

The witch-hunter, the very same that Ingwel had punched out during the battle hours prior, swept into the tent with eyes that were visibly wide and bulging despite the rim of his hat being angled to cast them in perpetual shadow. The shadow failed to hide away the purple bruising and the swelling about one eye.

'Daemon!' the witch-hunter bellowed, thrusting his finger out to point ominously at Ingwel. The pointed finger quivered from the amount of pressure that he was clenching his other fingers and thumb together with. 'You dared to knock down a witch-hunter general of the Empire of Man! I will see you burn, daemon.'

'How did you miss all my subordinates in your trek to reach my tent?' Ingwel asked, bemused and feeling not the slightest bit threatened. He was apparently alone in that, for Hoffman had turned to stare at the witch-hunter, his hand encircling the hilt of his sword, while Lulling had already pulled free a pistol, though he had yet to pull back the hammer.

The witch-hunter puffed out his chest like some posturing, preening bird. 'What heresy is this? Men of the Empire consorting with daemons? I'll see you all burn!'

Lulling's expression darkened, and the hammer on his pistol was pulled back with an ominous click. 'A witch-hunter?' he spat the title. 'Why does it not surprise me to see one of your filth here.'

The witch-hunter redirected his finger toward Lulling as though the pointing gesture were a weapon to be utilised to lethal effect. 'I am Witch-Hunter General Matthius, sanctioned templar of Sigmar. You will address me by my title.'

Ingwel suppressed a groan. 'We are not your enemy. We are your allies against Chaos.'

'You struck me.' The witch-hunter, Matthius, projected his voice at volume, spittle escaping his lips as he all but bellowed the words. Behind the human, a saurus looked into the tent, hand already wrapped around the hilt of his blade, clearly alerted by the loud angry shouting which seemed to be the witch-hunter's default volume. A quick gesture from Ingwel had the warrior turn away, though not without a questioning look and a head tilted in the problem human's direction in silent question.

'I would remind you that you aimed a firearm at one of my subordinates while we were in the midst of battle against Chaos.' Ingwel kept his voice level as he spoke. 'There are terms and titles for those who deliberately make to kill allies. I spared you those titles by preventing you from committing such a crime.'

'No self-respecting man of the Empire would ever ally themselves with daemons, and to suggest that we would do so is blasphemous!'

'Mind who you call a daemon, witch-hunter,' Hoffman finally found his voice, and roared out the words in that way that only those practised as leaders of men of war were capable of, that projection of voice that held power enough that all must listen. 'You accuse Marshal Ingwel'tonl of the Outland Legion.'

Ingwel blinked in some slight surprise at the way in which Hoffman was defending him. 'I'm sorry, have we met before?'

'Not personally, but the Knights Panther do remember you and your kin. Our chapter's history records it as a battle where your kin formed the anvil to which we were the hammer that crushed a beastmen herd between us.'

'You'll have to forgive my lack of memory regarding the specific battle,' Ingwel said in an apologetic tone. 'Though I'm certain if I ask Colonel Iycan, he could tell me everything down to the weather.'

The witch-hunter sputtered, seemed uncertain as to whether he should aim his pointing back to Ingwel, or to Hoffman, who raised an eyebrow in silent challenge.

'You consort with daemons!?' he eventually bellowed, not pointing at anybody.

'They are not daemons, Matthius. They're lizardmen. Do you not keep up to date on the goings on in Lustria?' Hoffman asked sarcastically.

'I know of Lustria, and the Colonial Expedition. The colonial marshal there has many things to report on the lizardmen. They are mindless, non-Chaos beastmen, hunting the good men of the Old World like savages.'

'Colonial Marshal Geirherz is an imbecile of the highest order, who was given his position through a combination of nepotism and the desire of those with intelligence to keep him away from the Provinces.' Hoffman spoke with disdain, spitting the name and title as though the existence of such a combination of words left a bitter poison upon his tongue. 'It does not surprise me that he has managed to make an enemy out of the natives of that land, and further would not surprise me if we were to learn that he made no effort at diplomacy and has instead lied in his reports to suggest that it was a failure on the part of the Lustrians in an effort to hide his own incompetence.'

'Wilderei Geirherz is a man of good standing. Who are you to make such insinuations as to his character?' Matthius's finger finally dared to jab in the Knight Panther's direction.

Hoffman's posture inexplicably straightened further, such that he somehow towered over everybody in the tent through sheer willpower and irritability. In his place was a man projecting the power of a noble scion. 'I am Lord-General Meinhard Hoffman, of House Von Schifels, and I have the personal misfortune of knowing Gierherz personally for the blundering oaf that he is.'

Faced with the anger of a noble of standing, the witch-hunter backed down. Lulling's expression lightened in that way that only came from seeing somebody disliked brought low.

But Hoffman wasn't finished. 'Furthermore, isn't it funny how Geirherz has never experienced the other side of Lustrian hospitality? It is hardly some secret that there have been instances of lizardmen gifting humans with gold and hospitality before sending them on their way. But the colonial marshal? No, in the years that he has been charged with forming a self-sustaining Empire colony, he has complained of nothing but violence and hostility from every corner while constantly begging for more men and arms to be handed to him.

'I have read his reports because I enjoy reading about that dalcop struggling. At this point, he would have us believe that the lizardmen of Lustria are getting angry at him for getting into fights with undead pirates and overly large vermin. Both of those being entities of which Santa Magritta's inhabitants claim the lizardmen to have a particular loathing for. So, no, I have little faith in Colonial Marshal Gierherz's reports on Lustria as being anything other than a most spectacular work of fiction.'

'You seem to be more informed about the goings on regarding my Lustrian cousins than I am,' Ingwel said in a light tone after a half-minute passed in silence.

Hoffman turned to Ingwel, shoulders raised up in a slight shrug. 'My cousin served onboard a merchant vessel that made trade at Swamptown at one time. He then got me interested in the goings on. Everything I said is a matter of public record.'

Lulling gave a light scoff. 'Public meaning nobility.'

Hoffman shrugged again, this one less self-deprecating and more of a "what can you do" gesture, apparently having little to say to counter the less-than-subtle insinuation.

Matthius, apparently getting over the wound to his pride after having his notions of the goings on in Lustria ripped apart by somebody with enough political standing to actually stand up to him, barged his way past Lulling, whose expression twisted into one that suggested he was only barely containing himself from throttling the terrible excuse for a human being. There was a moment where Ingwel wondered whether the pistol would be aimed and fired into the witch-hunter's back. After a moment where Lulling clearly considered it, he carefully pushed the hammer of the weapon back into safety.

'What is the report then?' Matthius asked with an imperious tone, eyes scanning every note written down. His eyes widened as he read the neatly scribed words, marking each roving band of Chaos warriors, each also with a note of how many daemons were spotted alongside those same warriors. 'This cannot be accurate.'

'It's very accurate,' Ingwel said with only the slightest hiss to give away his annoyance.

'It's also not finished,' Hoffman snapped. He tapped his finger down on the map. 'We noticed another band here. Looked to be four regiments-worth and two cavalry. Appeared to be three daemons with them. Not any daemon that I've heard tell of.'

That was quickly noted down. Unfortunately, Hoffman's lack of familiarity with the daemons meant that the types couldn't be marked down, but that was hardly the fault of the knight.

'Haven't seen any sorcerers yet,' Ingwel mused, eyes skimming each note written upon the map.

'Is that surprising to you?' Lulling asked, head tilted.

'You said you haven't much personal experience with Chaos warbands?' Ingwel asked without any judgement.

The free militia general shook his head. 'I've taken to huntin' down worshippers from time to time, I've fought northmen marauders, but this is the first time I've been tasked to go against actual warriors of Chaos.'

'Word of advice for future then,' Hoffman said, tone carefully void of anything that could be perceived as being condescending, 'always assume that there is at least one sorcerer, unless you know for a fact that the warband you are fighting is devoted to Khorne. Speaking of, do we know what this warband is devoted to?'

'Rouscher didn't say?' Ingwel asked but didn't wait for an answer. 'A lesser-known Chaos god that goes by Malice.'

'Malice?' Hoffman's face scrunched in confusion. 'Is that good or bad for us?'

'Based on what Lord Rauscher pulled from the Middenheim library, bad. And perversely, we want it to be bad.'

Matthius scowled at Ingwel. 'And why would we want that?'

'Because Malice is only at its strongest when the Four Ruinous Powers are not united. If a warhost dedicated to Malice is bad for us, it at least means we don't have an Everchosen to worry about.'

That silenced the witch-hunter and left an unpleasant scent to the air as the other two humans also recoiled at those words. There were many fears amongst the humans of the Old World, not all of them sane or sensible. But the fear of a new Everchosen was not only sensible, it was a fear shared with the other races, even if some were prideful enough to pretend otherwise. It said something that even with Lulling's admission of not knowing much regarding Chaos, he looked ill at ease at the idea of an Everchosen.

Ingwel tapped his fingers on the table, resuming staring at the map as though by doing so he would change the details that had been inscribed into something more favourable. That the sighted Chaos bands were smaller and made up of less armoured warriors and more the simple northman marauders. While making futile wishes, he added in one of the warhost simply disappearing, turning on itself and in the violence that would come about from such a moment, killing themselves down to the last wretch.

It was the definition of a futile wish, but one could dream.

With a sigh, Ingwel looked to the map once more and rested his finger on a stretch of the depicted land. 'I would suggest half of our forces protect the villages along this stretch here, they're the ones that are most at risk of being caught in the wave of these hordes. For the land north of that, have our own cavalry units, perhaps led by the Knights Panther, who can intercept and slow down any Chaos forces that try to move along or on the other side of the Nordland border.'

That last part was something he could only recommend because they weren't Middenland state troops, and the Knights Panther were well known for not being loyal to any singular province, so there was little risk of accidentally causing a rift between the Middenland and Nordland.

Ingwel continued. 'Then to the south we have the rest of our forces try to circle behind the majority of the hordes so that we can strike them from behind. Any that manage to slip past us should hopefully be caught by the Knights of the White Wolf and the free companies that they pick up as they move west from the Ostland border.'

Lulling nodded, clicking his tongue. 'I can get behind that idea. I don't like the idea of leavin' any of the villages unprotected, whether we think they're at risk or not.'

Ingwel narrowed his eyes. 'It will cut into our strength and spread our numbers thinner than I would prefer to try and defend every last settlement.'

Lulling shot Ingwel a look. It wasn't a dark look or anger-filled or any such, more a look of consideration and slight disappointment. 'You don't care to protect the people of the Empire?'

The oldblood exhaled softly from his nostrils. 'I do want to protect your people, but spreading ourselves too thin opens weakness to be exploited. We're already outnumbered.'

Had they more troops, then Ingwel would have been far more willing. But there was only so much they could do. He hoped that Lulling at least understood that logistically there was no grand strategy that would be guaranteed to save everybody. All Ingwel could do was look at the risks, look at what could potentially be lost, and make a judgement call. Technically, Hoffman, being an actual noble of the Empire, and a general within a knightly order, could overrule Ingwel, as he would be the one with seniority. The fact Hoffman didn't say anything to contradict Ingwel's words suggested that the knight agreed with him, even if his expression was pinched enough to let all know he wasn't happy about the cold logic of leaving any villages to the whims of luck and fate.

Matthius opened his mouth, shut it after a moment as he considered his words, a skill that Ingwel hadn't been certain he had any talent with based on the past few minutes, then opened it again. 'I can go to these villages myself, form their citizens into militias.' He paused a moment, eyes still locked upon the map and all the words and notations etched upon it. 'It won't save the villages if a Chaos warband decides to attack, but it would give time for you to send relief.' He looked at Hoffman specifically, as if by pretending that Ingwel wasn't there while he spoke, then there wasn't a non-human in the tent with them.

Ingwel found himself momentarily at a loss for words. The witch-hunter was actually capable of being sensible. It wasn't an ideal plan, though by going to the villages ahead of any potential attack then he would have time to better organise them, unlike the hurried job he'd had to make of the village of Mohrungen.

Lulling groaned, eyes shut in a pained grimace. 'You're right. Ulric damn you for being logical. I just hate the idea of leaving any of these villages unprotected.' He waved a hand at Matthius. 'A hasty militia barely counts.'

Ingwel held back his immediate thoughts, instead using the quill in his hand to scratch a vague outline of a plan. Questions were voiced, ones of importance. How fast could the mounts of the Knights Panther move from point to point? Numbers? How well did Lulling and his militia know the lands?

It wasn't perfect, but the formings of a strategy began to form.

#

Outside of the camp, hours after what had itself been hours of discussion, Lord Hoffman absently ran a thumb along his moustache, using that motion to hide the way he pulled back his shoulders in an ache-relieving stretch. It wasn't quite as satisfying as a full-body stretch; his spine still had an ache from hunching over that table, staring at the map.

'Whaddya think?' Lulling asked, voice hushed.

Hoffman raised an eyebrow at the free company captain, ignored the slang so favoured by those born of the working classes. The captain scratched at his jaw, eyes clouded.

'I know you was defendin' the lizardman to the witch-hunter, but whaddya really think?' Lulling elaborated after a period of silence.

'I think we're in a bad position until the Middenland army gets the word from the graf to actually act.' Hoffman gave his answer in a careful tone, mind going back to Ingwel's map, to the words scribed upon its surface. 'The Legion have spread themselves thin, arguably too thin even as it is. Even with the Knights Panther and the local free companies bolstering their numbers, we're outnumbered. And I don't know if you noticed on the map, but they're also involved in something else that has cut their numbers further.'

'Somethin' else?'

'They have a small force in the Drakwald.' Hoffman crossed his arms. 'But nothing to say that there were any Chaos bands in there, so unless they're making sure the beastmen within aren't about to involve themselves...' he trailed off.

'I've been hearin' rumours about the Drakwald. Somethin' happened recently.'

Hoffman turned to face the captain fully. 'What do you mean?'

'Before we got told about the Chaos bands, I almost accepted a job to help the Drakwald Patrols. Somethin' has them spooked. Bad enough that they wasn't being choosey about who they want to help them. Normally, they has standards. People have said somethin' happened, that they found somethin' that caused them to get spooked. I decided that the Chaos bands we actually know about were more important than spooked patrols.'

Hoffman lightly tugged at his moustache while he considered what he was told. 'I've not heard anything about that, but I'll be the first to admit that the Knights Panther don't usually get involved with the Drakwald Forest.'

The Drakwald was terrain almost tailored to counter mounted knights, where the knightly orders of the Empire thrived. Any involvement would be because they were tasked specifically, not because they went out of their way to get involved. Hoffman wasn't so proud as to deny that the Drakwald Forest was simply an area where the state military was better suited than he and his brothers-in-arms were.

Lulling hummed, turning his head toward the general direction of the Drakwald. 'I'll be truthful, I also didn't want to go into the Drakwald because it's the Drakwald.'

Not an uncommon attitude. Hoffman didn't hold it against the captain. He sighed softly and tilted his head back, gazing at the darkening sky. Still two hours of light left. 'But now you think there might be some validity to the rumours?'

'Why else would the Legion send people into that hell when they are already "spread thin"?'

There was logic to the question, and Hoffman couldn't think up an answer at that moment that wasn't an agreement. He abruptly shook his head and turned to watch as Witch-Hunter General Matthius stalked around the encampment with a scowl and one eye constantly twitching whenever he noticed a lizardman. It would have been amusing if there wasn't a slight concern that the fool wasn't going to cause an incident. If the small-minded man wanted to commit suicide by provoking the Legion, that was entirely on him, but Hoffman would very much prefer that he do so when there wasn't a chance, however slight, that he himself was going to get caught in the crossfire.

With a sigh, Hoffman started to march toward where his horse had been tethered, eager to leave the Legion's camp just to escape the radius of Matthius's foolishness. Lulling followed close behind. It took a moment for Hoffman to register that Lulling was muttering under his breath, and yet another moment for the mutterings to be translated in his mind as a rant against witch-hunters.

Likely a story there, as Hoffman hadn't seen Matthius do anything to wrong Lulling to such an extent. But it was a story that Hoffman wasn't eager to learn. There were very few reasons why the witch-hunter profession was hated, but those few reasons were also common occurrences. Hazard of the job.

Hoffman absently brushed a hand across the muzzle of his steed, a chestnut coloured destrier, purchased from the von Eisling estate some years ago. The stallion snorted and pushed against his palm, before he then stilled so as to allow Hoffman to mount him.

'Safe travels,' Lulling started once the knight had comfortably positioned himself upon the saddle.

'To you also,' Hoffman returned. 'Kill plenty of Chaos swine.'

Lulling grinned toothily. 'That's the plan.'

Hoffman shared a chuckle before urging his mount to move. It wasn't as if he had far to travel, the rest of his chapter of knights were simply encamped on the opposite side of Mohrungen from the Legion. Hadn't been planned that way, it had just happened. Needed to get back, to relay the summarisation of the meeting, the plans made.

Then, in the morn, they were to move out.

#

Captain Preda slowed his mount, eyes narrowed in consideration as he neared the settlement. It hadn't been marked down on any map he'd seen, which wasn't too surprising. It felt like most of the Empire's smaller settlements just passed by the notice of any cartographers tasked with capturing the land within the Basin.

The scar-veteran wondered if there was an element of it being deliberate. If a map fell into the hands of an enemy, not having the most vulnerable of villages marked down could be a way of trying to protect them. Easier to miss if no record of their existence was marked down. Unfortunately, it also made it infuriatingly annoying for those tasked with protecting the same settlements when the lack of record meant that they had no way of knowing where to go to give such protection.

This particular settlement was surrounded with a palisade, but the gate that allowed passage through that barrier had been left wide open. That was... possibly a cause for concern. What reason would the occupants of this town have for leaving themselves vulnerable? Behind Preda, the fourteen of his subordinates who had been travelling with him stilled their mounts and looked to the settlement.

'It's quiet,' one of them hissed softly.

It was true, there was no noise radiating from the other side of the palisade. Usually, even with a barrier such as that, the noise of humans simply going about their lives could be heard. Nothing.

It actually brought to Preda's mind the village raided by the undead near the World's Edge Mountains those months ago. This close to the Efror County—this close to the Chaos warhost—it wouldn't have surprised Preda to learn that the village had been sacked and pillaged. Except unlike the undead, warriors of Chaos, no matter who they swore their allegiance to, were not prone to leaving the settlement standing after they were done.

Preda slid off his aggradon, lightly patted her snout, and then gestured to three of his subordinates. 'You three, with me. We're going to investigate. The rest of you, keep watch, call out if you see anything approaching.'

While the three he'd gestured slid down from their mounts to join him, the captain clicked his tongue at his aggradon and whispered an instruction in Saurian. The large raptor chuffed in reply and then moved to the side of another aggradon, one still mounted by a saurus, though her eyes remained affixed to Preda, as if silently reproaching him for thinking to do anything without her.

No doubt she'd be nipping his fingers later, cantankerous beast that she could be. Such sacrifices that Preda had to make in his life as a warrior.

His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sabre, though he didn't yet pull the blade from its sheath. He led the trio of his subordinates through the open gate to the town. His eyes were swift to take in any hint as to where the townspeople had gone.

There was something unsettling about the town being so still, empty of all signs of life. Doors to homes had been left wide open, and there was a silence that was eerie, even the wind didn't seem to want to be heard.

Preda picked a building at random and moved through the open door, pausing only long enough to rap his knuckles against the door, just in case there was somebody home. He would prefer not being brained by a housewife with a cooking pot because he unintentionally snuck up on her. The inside was... well, Preda could say that he was not getting quite the same vibe as that undead-raided village from those months ago. In that instance, the village had been a mess, items dropped and left as the villagers had been killed and dragged away to be raised as undead thralls. Here? There was no such mess. If it wasn't for the way that the entire town was empty of all signs of life, it would have looked like the owner of this home had just stepped out.

Everything was neatly sorted, not a thing out of place. Actually, there are no clothes or fabrics of any kind, Preda amended quickly. A search through a second building showed the same thing. And a third.

More investigating had another detail become clear to him. None of the buildings held any blades, or anything that could be feasibly considered a weapon. That especially was the case for what the saurus identified as the town's smithy. Not a single blade or shield or any form of armour.

Normally, Preda would have assumed bandits or the Chaos warhost, but there was just no sign of any violence. In fact, it was more like the entire town had just up and left. Which... ok, if the town had learnt of the nearby problems, that wasn't a stupid move.

If that was indeed what had happened, this wasn't a panicked exodus. Everything usable had been taken. No perishables had been left, all essentials and any weapons taken. No mess, no sign of frantic panicking. This was an ordered exodus. Unless somebody had taken the time to clean up after the fact.

'Nothing here,' Preda finally concluded. 'No need to commit any defence, we leave it. Yackl, you'll ride back to the marshal and tell him we can write this one off.'

It would be a shame that any band of Chaos warriors that stumbled across this town would raze it out of pettiness, but it wouldn't cost any lives. Better that some buildings be destroyed than any lives lost.

Preda couldn't help but wonder about the town's previous inhabitants. Where had they disappeared off to? It wasn't important in the grand scheme of things, and they had actually done the Legion a favour with their disappearance. The arithmetic of war was already one of the most brutal weights to press down upon those in positions of leadership. A constant question of "how many lives would it cost to accomplish this objective?" and then weighing the answer with the question of whether it was worth it. Even Preda had to worry about that arithmetic, though to a far lesser degree than any of the majors or the colonels or especially the marshal. Even as cold as the Children of the Gods could be, as strict as they could be in adhering to the Great Plan, it took a special kind of heartless to not feel that weight pressing down.

Anything that would lessen that weight for Marshal Ingwel would be embraced.

A shuffling sound had Preda's spine straighten, his hand wrapping itself around the hilt of his sword. His three subordinates followed his example, eyes scanning for whatever the source of the sound was. The town was large enough that between the four of them, Preda wasn't going to claim they'd completely scoured every inch of the settlement even after the hour of searching. It was a definite possibility that they had missed somebody.

From between two buildings walked a human man. He was aged, his ashen hair receding, though where it hung behind him it was still long enough to reach beneath his shoulders. His flesh, cracked and weatherworn, was tanned in that shade that suggested southern heritage. If Preda had to make a guess, he had a feeling that the man was of Estalian descent. But, despite the age, the hunched posture that spoke of a lifetime of burdens weighing him down more so than the heavy sack he carried, his eyes—grey in that shade that almost looked a vibrant blue—were keenly sharp, taking in the four lizardmen, scanning each one, one after the next, before focusing squarely upon Preda.

'Hello my friends,' the human greeted, tone just the right side of polite. 'Not often one sees lizardmen this side of the great ocean.'

His accent further cemented the notion in Preda's mind that the man was Estalian. The accent was muted, but it still existed, could still be heard. Despite the words, the fact that nothing about the man suggested a threat, Preda didn't relax his guard. He tried to determine whether this old man matched up with the description he'd been given of one of the Chaos champions. There had been an older human among them had there not? Though Solin had emphasised that the Chaos champion had been dressed in finery and been covered with boils. In contrast, while this man was old, his flesh worn with time's touch and the kiss of the sun, but no ailments, and his garb was not that of finery, but ragged garb that if had been finery once, was certainly fine no longer.

'Hail, human,' Preda said. His grip didn't loosen from his blade, not yet. 'You know of our kin?'

The man's lips twisted upward in a human smile, but he was definitely not smiling at them—none of it reached his eyes. 'I've experience with your kind. I once got on the wrong side of one of you and I count my blessings that I survived the experience. Not many can say the same.'

Preda tilted his head, considering those words. That would explain the lack of a real smile while interacting with them, but it didn't feel like the man was telling all that there was to tell on that subject. Not that Preda would necessarily hold that against him. Not many liked recounting their near-death experiences.

'Do you know what has happened to the people of this town?' Yackl asked after the silence dragged on for a few seconds longer than was comfortable.

The man shook his head then turned to glare in a particular direction, even though it made him look as if he were glaring at the wall of an abandoned home.

'I arrived here yesterday seeking refuge, but alas this town was already abandoned. I found evidence that the occupants left and went in separate directions. A large number moved south and east. The rest moved south and west. I would hazard a guess that the townsfolk left in light of the marauding Chaos warbands. But those that are going westward I couldn't say what they are intending.'

'You know of the warbands then?'

'Difficult to miss, especially for a traveller such as I.' The Estalian man shook his head. 'Such ill times.'

'You don't seem overly worried,' Yackl said, his voice only conveying curiosity without accusation. Preda couldn't tell if that was because the younger saurus simply hadn't considered that there was anything to accuse the man of or not.

The man chuffed in faint amusement, the first genuine emotion that Preda had sensed from him. 'I've lived a long time, this isn't the first time I've been this close to a Chaos warband. Hopefully the last, but until the day I pass, I won't be wagering on that. It was just ill fortune that I happened to be travelling through this area at the same time that a warband makes an appearance.'

'Where are you travelling to?' Preda asked.

The man shrugged. 'Nowhere. Everywhere. Though with Chaos in the Empire's borders, and other recent ill omens, it might be time for me to start thinking of returning south once again.'

Preda hummed. Nothing about the man seemed to indicate anything wrong. It wasn't like the Legion had a monopoly on travelling the lands, often without a particular destination in mind, so he couldn't say that it was the fact that the man didn't say where he had been going that rubbed at his scales with the gentleness of an iron-bristled brush. But there was just an air about the man that made him feel that itch of unease.

'What was your name?' he asked.

The man seemed to jolt in surprise. 'Oh, did I not say? Excuse my manners. I am Tejedor de Lucha.'

His accent had thickened with the name, in the same way that if Preda ever used his full name, the carefully cultivated accent that had become the norm for the Legion fell away to allow his native Madrigallian timbre a moment to come to the surface. If there had been doubts about the ethnicity of this human before, they fell away with the unconscious use of his accent in saying his name.

But that still didn't ease the doubts that lingered in Preda's mind. However, with nothing to base his feelings of suspicion on, he mentally stepped back.

'If you've been travelling the lands around here, anything you can tell us?' he instead shifted the topic.

Tejedor tilted his head in thought. 'Nothing that I'm sure you do not already know. The bands look to be spreading themselves eastward. By all appearances they have no intention of moving into the Laurelorn or Drakwald forests.'

Preda nodded unconsciously. Intelligent of them to not go traipsing into the Laurelorn Forest, the residents within would not take that trespass well. The apparent reluctance to go into the Drakwald was not so apparent in reasoning, though Preda mused that it could be that the marauders were focusing on the Empire. It was quicker to find more targets by going east and not worrying about upsetting any breyherds within the forest.

Thoughts of the Drakwald reminded Preda of Sharpe's task, one that none of the Legion had envied. If ever there had been a time that Preda had been thankful not to have spawned as a chameleon skink, learning of that task had been the moment.

'So far we've not seen them going south overmuch, so if you're planning to get away from the danger then going south until you reach Middenheim is your safest bet.' Preda explained calmly, finally unclenching his hand from his blade's hilt.

Tejedor nodded. 'That sounds reasonable. From Middenheim I should be able to take whichever road leads to the next place that calls to me. I thank you for your time.'

The man gave another non-smile and started to hobble his way toward the town gate. The four lizardmen watched him go.

'Should we really let him just go unescorted?' Yackl asked after the human had disappeared from sight and time enough had passed that he wouldn't hear them.

'We can't take the time to escort him to safety,' Seh'li, one of the other two lizardmen who had been silent the entire time, replied, tone flat. 'And something about that one felt off.'

'You felt it too?' Preda asked.

Seh'li gave a shallow nod. 'He felt wrong. But not... Chaos wrong.'

That about matched with the vibe that Preda had felt. No matter how much Preda had focused on the man and his words, while he'd felt a sense of discomfort, a sense of unease, nothing had spoken that the man had been Chaos-aligned. Chaos worshippers typically had a certain air to them, the only exceptions being those who favoured Tzeentch, and if he had been a Tzeentchian follower, then they wouldn't have felt that unease at all. The human definitely hadn't any sign of Nurgle's gifts, and hadn't shown himself to have any of the emotional instability that came with Slaanesh. A Khornate worshipper wouldn't have lied; they were actually dependable in that regard, their distaste for trickery and need for violence made them easily identifiable.

However, Preda quickly reminded himself, we're dealing with a different god from the usual roster. Do Malice's followers have the subtlety to try and fool us but not enough to be completely suspicion-free? With a name like Malice, one wouldn't think so.

It was speculation at that point. Preda was not an Empire witch-hunter, he wouldn't kill a human on baseless suspicion. Certainly not when doing so could, and probably would, backfire on the Legion. But that didn't mean that Preda hadn't made a mental note of every detail about this Tejedor de Lucha to pass on. Maybe the people of the Empire knew of him, knew what to make of him.

'What did you make of his claim that the townspeople went in two directions?' Preda asked at large.

'South and east would go toward Middenheim. Or Norderingen,' Yackl mused, reminding Preda that just because the saurus wasn't jaded and suspicious—or just lacked experience enough with warm-bloods to sense something off—didn't mean that he didn't have a keen intellect. 'If they were evacuating, those two make sense. South and west is more confusing, nothing in that direction before hitting the Drakwald.'

Preda tilted his head in silent acknowledgment. No map he'd seen indicated that there were any more settlements to the south-west before hitting that dreaded forest, but as this particular town had proven, that didn't mean anything. Maybe the inhabitants of this town were aware of something that the Legion was not. It was something that they couldn't dwell overlong about.

At that point, there was a tone that filled the air, a horn being blown. Preda recognised it quickly, one of his subordinates outside the town was warning them that there was a threat incoming. It looked like the Chaos marauders had taken note of this town and come to do what Chaos did best.

They would find themselves disappointed—there would be nobody to kill, anything of real value was already gone, had been taken at least a day ago, apparently. It wasn't in Preda's interest to get into a fight with the incoming horde at that time. He hissed out a quick order and they made their way out of the town, back to the rest of their unit and their mounts.

When the Chaos marauders arrived two hours later, it was to an empty town. That didn't stop them from burning it to the ground, but it was a victimless affair.

#

Hoffman scowled, his eyes drinking in the sight of the band of Chaos horsemen. They called themselves knights, these Chaos wretches. They weren't knights, not really. But they seemed to be determined to act like they had a claim to such a title based on their riding on horseback.

Thus far, for the past three days and nights, they'd shown themselves to be of a calibre above that of the northmen cavalry that Hoffman had far more experience in taking down. But armour and a claim to a title of knighthood did not a knight make. And Hoffman had taken to proving that point, leading his brother knights in smashing any roaming Chaos knights and reminding them of their true place in the dirt.

Regrettably, this particular formation of Chaos warriors that he and his brothers-in-arms had found was not a fast-moving cavalry unit. There was cavalry among them, flanking the formation on either side. But this was a proper band of Chaos warriors, the cavalry supporting foot warriors and lugging a large cannon that Hoffman had little doubt was daemonically possessed.

Hoffman's lieutenant hummed thoughtfully. 'Is it just me or are they moving toward Bealivun?'

It took Hoffman a few moments to place the name. It was a village that was under siege by Chaos, had been for almost two days. Hoffman had actually been moving that way himself to see whether there was anything he could do to ease the pressure for the members of the Legion besieged within the village. It said something that a village was under siege. Not a stronghold, not a keep, not even a city, but a village was being besieged. Either there was something that Hoffman was missing about the situation, or the Legion garrison was just that good at holding the line while unable to sally out and destroy the force that was so incapable of actually getting into the village.

'I believe you're right.' Hoffman's scowl deepened. His focus fixed itself upon the hellcannon, the singular weapon among the formation that stood out. 'We need to take out that artillery. By the accounts of the runner we saw earlier, that's the one thing the besieging force was lacking. Ranged firepower was actually the thing that the Chaos armies seemed to lack in general unless there were any mages deployed within those same armies.'

Though at that moment in time, Hoffman could hardly cast any stones regarding ranged firepower and the lack therein. He wasn't supporting a state army, so he wasn't escorting archers, crossbows, or handgunners, and there were no pistoliers or outriders riding with them, offering ranged support. Thus far it hadn't been an issue, though Hoffman and several of others within the Knights Panther had been calling on favours and resources to have regiments of outriders and pistoliers not tied to any particular state military to come join their efforts.

The Chaos formation still hadn't noticed the knights watching them, though that wouldn't last. Hoffman would need to act soon.

'We charge in, take out that cannon, and pull back.' Hoffman stated, just loud enough to be heard by his subordinates. Those who couldn't hear would be filled in by those who could. 'If there is any mercy in the world, those Chaos swine that believe themselves to be knights will try to pursue us. Once we've pulled them from their grounded support, we'll remind them of what real knights are.'

There was a dark chuckle from the ranks of the knight. It was probably unbecoming to find amusement in crushing their foe, but for Chaos, exceptions would be made.

'If they don't try to chase us, don't turn back. We won't play their game, I won't have any of us dying because they had us get swamped down by their footmen.' Hoffman cast a stern glare at his subordinates. 'We continue to pull back, and we follow them until we get another opening.'

There was a soft cheer. It might not be the straightforward crushing of the enemy that they'd managed to enjoy thus far, but it was still enough for them, especially the younger of the knights, to feel pumped up and ready. Hoffman gave them a moment, reached into his saddlebag, and carefully pulled free a small burlap bag that he knew to be filled full of black powder. It wasn't his first choice of weapon, but with the hellcannon that was their target, he wasn't willing to pull his punches out of pride. That monstrosity would be destroyed, even if he had to resort to throwing an explosive sack down its barrel.

'Charge.'

As one, the Knights Panther spurred their horses into action. There was a glorious roar, adrenaline-fuelled and a declaration to those who heard it that violence was coming, glorious, righteous violence.

The Chaos formation was not filled with utter fools. They heard the battle cry and they reacted, but they were too slow. Hoffman charged his destrier, bowled down a trio of warriors, and slammed his armoured boot into another. At his side, his brothers-in-arms swung their longswords, following Hoffman's lead. The target was big and slow, and fortunately had been faced the wrong way to have defended itself before the knights were able to reach it.

A Chaos warrior gargled as a blade was forced through his throat, another fell with helmet dented as it prevented the blade of a knight from cutting, but not the force of the impact.

There were wretches at the cannon, shorter, differently armoured, but that would not save them as Hoffman's mount trampled over them in the charge to the weapon. The bag in his hand was a heavy weight that he refused to drop. He reached the hellcannon and pressed the bag into place against the cannon's barrel, then hurriedly fished out a chunk of flint, slammed it against the edge of his shield, watching the shower of sparks that resulted. Once he saw the sparks settle, growing into something more, he urged his faithful horse to flee.

'Withdraw!' he called out, even while he discarded his flint in favour of pulling his sword free from its scabbard and stabbing it point-first into the neck of a Chaos knight's black-furred horse. The horse stumbled and fell prone, which in turn tossed its rider to the ground with a particularly painful-looking impact. But Hoffman didn't linger to admire the scene. His destrier kicked a hoof into the helmet of a non-mounted Chaos warrior. Hoffman didn't get a chance to see the damage, his horse galloped, knocking down another two warriors with an unstoppable charge.

The bag, still nestled where Hoffman had carefully positioned it, exploded as the flame ate through the canvas and finally licked at the powder within. Warriors were tossed aside by the force, fire kissing at them, coloured and tainted as the hellcannon, damaged from that explosion, then appeared to explode a second time, purple and red flames that blended together with the yellow and orange of the powder's detonation.

The knights rallied up, taking in the sight, watched to see whether the mounted warriors would be foolish enough to pursue.

They were.

An angry bellow that was echoed until many became one, a mass of horse-mounted warriors broke from chaotic confusion that the marching formation had become. Hoffman grinned beneath his helmet and had his knights slowly pull back, not so fast as to risk losing their apparent pursuers. But fast enough that there was no chance of their reaching them until the moment that Hoffman himself decided that they were allowed to catch up.

One thing that the men of the cold hard north never fully understood was the risk that came from travelling through the Reik Basin. So much of the Empire's land was covered in one forest or another—there was never that far a distance to travel to reach the tree line of one of those forests. The Drakwald was infamous for what was hidden within, Laurelorn was home to those who dared Nordland and Middenland both to try and stake their claims to the land within. But for the rest, they were actually a boon to the men of the Empire.

There was never far to travel to reach the edge of one forest or another. And forests didn't always hide dangers to the men of the Empire. The fools never realised that they were being led further and further from their support. Not until the moment that from the nearby tree line, another unit of Knights Panther came charging, bursting out from where they had been hidden from sight, blades already held at the ready and swinging as they neared their targets.

In Lustria, the lizardmen might have perfected the art of ambushing from the trees. But here in the Empire, man was no slouch at using their home as a weapon.

The moment the knights hit the flank of the Chaos warriors, Hoffman turned his own unit and charged. The warriors of Chaos, the false knights, quickly learnt that not only were they outmatched. They were surrounded, and Hoffman did not care to hear their cries of mercy as it dawned on them how it was destined to end. Chaos gave no mercy and would get none in return.

An hour later, the last of the foot warriors, unsupported by their mounted comrades, were run down and killed to the last. Hoffman would have then followed in the direction that the Chaos swine had been moving, gone to offer his support to the besieged village of Bealivun, but a runner from elsewhere found him at that point, with a more urgent matter to chase after. Bealivun had been holding off the attack thus far. They could last a little longer.

It wasn't a choice that Hoffman was happy with. But it was the pragmatic choice.

-TBC