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?

20. Siege of Bealivun – When The Crack Forms

Siege of Bealivun – When The Crack Forms...

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Middenheim

—

Returning to Middenheim should have been a moment of calm and content. Graf Boris Todbringer considered his home to be a place he could let his guard down, if only slightly. But the reason for his return, despite unfinished business, tainted the moment. By that time, he should have been in Altdorf, at the meeting of Elector Counts to discuss, among other things, the sky exploding.

Imagine his embarrassment to arrive at Altdorf, after having made remarkably good time, only for the Prince of Reikland to express confusion as to why the Graf of Middenheim had chosen to ignore a threat within Middenland, a threat the likes of which would have excused his absence from this meeting. By some fluke of a chance, or through machinations of outside powers, Todbringer had missed messenger birds and couriers sent to catch up to him. Fortunately, whoever had arranged for the graf to be informed had also decided to make certain that word was spread and sent messenger birds to Altdorf, likely it was supposed to be an explanation for the graf not showing, but it had served the purpose of getting word to Boris despite somehow being missed by every other messenger sent his way. So, it had been left to Karl Franz to inform him that it turned out that where Boris had left his province under the impression that the issues were being dealt with by the strange mercenaries his courtier had hired, the problem had instead escalated to what his council were claiming to be a full-fledged Chaos Warhost within his province.

There was something wrong though. A wrongness that chaffed at Todbringer's awareness. It was the kind of wrongness that was borne of being subconsciously aware that there was something missing, but not being able to identify what was missing. That awareness hit him as he entered into the palace of Middenheim, his eye scanning for any sign of his courtiers.

What wasn't missing but probably should have been considering the circumstances, were the state troops. Why are there so many still in the city if there is a Chaos force in the province?

It took a small search to find one of his courtiers. He almost walked straight into Elric Rauscher, the blonde man had been walking with his nose buried in some parchment, frown-lines marring the man's features. It admittedly took Todbringer a few seconds to place Rauscher, the man wasn't one of his personal advisors, and the members of his court could sometimes blur into the background when they weren't doing something vitally important at a given moment. It wasn't lack of caring, but simply because there were a lot of people, too many for him to remember every face and every name attached to those faces. Fortunately for Rauscher, Todbringer was quick to recognise him due to his part in liaising with the mercenaries sent to deal of the Count of Efror.

'Rauscher,' he snapped, watching as the blonde stumbled in surprise at being called, looking up and then straightening his posture on recognising who had addressed him.

'My graf,' he answered, tone deferent. 'You have returned.'

'Yes. Imagine my shock when the prince of Aldorf himself learnt of a Chaos incursion in Middenland before its own graf did.' Boris kept his tone dry, wasn't about to fling accusations where none were warranted.'

Rauscher's expression twisted, puckered up like he was biting into a lemon. 'All of our messengers failed to catch up to you?' He had a tone of displeasure and a small amount of fremdschämen. 'Damnit...'

Todbringer's eyebrow arched at the muttered curse that was likely not meant to be heard by his ears. 'Problem?' he asked.

'Too many,' Rauscher said, lips curling in displeasure aimed at some unseen target. 'You not getting word is but one part; none of your personal advisors have been around to be heard either. Including the three Midden Marshals.'

That could explain the number of troops still within the city walls. Hell of a time for a disappearing act.

'And what of Middenland's other generals?'

Rauscher's lips puckered inward, into an expression of displeasure mixed with concern with equal measures of barely contained panic.

'Likewise unable to be communicated with. With the way our messengers never got to you, I'm starting to wonder whether we are being sabotaged.'

Boris's teeth began to grind together. 'Every general has failed to respond to any communique sent by Middenland?'

Rauscher tilted his head to one side and made a sound of consideration. 'We did get word from General Hasenclever, but he is loath to abandon the Drakwald Patrols, with fair reason given what I'm being told is happening there.'

Todbringer closed his eye, considered all the kinds of issues that could fester within that expansive forest. Rauscher paused a moment then answered the unspoken question.

'About the only good news on that front is that the One Eye hasn't gotten involved. But last word I got was that the undead haven't gone away, they are... recruiting.'

Todbringer inhaled deeply, considered the notion of a swarm of undead, and what recruiting would entail. A part of his mind hoped that the undead wiped out the beastmen infestation, then reconsidered that, for he wasn't certain if he could stomach the notion of undead beastmen replacing the normal problems he had with the mutants.

'So General Hasenclever is trying to... intervene?'

'I don't know the particulars, my graf, the one liaising with him has been Chancellor Sparsam. I only know what I do because the chancellor hasn't been shy in expressing his displeasure at being told no when told to return to Middenheim to take command of the army.'

Despite himself, there was a small measure of amusement at the notion that the chancellor had been the recipient of the word "No" for a change. A nice moment of role reversal that wouldn't last, for already the humour was fading. He quickly raked through his mind for anything that his council and court might have missed.

'What about General Rödl?' he asked.

Rigoberto Rödl was an older general, a veteran of many battles. Ideally, the man should be enjoying retirement, a rare luxury for such a storied soldier. The man's home was here in Middenheim, so he shouldn't be difficult to get a hold of. Despite his retirement, the man had been a true patriot of the Empire, so he would surely take up arms once again to defend his home?

Rauscher paused, tilted his head again, then sighed and shook it. 'I wouldn't know. I'm the wrong person to be asking about every effort made to organise things in your absence. My role has been to liaise with the Outland Legion, the Knights Panther and the Knights of the White Wolf. You would best be served seeking Chancellor Sparsam or Ser Thugenheim.'

Graf Boris conceded that point. There was a spark of confusion at the idea that this otherwise low to middling-level courtier was liaising with the Knights Panther when Thugenheim was a senior commander of the knightly chapter, but presumably the knight was focused on trying to help keep the city and province afloat, while, from the sounds of it, every person with the authority to actually command the state military was missing.

With a glower, Graf Boris Todbringer stalked toward his council chamber, where hopefully he would find either his chancellor or military advisor. He was back, and if need be, he was going to personally lead the troops of Middenheim in stomping out this Chaos infestation that had decided to emerge.

#

Korild cursed angrily, watching as yet more of his underlings were incapable of advancing on the pathetic village. It should not have been so difficult—this was not some major city of the southern men. What should have been a simple affair had gone on long enough that it was had gone on a little over two weeks now, and all that he had to show for his efforts was the dead littering the grounds surrounding the village. It wouldn't be so bad, except those dead were those under his command, not those of the defenders.

'Wretches and weaklings,' he muttered to himself. 'I have command of naught but the dredges, I've been set to fail.'

Those weaklings within their walls, they must be laughing at him. Korild Ogreshadow hated the idea that he was being laughed at. His eyes affixed themselves to those walls that seemed to be constantly out of reach. Those walls mocked him with their ability to fend off his men.

The explosion of black powder vibrated the air. Just as had happened nearly every other time such a thunderous noise was heard, the sky rained heavy iron balls down upon the warriors that had tried to charge to the walls of the village. On hitting the ground, those iron balls exploded, and even those not caught in the initial fiery eruption were likely cut down as the fragments of the iron ball were propelled at speed by that same detonation, cutting through any flesh not protected by the hell-forged armour worn, typically those weaknesses in the joints.

The problem that he had learnt perhaps a little too late, was that the longer he failed to breach their defences, the tougher those same defences became. They must have had quite the stockpile of resources within those walls, because as time passed, not only were wooden towers assembled with sharpshooters now better able to see and take shots at any threats that approached—also worked well as a means of noticing the approach earlier than they might have otherwise been noticed—but an increasing number of guns were appearing. Big guns—mortars and cannons.

After that terrible first day and night, he had swallowed down his pride and requested assistance from another band, requested a hellcannon of Chaos Dwarf make. If these cowards wanted to play with guns, then Korild would indulge them and bring in the superior models made by the sons of Hashut. Except the fates conspired against him, or Tzeentch had taken notice and found a perverted joy in meddling as the senile old bird was prone to doing. The first band he had requested assistance from had been found decimated and their hellcannon destroyed, hit by some band of southman knights, according to the few survivors. And then he sent a runner further out, except it seemed that a special effort was being made by those blasted inferior knights to run down and ambush any warband that had artillery within their ranks.

Knights wearing yellow furs that were speckled with spots. Korild would remember this insult, incurred by some inferior would-be knightly order. Once he was done here, he would dedicate his efforts to finding those pretender knights and he would show them the real meaning of being a knight.

There was a small part of his mind, a traitorous sliver of awareness, that pondered whether it was worth continuing here. By that point, even if they secured a victory and burnt every last building to the ground, and then ground down the walls into naught but gravel, it would still be a pyrrhic victory at best. Such thoughts didn't tend to last long, however, because then he would look upon the surrounding fields, see the mangled and bloodied and scattered dead, and he would grind his teeth with such force that his gums bled, and he would swear to make those within the village feel such pain for daring to bloody his forces.

He could hear the whispers, those who were doubting in his ability to lead them. He needed to do this, he needed to crush the life from each-and-every person that dwelt behind those walls, to grind their skulls into powder after plucking their eyes and feeding them to the daemons to snack on.

They dared to resist him. He would punish them for that.

#

Mayor Makauc Strongwall of the Imperial Dwarf village of Bealivun was tired, not that he would show it to anybody, outside of maybe his brother. He was running mostly on fumes, willpower and stubbornness—yes, those two were in fact separate traits, because he said so. So long as his village was under siege, he was not comfortable resting, there was always something he could be doing, even if it was just making an appearance so that the umgi of the village were reassured, seeing their leader standing proud and strong, not showing any sign of weakness, and therefore lent that strength to the village's people.

But more than two weeks with minimal sleep was catching up to him, even with his Dawi constitution carrying him. Even the repki were getting more sleep than he was, and they were biologically predisposed to needing less sleep than Dawi and umgi. Though, some of the details about the reptilian people that their leader had dropped, Makauc wondered whether they were falsehoods told to him to reassure him that their "creature comfort" sacrifices weren't so bad as they actually were. Were they truly able to last six months without food? Or was that an exaggeration? Though none had looked like they were any hungrier than usual after the fortnight mark, there was still a distinct difference between two weeks and two months. Never mind six months.

At that moment, Makauc probably should have been sleeping. He had been up all night, overseeing the construction of yet another tower from which a small group of dawi sharpshooters could set up a nest, and then discussed with his brother whether that particular tower would be an ideal place to lift up a mortar or a cannon. Nobody would have questioned if he had chosen to spend the morning hours catching up on lost sleep, but his mind was still buzzing and his thoughts unable to still, so he had spent his morning not asleep, but at his desk, a sheet a parchment before him and a stick of charcoal in a gentle grip between his fingers, working on how to better improve his village. He had an idea on how best to expand in future...

Now if he could just get that idea to work without replicating the shape of a particular eight-pointed star, he would be happy. Well, patience and constant revision was a normal part of the Dawi design process, he hadn't expected to come up with a perfect design in a single morning, and even if he had, he would still spend another month or two looking for ways to refine and improve the design, even if it was still only on parchment.

After crumpling the parchment after realising the similarity to the symbol of the Ruinous Forces, and tossing it into the currently unlit fireplace, Makauc pulled himself away from the desk. Morning had passed, he was still wide awake despite his lack of any rest, so he elected he go make the rounds. Morale was low, after over two weeks of being besieged, on half rations to preserve the food stores, every other day fending off yet another attempt by the horde outside the village, it was understandable that despite the constant string of successes in fending them off that the village's morale would be slowly chipped away. Despite all efforts, the food stores were looking rather bare at that point, they would be running out soon.

Thus why as mayor of Bealivun, he made his rounds, tried to help bolster spirits. It wasn't just the umgi, even fellow Dawi were feeling the drain. So he went, he spoke to the people, he listened to their concerns and their worries, and he didn't judge them, he did what he could to ease their minds. It was difficult for him. As a Dawi, he wasn't used to soft comforting gestures, he was used to riling up and helping to drown worries with more volatile emotions. Better to feel righteous indignation than fear in the face of the enemy. But one couldn't stir up those volatile emotions when there was nothing to channel them toward. What use was getting angry at the Chaos horde—not that he wasn't, he was, he absolutely was, as was everybody else—when they couldn't act on it?

At this rate, he realised, he was going to have to talk to the repki leader and discuss sallying out and fighting the unwinnable fight. He would sooner die with axe in hand, swinging and cutting down his foe than to starve to death. He was certain that most of his village's kin felt the same way.

His rounds eventually took him to go see how the workshops and smithies were faring. As he arrived, he was quickly hit by how still and quiet everything was. The workshops hadn't opened that day. He felt a stirring of concern in his breast, a momentary flash of fear that somehow they'd been sabotaged, that through some means the enemy at the gates had managed to sneak an insidious agent into his walls. His fears were put to rest when he spotted a lone figure within one of the workshops, standing and observing the furnaces.

Dekac—Makauc's younger brother—had taken one look at the tower and declared it ideal for the next cannon that his workshop finished on. Like Makauc, Dekac had been working overtime and at the expense of sleep to rally the village's workshops and smithies, supervising and managing them into the manufacture of artillery with which they could better fend off the attacking Chaos wazzocks. So-what if they didn't have the extensive foundries of Nuln? They were Dawi, and they were humans being supervised by Dawi.

The only reason that Dekac wasn't operating on a little sleep as Makauc was—and on this there was no doubt in Makauc's mind—was because Dekac wasn't about to risk the safety of the crafters, or the quality of the artillery, by having those charged with making them over-worked and under-rested. Another of those Dawi standards at play, this was one of those few moments where Dawi stubbornness never won out, not when the price would be poor quality of work.

Makauc got the sense that his brother had been offended by the repki's carronades, because for being emergency rush-jobs, the fifteen-pounder cannons that he had the workshops produce were impressive. It wasn't the Dawi way to cut corners, even in emergencies where speed was of importance. It was a matter of pride: Dawi made things properly or they didn't make them at all. That just meant that in those instances where speed of production was a priority, simplified and smaller but still long-perfected designs were used instead. Somehow, Dekac had managed to have the workshops produce the larger designs in the same span of time it would have taken to make those smaller designs. Dekac hadn't hesitated to show off his cannons to the repki, smug in the knowledge that he had produced something so superior to those carronades that the lizards had.

Dekac noticed Makauc quickly, always sensitive to anything out of place within his personal domain. The younger brother visibly sighed and made a small motion toward the older, a silent request to come closer. The mayor raised an eyebrow and approached, absently alighting his smoking pipe as he moved.

'Ey, we have a problem,' Dekac said, his voice gravelly even by Dawi standards.

Makauc tilted his head and took a long drag from his pipe. 'Ok?' He motioned the silent workshop. 'Does it have anything to do with...?'

The village's head metalsmith let out another sigh. 'We're running short on black powder. We haven't enough to make any more shells for the artillery, we have enough to use what we have.'

Makauc's brows were lifted. Normally, there would be more than enough of a stockpile of black powder, but this was another instance of bad timing, much had already been used shortly before the siege, when those who had left to join the levies and free companies had taken with them a large portion of the powder to load the weapons that they'd taken. And the village hadn't had yet the chance to purchase a fresh supply, nor the components to make more themselves.

'What we have is only enough to fend off one, maybe two, more attacks,' Makauc said, though he was speaking more to himself than to his brother.

It explained the silence of the workshops. If they couldn't even make more ammo, there was little sense in building artillery to use that ammo.

Dekac grunted softly. 'I've sent everybody with any experience in woodcraft over to the woodshops, they can help with making crossbows and bolts to give the umgi who aren't part of the militia.' His lips twitched. 'I considered asking them to make bolt throwers to make up for the lack of cannons going forward, but... they'll take too long.'

It was one of the cruel ironies of older siege artillery like bolt throwers or grudge throwers, the ones made from wood. Despite being less advanced, the construction was still more time-consuming compared to cannons and mortars, which were made using a mold, cutting contruciton time down significantly compared to cutting and sanding and filing the wood into shape. The ammo for a bolt thrower would have been easy, even compared to cannon balls, they were long bolts of wood, there was little thought behind them, so long as there was wood, there was ammo. No need for combustible powders. Just pure kinetic force was needed to fire those bolts.

The mayor gave a singular nod to showcase his understanding. After taking a very long drag from his pipe, his thoughts about this development mixed, he turned and left the workshop district. His previous notion of doing the rounds was lost, buried beneath the other thoughts now racing along his mind.

One more instance of fending off the horde at the gates, and then he would be very seriously considering going through with his previous thought of talking the repki into sallying out. He meant it, he would sooner die fighting as Grimnir had intended for the Dawi, than slowly wither away.

#

Korild stared at the village, he huffed, he snorted, he puffed. He could hear the murmurs behind him, the jokes that he was trying to crack the walls, bring them down with the power of his heavy breathing. Normally, he wouldn't let such an insult stand, he would not be mocked by his underlings.

But at that moment, he was trying to think of some method of getting his forces close enough to the wall that the guns would no longer be useful. The groves had long since been flattened by the artillery barrages of the village, they had quickly caught on to the cover they'd provided the Chaos warriors trying to approach and scorched the earth rather than let those trees remain. Now, no matter which direction they approached from, they were visible, they were exposed. They were targets for the cowards with their cowardly weapons.

His teeth continued to grind against each other. He needed to do this soon, before...

'What has been the delay, Korild?'

Korild straightened his posture, eyes widened, and breath stilled in his lungs in a flare of panicked terror. Warmaster Skaros let Korild get away with his attitude and his ego, his refusal to bend the knee to him, because Skaros cared first and foremost about results. So long as Korild produced results, then Skaros let Korild get away with minor disrespects.

The voice that addressed Korild at that moment, he was not the type to let any such attitude go unpunished. Korild was not ashamed to admit fear where this man was concerned. To not fear this one? That was the height of foolishness, a show of being tired of living. Only the suicidal did not fear Valnar the Everwrath. Only the suicidal, and the other exalted champions of Malice.

Korild inhaled deeply and turned to face the Everwrath, privately cursing that he had taken so long in bringing down this village that the exalted champion had deigned to come and personally oversee the situation. This was what he had hoped to avoid. If he could avoid the attention of any of the four lieutenants of the Warmaster, he would have been content—all four were terrible to be under the attentions of, though for very different reasons.

The Everwrath towered over Korild, the dragon-ogre skull he wore staring deeply into Korild's eyes. The eye sockets of the skull, despite their size, let no light pass, so to all appearances, the Everwrath stared not with eyes but with inky black voids that sucked in the light.

There were a large number of rumours circulating about the Everwrath. That the skull-clad man was the human guise of an exiled daemon of Khorne, or that he was Asavar Kul, disgraced from his defeat at the gates of Kislev and turned to Malice in hopes of avenging himself against the Four for abandoning him, that he was destined to be the next Overchosen before failing a test set by the Four. Every rumour that Korild had heard was circulating within his mind at that moment.

'Lord Everwrath.' Korild hurriedly genuflected, eyes drawn to the twin greataxes held by the larger man. 'This village has proven surprisingly resilient.'

The Everwrath stared at Korild for four seconds, then shifted his gaze to the village. For a whole minute, the barbarian champion continued to peer at the village, silent and unmoving.

'You will tell me of every effort you have made to breach the walls, and I will then correct you,' the Everwrath said.

'C-correct me?'

'Tell you where you made your mistake,' the Everwrath defined his previous comment. 'You will then do as I tell you that you should have done to begin with, and if you should still fail then clearly the fault lies with you.'

Korild swallowed, gulped down the bile that wanted to rise his gullet. He quickly gestured toward his tent, preferred to keep the conversation out of the sight of his underlings' prying eyes. They could likely smell the blood in the water, were already starting to look upon Korild with eyes shadowed with dark intent. It was time to begin doing some damage control before one of them got notions into their head. First, make certain that any remaining sharp words from the Everwrath were kept private, second, make sure that those who witnessed the display thus far were sent at the front of the next wave to remove them and the poisonous thoughts that were no doubt festering even at that moment.

Once inside the privacy of his tent, Korild explained everything that had occurred thus far, from the initial shock defence of his first charge, to the attempt by Rutgar to launch an attack during the night, the failure to acquire any hellcannons to even the field, all the way up to that moment.

The Everwrath didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't make a sound. He simply listened. After Korild had finished, he still stood there, didn't move a muscle, just kept those dark bottomless chasms that were the eye holes of his skull fixed on the Chaos knight.

'The problem as I see it,' the Everwrath said, speaking slowly, 'is that you are too busy trying to emulate the Deceiver and are over-thinking. I cannot tell if that is mere cowardice on your part, a fear to charge their guns. Or if you are just naturally aligned to acting like you have a bigger mind than you truly do.'

Korild's teeth ground together at the insult levied at him, the insinuation of an idea that he was craven. 'I just felt that a pyrrhic victory from charging gunlines that would cut us down would weaken us far more than is acceptable. Thus, why I wanted the hellcannons, to remove the one advantage they had. Bring down the walls, limit the number of their guns they can use at a time, and the range at which they can use those same guns.'

There was a rumbling sound from the Everwrath. 'The moment you knew that you weren't going to be able to get those hellcannons, that was the moment you should have stopped trying to emulate a Tzeentch worshipper. The only thinking that should have gone through your mind at that point should have been: "what is the weakest point to apply pressure?".'

'Enlighten me then, my lord,' Korild said, struggling to keep his tone even and respectful. 'What is that weakest point to apply pressure? The defenders of that village have spread their defences quite evenly, no matter which direction we approach, they have guns and artillery aimed and ready for us.'

'Exactly,' the Everwrath snapped. 'So, your response should have been the simple solution: pick three angles to attack from and dedicate your entire force to an all or nothing assault. That leaves them having to relocate their defences from the directions not under attack, which takes time. And that is assuming that they bother, which they could opt not to do under the mistaken idea that another wave will be coming from the angle that they have covered, and they do not want to leave an approach open for such.'

The exalted champion leaned forward, towering over Korild. Korild fought against his unconscious desire to lean back, to try and keep some measure of distance between the two of them.

'Sometimes, Korild Ogreshadow, the smartest option is the brute force option,' the Everwrath said with a growl. 'But because you delayed for so long, you have made the smart option costlier than it should have been. You could have smashed through their walls by now if you had just kept your nerve and not tried to be more clever than you are.'

Korild tasted blood, realised that he had bitten down on his tongue to keep himself from arguing against the Everwrath and his "critique". He would remember the insults to his intelligence, he would find a way to enact justice for the insult. It might well take him a while, but it would happen.

'This Rutgar had the right idea. He attacked during the night, while they were still weak and unprepared. Why did you not have the rest of your band rush to assist while he had them unable to ward you off?' the Everwrath finally asked.

'We...' Korild faltered, hadn't expected the change in subject. 'At the time I was still taking stock of my losses from the previous attempt. The rest of the men were tired and needed time to recover.'

The Everwrath shook his head, slowly. 'This village is becoming an embarrassment. Every other settlement, defeat or victory, it has been swift. Either the band reached and burnt the settlement, or they were fended off, and either crushed utterly or moved on to find less defended settlements to sack, which was serving our purpose of keeping the people of this land unable to properly consolidate. But you, you, for whatever reason decided to take this village as a personal insult and have dedicated yourself to wasting time and resources in trying to level it. You should have just moved on. Instead, I found three villages nearby that were not just still standing, but hadn't even been struck yet, because you lingered here. Maybe I should have you replaced with Rutgar.'

Korild's temper finally snapped. 'That scheming son of a whore! How dare...? He wants to take my place, the conniving Ho-gain piss-tar.'

'Silence yourself.'

'Yavj boovoo saa...'

Anything further that Korild might have had to say was cut short when the Everwrath lunged forward, clamping one hand around Korild's neck and squeezing, while also lifting upward, so that the Chaos knight was left dangling a foot from the ground, gagging and wheezing in an attempt to breath despite the viced gripe constricting his throat. The Everwrath's eyes might not be visible, but the glare was felt regardless.

'I have killed people for lesser reasons than you are giving me. Here is what will happen now: You are going to do as I instructed, and launch an attack from whichever direction you desire, using every able-bodied warrior under your command, including those that I brought with me to bolster your numbers. You will be personally leading the assault, to show me that you are not a coward hiding behind big words. Impress me, and you get to keep your place as the leader of this warband. Whatever remains of it after your delay allowed this village to bolster itself with artillery.'

'Bas...rd...'

Amazingly, the Everwrath chuckled lowly and relaxed his grip, allowed Korild to fall to the ground, gasping in wide oxygen starved breaths.

'Maybe you do have some bravery to you after all. Do not disappoint me, Ogreshadow. I am not nearly so forgiving as others in my position can be.' He leaned down, loomed over Korild, so all that the knight could see was the large skull worn as a brutal mask or trophy. And still, Korild was not able to see any hint of the eyes within those empty sockets. 'If you fail, you won't just have your loss of position to worry about. I can promise you that.'

And with his ominous declaration, the Everwrath twisted around and stalked from the tent, left Korild to continue coughing and gasping as his abused throat continued to pull in air with the greedy gulps of a man who had been deprived.

Minutes later, Korild exited the tent, hand rubbing absently at his bruised throat. Around the war-camp, a few of the warriors who held loyalty to Korild looked away from him, made it very clear that they were aware of what had happened, the leather canvas of the tent having not done a lick of good in keeping the entire affair private. Korild ground his teeth, felt a well of humiliation pooling up within his gut with such force as to make him feel nauseous.

He heaved in a breath, an attempt to calm his nerves, though not his fury. No, not his rage at the injustice dealt to him, that he allowed to fester, such that it would fuel him. The trick was to not let that rage burn out of control, he had to keep a tight rein upon it, keep it harnessed and under strict dominance, in much the same way fire was harnessed. Let the flames grow without supervision and one would burn.

He grabbed the shoulder of the nearest warrior that he knew to be one loyal to him, waited for the warrior to turn to face him, actually muster the bravery to meet his eye.

'Start organising everybody. Gather all the ladders and the battering rams. We're going to attack come sundown. Everyone will go.' He breathed in another deep breath, struggling to maintain his calm, repressed the urge to take out his frustrations on the warrior and everybody in the camp. This was not the time. turned his attention to the distant form of those who had arrived under the Everwrath's direction. 'Everyone.'

The warrior gave a low sound of assent, made to go, to obey the command given, but Korild didn't let up his grip upon the warrior's shoulder. 'Is there more?'

Korild took a moment to gather his thoughts, to maintain that calmness, to keep his fury tempered.

'Keep an eye out for Rutgar. I have no doubt that he is hoping to be granted my place should I fail. It would not shock me if he plans to sabotage me. I would see to it that he never gets the opportunity. If you see him, tell me.'

'As you command.'

Finally, Korild released his grip, allowed the warrior to go.

#

While they didn't need to sleep as often as the humans and Dawi that lived in the village, Zak had made certain to assign a shift rota that allowed everyone under his command time to rest, preferably through sleep. With them forgoing eating so that the warmbloods could last longer, Zak was quick to rationalise that they needed to preserve their energy as best they could. Sleep was the best way to do so. If they weren't on their shifts, watching for the next inevitable attack, then they would be either sleeping, or as close to it as could be.

Zak didn't exclude himself from that general order. Any moment that he was not overlooking and contemplating the defences, he was nestling himself in some street corner, eyes shut and dead to the world. An hour here, an hour there. It was all that he afforded himself, his position didn't allow for a full six-to-eight hours of slumber. So, he took what he could where he could.

It was for that reason that he found himself blinking blearily, his cape sliding off his frame alongside something heavier—a quick look down showed that somebody had draped their coat over him during his nap—and yawning what he had been told was an eye-wateringly wide yawn, before checking his surroundings, as though concerned that he had been relocated in his sleep.

Nope, he was still near the village square, a small spot with a nearby well. The owner of the coat, a saurus, was at the well at that moment, absently using the water pulled up to scrub at his face. Propped against a nearby wall was one of the Legion's battle standards, the fabric adorned with the tri-flames of Madrigal gently swayed in the—Zak quickly eyed the sky, took note of the sun's position—slight breeze of the afternoon.

Zak clambered to his feet, twirling his cape around and affixing it to the back of his cuirass with an automatic motion, then picked up the saurus's coat and lightly brushed the wool of any dirt that might have gotten on it form the brief seconds it had been on the floor. The saurus clearly heard his motion, angled his head so that he could see Zak from the corner of one blue eye, then finished his scrubbing at the scales on his brow before finally cupping his hands, bringing up a small amount of water to his maw and took sipped of the nectar of gods.

'Major,' the saurus finally spoke up.

'Afternoon,' Zak greeted in turn. He didn't yet hand the saurus back his coat, gave the larger lizard a chance to rebutton his shirt and waistcoat. 'Anything new to report?'

The saurus paused in threading a button through the stitched hole opposite. 'More Chaos warriors arrived.'

Zak narrowed his in concern. 'How many?'

The saurus resumed buttoning his shirt. 'The camp doubled in size.' He shook his head. 'Being honest, if they attack now, and if they commit, we won't win.'

'That bad?' Zak asked without really expecting an answer. Just based on numbers, if the Chaos camp had indeed doubled in size, then they were going win through sheer attrition. On the other hand, the leader of this band of Chaos marauders had shown himself to be fairly flaky, constantly pulling back after taking a certain number of casualties. It was as if the leader of the warband was constantly getting utterly unnerved by the combination of artillery and musket-fire, and without a way to get past the gunlines was afraid to commit.

So, the problem as Zak was seeing it, Chaos would win through attrition if they committed. If they didn't? Well, the attack following that, the defenders would probably not manage to inflict enough damage to the horde before they reached the walls. Ammo was running short, and yesterday, Zak had been given the news that the village's stockpile of gunpowder had run dry. They had ammo enough for one attack, the attack after that was going to be within the village itself, and then the loss through attrition would truly come to pass, because as confident as Zak was in those under him to hold any line he declared, they would tire, and one lucky strike felling a member of the Legion would become two, would become three, and they would start to add up.

If they won, it would be costly.

'Still no sign of reinforcements?' Zak asked.

On one hand, stupid question. The hilly terrain and the fact that they were trapped in this village meant that they couldn't see any approaching reinforcements and they couldn't go out to track down any friendlies for word on what was happening. On the other hand, there was always a chance.

The saurus shook his head as he threaded the final button into the correct hole. 'Not that I've heard.' With the saurus finally finished buttoning up, he accepted the red coat offered to him and slid it on.

'Something needs to change, and soon.' Zak mumbled more to himself than anything else, his crest-fin lowering until it seemed to compress against his skull. 'Where did these extra Chaos warriors even come from?'

That particular question sent his thoughts down a momentarily dark path. What if they were other bands that had been victorious against the Legion? What if Zak now had command over the last vestiges of the Legion? He scoffed and dismissed those thoughts away, the warhost had sent out so many splinter fragments that even with the Legion split up as it was, there was no way that all of them were being caught and run down. No doubt these reinforcements were from those that had managed to not get caught into a conflict with the Legion's other divisions.

Zak inhaled and grabbed his helmet from where he had rested it while he slept and pressed it firmly atop his head.

#

Eventually, Makauc found himself in at the western edge of his village, standing on the roof of one of the buildings which doubled as the outer wall. A couple of dozen of the smaller repki, the ones called skinks, shared the roof with him, though he was interested to note that only two of them were keeping an eye out at the surrounding terrain, and the main war-camp of the Chaos marauders. Naturally there were other camps around the village, it would hardly be an effective siege on their part if they only focused their numbers on one side and allowed the defenders free reign to come and go through the opposite side as they pleased.

What was especially annoying to Makauc was that the camp was positioned such that while the cannons could feasibly start blasting away, they were at enough of a distance that accuracy was shot to hell and back. There was a reason that range and effective range were two very separate distances. And especially with the critical shortage of ammo for the artillery, bombing them at ranges beyond effective range was just asking to waste what they couldn't afford to waste.

But back to the skinks, only two were being watchful, the other twenty-two looked almost like they were lounging, basking in the afternoon sun. From where Makauc stood, he could see that the other rooftops that held skink musketeers were in similar setups, two watchers while the others basked. He decided he couldn't really fault them, two sets of eyes were just as effective as twenty-four, had less crowding where it wasn't needed, and allowed the others to be rested on the advent that an attack came, all they had to do was stand up, shoulder their handguns and wait for that opportune moment to pull the trigger.

He chuckled softly to himself, pictured how effective this Legion would be if instead of muskets that were clearly based on earlier Empire handgun designs—though the Dawi artisan in him could see elements where the Legion had over time come up with their own innovations, little details that spoke of how they had their own culture and way of thinking, didn't just copy the designs that they'd been given at some point in the past—but if they were instead equipped with the rifled design used by Karaz Ankor's thunderers.

How angry would the Engineers Guild be if I mention rifling to them? That thought had another chuckle escape his lips. But as amusing as the thought was, he decided to refrain from following through with such an idea, if for no other reason than because he was not interested in making an enemy of the Engineers Guild, whether he was a part of Karaz Ankor or not.

Sometimes Makauc regretted leaving the Karaz Ankor, but as much as he had pride in the Dawi and their crafts, he had also felt a restriction, a rigidity that he and his brother had chaffed at. The Empire in comparison had felt freeing. And with the Empire being the frontline for most Chaos incursions—well, almost, Kislev definitely deserves the title of front line—meant that he and his brother had been in a place where they could better contribute towards the greatest threat. Not that the Empire hadn't had its own limitations, which was why he had eventually settled for Middenland rather than Nordland or Ostland as the place to build his village.

One of the basking skinks cracked open an eye and gave him a curious look at his chuckling. Makauc simply took a long drag from his pipe and smiled at the skink in question. 'Don't mind me, just picturing impossible things.'

The skink shrugged and returned to enjoying the afternoon sun, hands never leaving the handgun cradled across his chest. In the street below, the larger lizards—saurus, he reminded himself—were stationed ready to be a wall for any threat that might breach the gate which had been erected after that first night. Like the majority of the skinks on the roofs, it was a lot of doing nothing, just being in position for the instance that an attack came. As such, it didn't surprise Makauc that the musicians within such groups had taken to playing tunes. Help stave off any boredom that came from hours of standing in place, but also had the benefit of helping to keep morale up for the umgi, and even the Dawi, who were feeling the stress of being trapped in their own homes, living of half rations.

At that moment, the musician was a sea-green scaled saurus with a strange instrument. At its core, it appeared to be a weathered bag made from tanned hide, the edges adorned with meticulous stitching. Meanwhile, jutting out from the bag were a number of pipes of polished wood. The end of one of those pipes was rested within the mouth of the saurus holding it, the end of the pipe very clearly designed to account for the fact that the repki didn't have lips, or if they did, didn't have the dexterity to use them as to create a seal around the instrument. But the flared end of the pipe clearly did that job for them.

The sound produced by this strange bag of pipes was unique. That was honestly the only word that the dwarf was able to bring up to describe it, for it didn't bare any resemblance to the sounds of any other instrument that he had ever listened to. It was a sound that could have easily not been music, could have easily been dismissed as just being some bothersome noise. Instead, the saurus was able to manipulate that unique sound and shape it into a low but upbeat tune that had a couple of his companions tapping their feet in time to the music.

It was just another example of the culture that these lizardmen carried with them. Were he a more academically minded individual, he was sure that interviewing these reptilian mercenaries would make for a fascinating case-study. As it stood, he wasn't, so these little details largely got the single thought of "huh, interesting" after which they were shunted to a corner of his mind and largely forgotten.

One thought that didn't get discarded was a small measure of disappointment. It was disappointing that he had first encountered these lizardmen during such circumstances. He fancied that he would have enjoyed meeting them under better conditions. As it stood, while he didn't regret their presence, it was just a shame that they would all be dying together. Unless something changed. And soon.

The sun was starting to dip from the sky. Food stores were at a critical low, only enough gunpowder to fend off one last attack unless the Chaos wazzocks pulled something new out of their rears. Despite the efforts of those musicians, Mayor Makauc Strongwall was at a deficit for morale.

#

Korild was impatient. The night had fast approached. Surprisingly fast. It appeared that the summer season was starting to make way for the fall. He took a brief moment to mentally work out what month it was upon the calendar of these Imperials. They were halfway through Nachgeheim, if he had worked out the differences properly. Next month on their calendar was the month that they dedicated to harvesting their year's labours.

That last part had the knight snort in disgust. This was the time of year when the weaklings of the Empire would have the least amount of food stored away, used up over the course of the year. He needn't be throwing his men against the guns of these weaklings when he could resign them to starving to death. He quickly dismissed that thought, because as much as he enjoyed the idea of those that he despised so slowly withering and wasting away, it wasn't good enough for him. He wanted to personally inflict pain, a long and drawn-out suffering to recompense them for every one of Korild's underlings they had spilt the blood of.

In that regard, Korild agreed with the Everwrath's desire for a swift capture of this village. Starving them just felt so impersonal. He was a knight under Malice, Hierarch of Terror and Anarchy, not the God of Distant and Aloof Ploys. While the realisation that they were starving would play into the terror of Malice's domain, it didn't feel right, it wouldn't be terror directed in the right direction.

Just as Khorne desired only the skulls of worthy combatants, Malice desired his enemies to direct their terror at the architect of their demise.

One of his underlines, Vorlag, approached, helmet tucked under his arm.

'Word has been sent to the other camps. We're ready to attack.' The report was given quickly, tone low and reverent, no doubt Vorlag was afraid of Korild's volatile temper, a temper that had been fuelled by the Everwrath's mistreatment.

'Midnight can't come soon enough,' Korild said, more to himself than to Vorlag. He then turned to the other knight with brows lowered so that he was glaring intently at Vorlag. 'What of Rutgar? Where is he?'

'He is at one of the other camps, he was chosen to lead their attack personally.'

'Coward is hiding from me,' Korild growled, his fist clenching with such force that his knuckles were popping, bones creaking from the strain he was putting them through.

'Actually no.' Vorlag quickly looked abashed at his contradicting Korild's statement, but he quickly swallowed and met the glare directed upon him. 'The Everwrath directed him there. Witnesses say that the Everwrath made it clear that Rutgar was to lead the attack.'

Korild didn't stop growling, but he refrained from taking out his anger on an actually loyal subordinate. 'Bastard is trying to replace me with Rutgar.'

'Maybe you'll not have to worry about him, he might get killed in his front of the attack.'

Korild barked out a harsh laugh. 'Rutgar is a survivor, first and foremost. He'll survive. The trick will be finding him afterwards and killing him ourselves. Can't trust the weaklings of these lands to anything right. Just got to make sure that the Everwrath doesn't suspect our hand in the deed.'

Vorlag didn't comment, stepped back and instead gazed up at the rising moons. 'Morrslieb has been especially bright of late.'

Korild allowed the shift of subject and turned his eyes up to the sickly green moon. 'Maybe it has something to do with what happened a while back. The sky...'

He trailed off, couldn't begin to fathom how to describe what had happened, the maelstrom that had appeared and, from what he understood from overheard snippets of conversations between those with an understanding of the Winds of Magic, was still ongoing, just no longer visible to those not gifted with witch-sight.

Vorlag shook his head. 'Maybe.' He paused, visibly chewed on his lip, eyes never leaving the moon. 'It's making a night attack far more noticeable that I would prefer.'

Korild's growl returned, his throat vibrating from the sound. 'What choice do we have? If we march during the day, then we will be noticed the moment we start moving. At least at night we might cross some distance before they take notice start shooting at us with their craven weapons.'

Vorlag lifted his hand, the one not holding onto his helmet, made a gesture of peace toward Korild. Korild inhaled deeply, reminded himself to temper his anger and hatred, to not let it burn out of control. When he exhaled, he was as calm as he was going to get.

He sucked in another breath. 'Prepare the men. The witching hour nears. I want the battering ram to take down that gate, I want the ladders up, I want us in that village before the hour is up.'

He barely registered Vorlag's departure. He glared at the village that had mocked him these past weeks. It would burn by the morrow, he swore it. His oath declared, even if only in the confines of his mind, he moved to where he had left his mount. He had a battle to conduct. None would dare accuse him of not being a leader.

#

Zak remembered that first night of the siege. Remembered the attack at the dead of night. How could he not? It was because of that attack that he preferred his own waking hours be during the evening through to the early hours, while he entrusted the dawn through to dusk shifts to Captain Yuata.

He made his rounds, circling the village's edge, eyes locked to the plains between the settlement and those warcamps just far enough away to be safe from being bombarded, but close enough to still be a siege. He had started his round from the gate that was closest to the biggest camp, the one that clearly held the bulk of the Chaos forces—the one that had seemingly doubled if not tripled in size the previous day—and from there he would go around until he finished back at that same gate. An hour after he finished, he would repeat the exercise. It would continue that way all through the night.

He had just finished the first such cycle and moved himself to the roof to the side of the gate. Had to consider the conversation he'd had with the mayor, shortly before the dwarf had retreated to his abode to, in theory, go sleep for the night. It was only in theory, because Zak could see the bags forming under the Dawi's eyes. That was a dwarf who was not getting nearly enough sleep.

That clear display of insomnia would have made it easy to dismiss the conversation they'd had, to brush it aside as the words of somebody unable to think straight through the lack of sleep ailing him. But in truth, it wasn't a conversation he could dismiss in such a way.

Should they sally out? Food store being what it was, gunpowder supply being what it was, morale being what it was... sallying out was death: the numbers were against them, and while that wasn't in and of itself cause to believe it a fight they couldn't win—Zak himself had been part of more than enough battles where his side was outnumbered and yet they still came out the victors, numbers weren't everything—the terrain if they left the village was against them. Numbers weren't everything: the battlefield and knowledge on how best to use the terrain made for a potent force multiplier, made smaller numbers capable of matching foes thrice their size. But when the terrain itself favoured the side with the larger numbers? No, Zak wasn't optimistic about the chances of victory.

But a very valid point had been made. Better to die on one's feet, weapon in hand, fighting the enemy than to slowly starve.

Zak exhaled softly. Come tomorrow, there would have to be a meeting to discuss whether that was an action that would be agreed upon unanimously by the citizens of this village. It wasn't a choice Zak would make for them, but then, when Zak and his subordinates could last months longer despite lack of food, he was rather biased in his desire to stay within the village walls.

He blinked, something at the very edge of his awareness pulling him from his thoughts. He looked toward the plains beyond the village's edge, eyes narrowed. In the pale green light of Morrslieb, he thought he could see something. Movement. Possibly.

'Ready the rocket,' Zak ordered with a hushed tone, his attention briefly locking onto the skink closest to the rocket that was used to signal an attack. 'We might be under attack.'

The skink scurried over to the rocket, pulling a brick of flint from one of his satchels. He held the flint close to the wick and used his other hand to position his musket's bayonet close, ready to strike at the brick with but a moment's notice.

Zak turned his attention back to the plain, focusing inward, pulling in some of the ambient Winds and shaping them for his purpose. After but a moment, he held out a hand and released the Winds in the form of a light which blanketed the battered and cratered grounds beyond the village. And in the vivid light, the Chaos army realised they had been seen and did away with any attempt at stealth and started to charge.

Zak cursed loudly. 'Light the fuse!' he called out, then started gesturing at all the other skinks sharing the roof with him while raising his voice to higher volumes. 'Muskets, form up and ready arms.'

There was no hesitation. Every skink on a roof within earshot was on their feet in the span off time it would take to blink. In the street below, the saurus started to form up their own formations, ready to block the road even should the gate be breached. The clicking of musket hammers being pulled back was like music to Zak, a reassuring chorus to the tune of warfare.

The rocket's fuse was lit, the spark trailed the oiled wick, after which the tube-like object was propelled into the air with a high-pitched whine, reached a height of some seventy-five feet in the air and then exploded with a boom that would awaken anybody who had thought to sleep the night away, accompanied by a burst of light in the sky.

And then the explosion was echoed. Twice.

Zak twisted around. His eyes easily found the lingering sparks of each firework to have detonated in the sky. His eyes widened as he realised that this wasn't a moment of watchers slightly further down the length of the village's perimeter had noticed the same threat he had and reacted at the same moment. All three of the rockets which had been launched skyward had detonated at very different points of the village's edge.

Ah... a multi-front attack. On the one hand, he had somewhat seen such an event happening, it was common sense after all to not put all your effort into a single front because that meant that the enemy could focus their entirety on that same single front. On the other, he'd almost gotten complacent with the leader of this band of marauders being reluctant to commit in true force because of the absence of any real means of countering the gunfire sent their way.

Captain Yuata would have to go direct the defence at one of the other points of attack, and the third would probably get the head of Bealivun's militia, or the mayor himself. The reserves were going to be split in three, and unfortunately, there was no way of knowing what the ideal ratio of splitting that reserve would be, not without first having reached one of the points of attack. For all that Zak knew, two of the attacks could be genuine, while the third was a diversion deliberately sent to make it look like there was a third point of attack when in actuality there were only two.

Damned Chaos and their fondness for attacking at night.

'Sergeants,' Zak called out to the skink musket lines, even while he returned his attention to the threat that he could see, mentally tracking their position and speed. 'You have discretion on when to fire. Six volleys, then fire at will.'

The major then turned his gaze toward one of the defence towers. The Dawi handgunners, alerted by the fireworks, were already in the process of positioning their weapons, bracing the long-barrelled firearms against the edge of the tower's wall, while the cannon teams started to shove a solid iron ball down the barrel.

'Fire at your discretion. Prioritise any ranking warriors you make out.' Zak called up to them.

'Ye got it, repki,' one of the auburn bearded dwarfs yelled back to him.

'First rank,' one of the skink sergeants projected his voice, 'fire!'

The sound of thunder, not dissimilar to the fireworks but with a reverberation that came from multiple instances of the same sound projecting at the same moment. Smoke wafted from the barrels of the first rank of skinks, those same skinks quickly dropped to one knee, began the process of reloading while giving the second rank a clear view of the oncoming horde, clear shots to take once the sergeant gave the order.

Zak's flare of light had started to die down by that point, hadn't been intended for long-time coverage, had only ever been planned to get a better look at the field. But now that the Chaos horde were not trying to be subtle about their advance, there was little need for it. In the pale green light, the movement of the warriors of Chaos made the ground writhe, let all know that the danger was there.

The cannon atop the tower fired. The fifteen-pound ball of solid iron slammed down into the writhing mass of armoured warriors. There were screams, curses and vulgar yells that all drowned each other out at the distance that they still had to traverse. Zak felt not a single pang of sympathy for them.

'Second rank, fire!' the sergeant shouted. It was a call that was echoed from other rooftops.

More thick and scented smoke wafted up, the second rank started the process of reloading their weapons, didn't need to take to the knee as there was no third rank, instead the first rank returned to their feet, shouldering the muskets and awaiting the order to pull the triggers.

A distant "thoomp" was heard, and from above came another shot from an artillery, except this time it wasn't a solid iron ball fired from a cannon, this was a mortar shell, and those had been crafted with the intention of exploding. Maybe the use of explosive shells had cut into the stores of gunpowder, used that resource more rapidly than it otherwise would have. But Zak was not about to argue results, when falling from above, the explosive shot was far more effective, and infinitely more devastating than a solid shot would have been.

The shot landed amid the oncoming warriors, and exploded with fiery effect, the force grabbing those warriors closest to the scene and tossing them aside as though they were wooden figures tossed aside by a child having a tantrum. There was a second benefit to the explosion, which Zak quickly appreciated. For a brief window of time, the scene was lit anew, and in this moment, he was able to spot something he hadn't during the initial reveal.

'They're bringing ladders,' he said in warning.

The sergeant sharing the roof with him briefly turning his head, met Zak's eyes as if to confirm the truthfulness of the warning, then gave a single nod.

'Make sure your bayonets are properly affixed,' the sergeant called out. 'If I catch any of your bayonets coming lose, I will be personally inviting you to explain to the major why you felt that a wobbly bayonet would be more effective at skewering a Chaos warrior than a solid one.'

'Wobbly bayonet for the wobbly morality of the slaves of Chaos?' one skink blurted out.

There was a moment where the entire line guffawed. It wasn't even that good of a joke, but Zak wasn't going to deny them their source of humour, not if it helped keep their spirits up.

'First rank, fire!' Sergeant Cobaal called out, the only one who hadn't chuckled and had kept his attention squarely on the mass of warriors.

Even while they still sniggered at a bad joke, the skinks fired and then dropped to one knee, allowed the freshly reloaded second ranks to shoulder their muskets and take aim down at the mass.

Another cannon shot from the tower, more screams and insults bellowed. Closer now, almost able to make out actual words. They were approaching faster than Zak had anticipated, must have been desperate to cross that distance and get into melee. A sensible desire really, being shot at by muskets, brothers-in-arms dropping dead from a hail of lead, their armour not even a guaranteed protection from the sheer power of the ranged weapon. Shields helped, but for each shot that those shields saved the bearer, its own integrity would be slowly chipped away, each time less likely to save the life of its owner.

'Second rank, fire!'

Another mortar shell came down. The explosion once again allowed a brief glimpse of the coming threat. For as many as were being killed, it was very clear it wasn't enough, there wasn't going to be a rout as it dawned on the Chaos warriors that they were losing men too rapidly to sustain themselves for the fight to come.

'Where did they all come from?' Zak asked, angry.

'Major, battering ram!' One of the musket troops called out in alarm.

Zak twisted his head to follow the trooper's attention, but the light from the explosion, all too brief as it was destined to be, had already faded. With a curse, Zak breathed in the Winds again, reshaped them. He shaped the Winds differently this time, and when he motioned at the writhing mass of shadows charging towards the village, he felt a surge of satisfaction as the explosion of shimmering Hysh-infused light was created. The spell was a brilliant, dazzling to the point of blinding light, but that brightness did not affect those he didn't wish to suffer the effect.

There were screams of hatred and pain from the charging warriors, and their pace halved as they were forced to march with shields raised to cover their eyes, or if they lacked any shields, to hide their eyes behind lifted arms. It would buy time, but the nature of that spell meant that it wouldn't last long, and he wasn't going to be able to constantly toss that spell out, that would exhaust the ambient Winds too quickly and leave him helpless to cast anything more potent if any daemons made an appearance. If this was an all-out assault, which it had every appearance of being, then there was no reason to suspect that the Chaos marauders wouldn't be bringing any daemons to the assault.

With the light now illuminating the enemy charge with perfect clarity, Zak was able to make out the battering ram. It wasn't just a heavy log carried by a dozen warriors, this was a battering ram built specifically for this purpose, a heavy log suspended on chains, wheeled forward inside a protective structure which also kept those who were pushing it forward safe from ranged fire.

And there were three of them. Apparently, they weren't taking any chances, even if artillery fire destroyed one of them, there was still a chance one of the other two might yet reach the gate.

'Cannon team,' Zak shouted up to the Dawi, 'we need to focus on those battering rams!'

Cobaal hissed in irritation, eyes momentarily locking onto the battering rams, no doubt annoyed that the Chaos marauders had done the intelligent thing and built a house around the ram so that they could push it forward while covered from the defensive gunfire. 'I'd prefer that they be forced to climb ladders than get an easy pass through the gate,' he said, before calling out another 'Fire!'

Zak watched a line of the marching warriors fall to the hail of lead that followed the order. The next rooftop over, a second volley was fired, dropping even more of the armoured warriors, but they weren't falling fast enough that Zak could see them breaking before reaching the outer walls.

From behind and above, the cannon in the tower fired. The iron ball that was launched forward slammed down near the closest battering ram, then bounced from the ground and managed to tear its way through the ram house, punching through the wooden structure, tearing through those within that housing who had the misfortune to be in the path of the cannon shell, smashed out the other side. That didn't mark the end of the cannonball's flight, a good dozen warriors were bowled down or sent stumbling when those in the path of the destructive shot frantically dove aside in fear for their lives. After that, the flight of the cannonball was no longer a concern, reaching over the heads of even the tallest of warriors and still rising. Zak stopped paying attention after that point, though he privately hoped that the balls trajectory resulted in it coming down upon the encampment.

The battering ram's enclosure collapsed in on itself with one of the sides almost completely shorn away by the passing of the artillery shot.

'That's one battering ram down,' Cobaal mused aloud, his eyes narrowed.

'Still another two that I can see,' Zak answered.

The sergeant grunted, then shouted out another order to fire. Unfortunately, the mass of armoured warriors had now gotten close enough that it wasn't worth firing in volleys.

'Fire at will,' Cobaal hissed out. 'If you see anybody carrying any ladders, aim for them. Do not give them an easy time.

It wasn't as devasting as a volleyed barrage, the sound of individual gunshots not nearly so impactful, and with only a singular body falling at a time. But it did have the benefit of there now being a constant flow of gunfire being directed at the advancing threat instead of regular volleys. That didn't mean that there wasn't a constant noise to the air, constant and loud enough to drown out even one's own thoughts. If anything, it was worse than during the volleyed gunfire, because at least during the volleys there were pauses where it was quiet, small moments where thoughts could be heard.

There was a small moment of amusement that caught Zak's attention. One of the ladders that was being carried, held in the grips of two warriors, was dropped when the warrior carrying the front end fell from a lucky gunshot. When another warrior picked up the dropped front-end, he met a similar fate, leaving the warrior carrying the back end shaking a fist and gesturing wildly. Despite the thick plate armour, the warrior's body language conveyed perfectly just how utterly infuriated he was that he was being forced to carry the ladder alone when after the third time a warrior came to help, they quickly suffered a similar fate to the others.

The cannon fired again, accompanied by a more distant boom that indicated that the mortar pointed that way had also fired. The cannon's shot missed the second battering ram, though as a small constellation prize, at least it managed to cut down another swath of the warriors. The mortar didn't have much luck either, though the fiery detonation of the shell slamming into the ground amidst the horde did have the satisfying result of sending a number of warriors flying asunder.

#

Korild swore loudly as a cannonball carved a line through the warriors marching ahead of him, then bounced and came uncomfortably close to his formation. One of the knights to his side shifted uncomfortably, but true to the discipline of any who dared to call themselves a knight of Chaos, he didn't break, he showed less concern than his mount, the horse had been understandably spooked.

'Give them time,' Korild muttered, more to himself than any of his retinue.

'My lord, at this rate we're not going to have any battering rams left.'

Korild let out a harsh breath, which came out almost sounding as though he were giving a bestial growl which his helmet caused to have a metallic echo. The knight who had spoken flinched back, but because they were in a strict formation and the punishment that Korild would deliver upon any who dared to break from formation was more of a certainty than the general fury that Korild was projecting, didn't do any more than flinch.

Korild let the knight spend a few seconds stewing in fear, after which he scowled up at the top of the outer buildings of this blasted settlement. The agonising light conjured over their heads had long since faded so it no longer hurt his eyes to try and look upon those wretched mutants and their abominable guns. As he looked, the air vibrated with what he had long memorised as the firing of one of the arching shots, the ones with the shots that exploded on impact, be it impact with the ground or impact with an unfortunate warrior ill-faded enough to be directly beneath such a weapon. True to his prediction, an explosion briefly lit the fields in an orange glow that faded mere moments after being birthed.

'You overestimate them,' Korild finally said, snarling out the words. 'Or maybe you underestimate me.'

He lifted a hand away from the reins of his deamonic horse to motion to a marching column of foot warriors. They were marching at a slower pace than the majority of the horde. They had angled their shields in such a way as to protect themselves from the gunfire, but it also had the benefit of hiding what they carried amongst them. True, it would be preferable for one of the wheeled battering ram frames to reach the gate, but despite what the Everwrath had claimed about Korild's intellect, he was not stupid, he knew better than to put all of his trust in success on the chance that the mutants and the dwarfs failed to be intelligent enough to understand the threat represented by those battering rams.

The knight made a sound of confusion. So, it turned out that this member of Korild's retinue was burdened with a lack of observational skills. Maybe this battle would do Korild the favour of purging the fool. Korild turned away from the embarrassment of a knight and started to shout encouragement at the infantry marching forward.

'Move faster, you maggots!' he shouted. 'The longer it takes you to get to the wall, the more times they'll shoot at you! So, you either move, or you do me a favour and rid me of your stupidity!'

As if answering his shouts, another of those explosive shots landed, swept aside a number of warriors, most of whom didn't climb back to their feet. One warrior, one that hadn't been anywhere near the detonation, lost his nerve and started to back away, before then turning and starting to run. Fortunately, none followed his example of cowardice.

'We're getting cut down,' the craven cried.

He neared Korild's retinue, and then made the mistake of trying to cut between Korild and the knight to his left. Korild's foot lashed out, sabaton crashing into the warrior's helmet with a clang and force enough to fell the warrior.

'Fool,' Korild screamed at the pitiful excuse for a warrior of Malice. 'Get back in your formation and march! Or I will cut you down myself.'

To emphasise his threat, Korild hefted his halberd and jabbed it at the floored warrior. The warrior scrambled to his feet and frantically backed away from the polearm, though it didn't help him much, Korild's mount, sensing weakness, inched forward, maintained the distance between them so no matter how much the warrior backed away, he was never getting any further from the threat to his person. It took a full seven seconds before the warrior turned and hurriedly rejoined his unit's formation. Only then did Korild lower his halberd, snorting in disgust.

Another cannon blast from the village resulted in the second battering ram frame becoming nothing more than a shower of splinters and sawdust, incapable of withstanding the destructive power of the heavy gun's deliverance. Even if Korild hadn't been planning on those being his key to victory, it still galled him to see the siege engines being smashed before they could be put to use. That was time that he had had his men spend building the drat things that amounted to nothing.

Well, not nothing. They're still serving a purpose.

Korild took note when one of the ladders being carried was dropped to the ground as a volley of gunfire cut down both the warriors carrying it. It was quickly noticed and grabbed by another pair of armoured warriors in one-armed grips, whilst they held their shields over their heads in their attempt to protect themselves from meeting a similar fate as the previous carriers. Unfortunately, for one of them, it was not enough, as a bullet managed to puncture his leg and left him falling to the ground, leg useless and lame. He was swiftly replaced, nobody moved to help him as he dragged himself across the mud and blood-soaked ground in his attempt to avoid being trampled over by those who had been marching behind him.

None of the other warriors showed an ounce of sympathy, and if he was in their path, he was to become their path.

Korild silently sneered at the mutants and their defence. They wouldn't be able to prevent the ladders from reaching the walls. Too many warriors were marching, too many willing to pick up the ladders if dropped. Unless they got incredibly lucky and their artillery managed to destroy each and every one of them, it was inevitable.

It still absolutely infuriated Korild that it was coming at the cost of so many of his warriors. So many dying before they could bring blade to combat, dead through the tools of cowards.

Malice-damn that bastard for wasting my men.

What was worse though, was that the Everwrath was being proven correct, through attrition alone, they would reach the village, get past that outer layer of defence, and once they were in, that was it, victory would be theirs. A costly victory. But what else could Korild do? Every request for a band with access to a hellcannon had met failure, and without ranged weapons of their own, they had no way of mitigating the advantage the mutants held.

Though this entire venture had taught Korild one thing—in future, he was going to be looking into getting at least one sorcerer to join his war-band going forward. Even a singular sorcerer could have helped even that playing field. Imagine the horror that would have resulted amongst those weaklings if daemons were summoned in their midst whilst they cowered behind their guns.

Speaking of daemons... Korild turned and bellowed out an order. There was a chittering, a click that had nothing to do with somebody snapping their fingers. And then the lesser daemons of Malice began to sprint forward.

At that same time, the first ladder reached the walls.

#

Sergeant Cobaal cursed softly as he pumped his ramrod down the barrel of his musket.

'They're getting closer,' Cobaal said in warning, though his voice was almost snuffed out by the constant noise of musket-fire.

'We can fight them, and we'll outlast them,' Zak spoke resolutely. 'We are the Children of the Gods, holding back the tide of Chaos is what we were made for, and I'll not be found wanting in my duties.'

Another mortar shell came down, scattered a sum of warriors. For a moment, Cobaal felt a glimmer of confusion, for the shot had come sooner than he had anticipated. Not that it was a bad thing, but not having expected it at that moment just threw him for a handful of seconds.

One of the cannon towers fired. Cobaal didn't pay too much attention to the cannonball's path of destruction, he was busy aligning his musket with the barely visible form of a warrior carrying a ladder by his lonesome. Pulled the trigger and felt a slither of satisfaction when the warrior in question stumbled and fell.

Another mortar shell landed, followed by a cannon firing. Whether by fluke or because the Dawi manning the cannon had remembered the position of it, there was a crashing sound as the last battering ram was destroyed. Cobaal felt a small weight lift from his shoulders, let out a soft breath. That was the biggest threat that they potentially had to worry about no longer a factor.

The sound of feet slapping against the ground behind them had Cobaal turn his head after spitting the latest bullet down the barrel of his musket, then watched whilst he pumped the ramrod. He noted that Zak had fully turned with one hand rested on the pommel of his sword. A human youth, maybe sixteen summers, ran across the wooden boards which had been placed so that they could better traverse the rooftops. The youth reached Zak and stopped, panting for breath.

'Major Zak?' the youth asked.

'Yes?'

'Message from your Captain Yuata.' The youth paused for a moment to stare wide-eyed and anxious at the mass of warriors barely visible to his unadjusted eyes, but he was clearly aware of what lay out there, knew what the only rational source of such movement could be. He inhaled deeply and turned back to Zak. 'The reserves have all been sent to the other two fronts.'

'All of them?' Zak asked, irritated.

Cobaal swallowed down a curse. For the number of warriors marching, even if limited exclusively to climbing the ladders, were such that there was no realistic way that they would be able to hold this point. The warriors of Chaos would overrun and crush them beneath the weight of their numeric superiority.

The boy visibly swallowed but nodded once. 'He said to say to you that the reserves can't be broken into three, but the mayor, he's sent word so all the mortars that can reach outside your wall to keep firing until they run out of ammo.'

That explains the extra mortar fire. It was a mixed blessing, the mortars would certainly devastate their share of the warriors, but they would only be useful so long as the warriors were on the outside, which wasn't going to be the case for much longer, no matter how optimistic Cobaal wanted to be regarding the situation. The sheer numbers that were still marching on them, the fact that they could no longer slow them down by aiming explicitly for those carrying ladders... they were going to ascend the outer walls and be sharing the rooftop with the gunners soon. Unlike the cannons, the mortars were firing blindly, the cannons could at least continue to support them until they were out of ammunition.

The youth then reached forward and grabbed the front of Zak's cuirass, eyes wide with a terror that was ill kept at bay. 'Why would he be worried about running out of ammo?'

Zak carefully pushed the youth back. 'We'll be fine. Go back to the centre of village and wait out the rest of the night. Let us handle this.'

The youth's look of fear didn't fade. If there was anything he intended to say in answer to the admittedly lacking attempt at reassurance—it didn't answer the question asked, or even address it, made it clear that there wasn't a satisfactory answer—then such a reply was cut short when at the outer edge of the roof, a ladder connected with a clattering sound. The youth screamed in fear, a horrible sound that had Cobaal cringe.

From the ground below, a warrior of Chaos made an appearance, having scaled the ladder rapidly for one covered in heavy plate armour. Cobaal swore angrily, a self-directed anger for allowing himself to be distracted. The moment a helmeted head emerged, Cobaal made up for his momentary lapse, lunged forward and slammed the butt of his weapon into the warrior's face. Even should the impact itself do little to harm the warrior through his helmet, the force was still enough that the warrior fell back, dazed. He lost his grip on the ladder entirely after a second impact made a connection.

Once the warrior was gone from sight, Cobaal leaned forward and fired his musket at whoever had the misfortune of being at the base of the ladder ready to be the next to clamber up its length. Meanwhile, Zak darted forward and slammed his foot into the ladder, which was enough to cause the rickety looking construction tilt back and fell to the ground. It was only a temporary reprieve, for it would hardly take much effort for the Chaos warriors to re-align the ladder and prop it once again against the wall. But even a temporary reprieve was better than nothing at that moment.

A quick glance back showed that the youth had run. Wise choice.

'What's our ammo stores looking like?' Zak asked aloud.

'I've only got a handful of powder cartridges left.' That first answer was followed by a number of similar replies.

Cobaal reached into the leather bag slung at his right hip, rooted about sightlessly. His fingers didn't find anything. Concerned, he fully opened his ammo bag and actually looked within its confines. He hadn't just gotten unlucky with his blind attempt at grabbing the next paper cartridge: it was empty.

'I'm out,' he called out in warning.

As if mocking him, the ladder was realigned, and a warrior was already scurrying up. The Chaos warrior dropped back just as quickly as he had ascended, Cobaal took out his frustration on having run out of bullets by thrusting his bayonet, managed to slip the blade in the helmet's narrow visor. Zak repeated his earlier motion of kicking the ladder down.

'Here, sergeant,' one of the other skinks, Vren, called out and carefully tossed a paper cartridge toward the sergeant. Cobaal didn't hesitate to snatch it from the air and rip the top off with his teeth, poured the gunpowder into the barrel with long practiced ease and then spat the bullet and paper wad down after.

Further along the village's perimeter more ladders were making contact, and Chaos warriors were clambering up with all the speed they could manage. This was now a losing battle. It was only going to get worse as more ladders were raised up, which would be quicker now that the number of bullets that could be contributed to the defence were running short, and even if they weren't, every time a ladder was propped against the wall or a warrior climbed such a ladder, that was time taken away from firing down at the horde below.

'Quetzl give us strength,' Zak was barely heard uttering, his blade now truly unsheathed and ready. He then straightened his posture, including his head, so as to better project his voice. 'We continue to hold for a moment longer. But be ready to pull back on my word!'

From the other rooftops, the sergeants for the other handgunner cohorts called out their acknowledgements.

That infernal ladder made yet another reappearance. This time Cobaal didn't even allow the warrior climbing up the chance to see the top, he was already close enough to kick his foot against it, let it tip back. He couldn't even find satisfaction in the startled yell from the warrior who had reached halfway up its length. The sergeant shouldered his musket and lined the sights, ready to fire...

The appearance of an insectoid monstrosity with hooked and barbed appendages had Cobaal stumbled back in started shock. The daemon chittered, finished climbing the wall without any need of a ladder, the skull-like face focused on Cobaal. How unfortunate for the daemon however, that it hadn't waited for the skink to fire his musket. As it stood, it interrupted him and then made an appearance, only for Cobaal to realign his musket and pull the trigger on the new threat.

The skull shattered like a glass hit by a rock. The daemon's body fell over the edge of the building, landed below and inconvenienced more of the human warriors if the startled oaths were any clue.

'Out again,' Cobaal reported.

'Damnit, they're bringing the daemons,' Zak cursed aloud, his eyes trailing to the next roof over, where the skink musketeers had just disposed of their own daemonic threat. The major then peered back and up, to the tower with the cannon. 'What is your ammo looking like?'

'We're on our last shot,' the Dawi manning the cannon called back.

The Dawi handgunners weren't quite so spent for their ammo, but their own reports weren't painting a good picture. Zak barred his teeth in irritation, his eyes turned to glare out at the field beyond the village limits, glared hatefully at the Chaos horde, then turned back to the Dawi in the tower.

'Handgunners, pull back to inner gate. Cannon gunner, fire your last shot, make it count, then follow them. We'll hold them back for a while then-'

The "then" was interrupted as both a ladder and another of the lesser daemons made an appearance at the same time. The daemon was quick enough to clamber up the wall and positioned such that there was no simple kicking of the ladder this time. The daemon chittered, hooked appendages waving in a threatening challenge. A challenge that Zak met with a hiss.

Distantly, Cobaal realised that he had just heard the final shot of the Dawi cannon in the tower. No more artillery support slowing down the advance. The mortars further back might still have some shots left, but they were strictly limited to firing at the field beyond the village limits, explosive artillery shots within one's own settlement counter-intuitive to keeping that settlement standing.

Meanwhile, the first Chaos warrior to climb the ladder appeared, shield-first in an effort to prevent the fate of the previous two that had reached that far. Cobaal tensed, adjusting his grip on the musket and watched, waited for an opening. A gunshot from one of the Dawi in the tower, yet to climb down and follow his kin, had the Chaos warrior flinch and re-angle his shield as he finished his ascent. Cobaal lunged, thrust his musket with deliberate aim. The bayonet found its mark, punctured into the gap in the armour at the warrior's knee, pierced into flesh and nailed through the bone beneath. The warrior screamed out obscenities, but despite the crippling injury, didn't fall, and swung his baleful axe at Cobaal in attempted retribution.

Cobaal skipped back, avoided evisceration, though it was close. So close that he felt the axe's jagged edge catch on his sleeve and tear at the wool of his coat. One of Cobaal's cohort lunged in next, aimed the bayonet instead for the elbow of the arm holding the axe that had nearly ended Cobaal's life. Wasn't quite as successful as Cobaal's thrust had been, the blade had instead caught on the plate armour, and slid along the metal with a metallic screech. The warrior's reaction was to use his shield to bludgeon the skink that had tried to harm him so. The impact had the skink sprawled out on the ground, eyes dazed and staring up at the night sky, and unable to react in time as the axe came down for a follow-up blow.

Cobaal felt the death of his subordinate keenly. Hissing out expletives, he threw himself forward, musket held instead by the barrel, and swung the weapon as one would a club. The heavy wooden stock met the back of the warrior's neck. It wasn't enough to break the bone beneath the armour, but the heavy blow did have the armoured human stumble, unable to fend off the second such blow, which met his head. Then a third blow, and a fourth. He would have continued to rain heavy bludgeoning blows upon the agent of the Ruinous Powers, but the fifth strike had the warrior stumble and lose his footing. The last that Cobaal saw of him was as he tipped over the edge of the building, fell to ground below, head-first.

But there was no time to rest, another warrior of Chaos was already finishing his ascent up the ladder. And a second ladder was now adjacent to the first, a helmeted head just beginning to emerge from below. Behind Cobaal, Zak let out a grunt, pulling his sword from the carcass of the daemon.

'We can't hold this position any longer,' he said, then raised his voice. 'Muskets, fall back to the first point!'

On the adjacent buildings, the skink musketeers began to pull back in as orderly a manner as was possible when Chaos warriors and daemons kept making appearance at their backs. The wooden boards that had been carefully placed as bridges that allowed passage between the buildings at the outer edge of the village, those that formed the surrounding wall, with the next buildings inward of the settlement were put to use. The skink musket infantry filed across with an ease that came from practice during the days they'd been under siege, because as much as Zak prided himself on being a wall that couldn't be passed, he knew to be realistic, knew that this had been a possibility, so he'd had the skink handgunners drilled in crossing those planks quickly without breaking them.

Cobaal waited before crossing, as sergeant, he would be one of—if not the—last to cross over. Until that moment, he would be protecting the flanks of his subordinates whilst they fell back. He had just managed to kick down one of the ladders following a shoulder barge to the warrior that had climbed it, when he became aware of a loud thudding noise, like somebody slamming their fist against a wooden door demanding entry, but louder, and more rhythmic. Cobaal shared a look with Zak, and both chanced a moment to lean over the edge of the building to look upon the outside of the gate into the village. What they saw was almost an imitation of the bastiladon formation favoured by Mort and his regiments, shields held and linked together to form a protective shell. But it wasn't enough to hide that within that shell, warriors were holding a large wooden log with a brass weight on one end.

'Oh...' Cobaal couldn't help but let out a sigh. 'They had a handheld battering ram.'

Zak hissed in annoyance, but he didn't seem to dwell on it. Cobaal assumed that it was because, in the grand scheme of events, with their falling back the gate was going to be lost regardless. Instead, after kicking down the ladder being replaced yet again, he leaned over a different edge of the building, and peered down at the saurus in the street below, all formed up to block the passage down that street.

'Sergeant Hual,' Zak called down to the alpha in charge of the cohort. Our muskets are running low on ammo, and the marauders have gotten their ladders up and a battering ram to the gate. We're falling back to the junction. Relocate all your saurus behind the barricades and get ready.'

'Understood!' Hual called back. 'Saurus, you heard the major. Move back to the junction and reform behind the barricades.'

The saurus warriors all obeyed without a moment of delay, their trusted polearms lifted skyward and their turned on the spot and marched at a brisk pace down the street, fast enough that it wasn't a walk, slow enough to not be called a run. The only ones to not turn, and instead backpedalled with their weapons still lowered at the ready were those saurus who had been at the front rank, their attention focused on any potential threat that might try to attack their flanks as they fell back.

With the saurus now relocating, Zak motioned for Cobaal to take his turn crossing the wooden planks between buildings. Cobaal did so, was closely followed behind by the major. Once both had joined the rest of Cobaal's cohort, Cobaal and one of his subordinates grabbed the wooden boards and pulled them back, denied the warriors their use as a bridge with which to follow them. Once that was done, the major looked at each skink in the cohort, eyes locked onto each one. Cobaal met his eyes, promised with a look alone that he was ready to continue.

In that time, the skinks from the other buildings on their side of the gate rallied up with them. Made for a crowded space, but now the company wasn't quite so stretched thin. It was somewhat reassuring, Cobaal found, safety in numbers. Granted, that safety was a fickle thing, and easily discarded when matched against a competent foe. But having the entirety of the musket company coming back together, sans any losses, felt soothing, a bolstering to morale that he hadn't even properly registered was fraying.

'We're moving to the junction. As we march, any of you who has more than a single cartridge left, share out with those who don't have any. Everybody gets at least one shot.' Zak paused, glanced back the way they came, and sneered as a warrior of Chaos clambered to the recently vacated roof and then realised that he had no way of following the skinks. The warrior shook his axe in a display of impotent rage, to which Zak raised his middle two fingers upon his left hand and waved them at the warrior, then turned back to the cohort. 'If we don't have enough ammo for everybody, those who go without are to keep pulling back to the inner gate, grab any remaining ammo in the stores, and ready a final line. Am I understood?'

There was a unanimous sound of acknowledge. Cobaal accepted a paper cartridge from Vren as they began to hurriedly jog along the length of the terraced buildings. Even as he walked, he loaded the bullet and gunpowder into his musket.

#

'The walls have fallen,' Korild noted with a sliver of satisfaction. 'Took long enough.'

And it had only cost the lives of numerous warriors, all fighting for the same cause that Korild himself fought for. Was their sacrifice worth it? There was always a cost to any battle, but was this an instance where he could have paid a cheaper toll? Or was this a moment where the Everwrath had been accurate in that this was the only course that could have been taken if this stupid little village was to burn?

To the east, there was a sliver of light beginning to crest the horizon. Korild huffed, it didn't feel like it had taken hours, but he supposed a large amount of that time had been spent in the slow advance towards the wall, his one effort to try and cut down on casualties to his minions. The closer that they could get before the defenders became aware of them, the less time that those same defenders could dedicate to shooting at them.

An explosive shell landed, scattered a couple of dozen warriors in multiple directions. Those who were lucky, they got have their corpse remain as singular whole. Those who had been caught in the very heart of the explosion? Maybe they'd left some part of them that could be used to recognise them later. Assuming the dead weren't left to rot in the fields.

They probably would be. Nurgle would no doubt take advantage and start to cultivate a new garden here, but by that time, none of the sons of Malice would be around to suffer the fruits of the Fly Lord's labours.

The battering ram, smaller and held by hand, slammed against the gates. It would take a while, no doubt the other side of that gate had been bolstered by whatever means the village had at their disposal, and effort to reinforce the integrity of the massive wooden construction that was already destined to be far more durable than it had any right to be, thanks to those overly hairy runts living in within those walls.

But time was on their side now. Now they had their foothold, warriors were scrambling up the ladders, more and more being propped against those walls, and the lesser daemons of Malice, what handful yet remained were following. The crack had formed, now all that Korild needed to do was keep applying the pressure, and that crack would grow until the foundations shattered.

#

Vorin was a warrior who had long ago dedicated himself to fighting the Ruinous Forces. Malice had found him, had uplifted him and granted him a renewed sense of purpose, a realisation that the cause he had dedicated himself to was not as hopeless as it often appeared. A god of Chaos that would see those four wretched gods suffer? He had not regretted his pledge to the Lord of Anarchy.

Sometimes however, he wondered how his actions were in any way contributing to bringing down the Four. This venture into the lands south of the Sea of Claws for example, what use was there in coming to this land of the weak? How did striking against the enemies of the Four help weaken them? But he had faith. Lord Skaros was an exalted champion, but more than that, he was a man of vision. He had never let the warhost down in the past, always had some long-term goal that wasn't always apparent.

Besides which, just because these men of the south were enemies of his enemies, that did not make them deserving of their lives. To live with such weakness, such arrogance as to claim themselves a strong nation when that nation was born from a weak god and his weak followers. No, they didn't deserve to live. They weren't allies. And so, they must die.

Vorin spent a minute contemplating if there was any way to cross the gap between this building—what a queer design choice, what had appeared to be a wall was the outer edges of normal buildings reinforced to act as a wall—and the next. He could see, as if left to mock him and his fellows, the wooden boards that these strange mutants had used to cross that same gap, but then pulled away and deprived any other of their use.

To be expected really. These mutants had proven themselves to be cowards, hiding behind their walls, unorthodox as those walls were, and fighting only at range if not forced into a proper fight. It made sense that they would flee once they realised that they no longer could hide behind ranged weapons and their walls.

With a snarl of annoyance at the cowardice making his work harder than it needed be, Vorin leapt down from the roof to the street below. The gate rattled and visibly bulged where the battering ram on the other side made impact, but it was clear that the gate wasn't yet about to break.

'Warriors,' he shouted out, 'form up on me. The cowards have retreated. It means nothing, it is only delaying their deaths. Form up on me, and we will show these mutants what real warriors fight like. For the Lord of Anarchy!'

'For the Lord of Anarchy!' the other warriors chanted while leaping down and forming up a formation with Vorin at the head, a solid block of armoured warriors, all hefting their axes and shields. Now that they had passed the walls, they were going to gut every last weakling in this pitiful excuse of a village. None shall be given the mercy of a quick death. Whatever Korild had originally planned, this village had expired any potential that they might have been given such a kindness. Vorin would repeat the acts performed at that village north-east from here. He would personally nail every man, woman and child to the walls of their homes.

He marched, felt the power of having a full regiment of warriors at his side and his back. The street was a straight road that seemed to lead inward toward the village's centre. But he quickly found himself sneering in anger and confusion when they came to a large wooden platform that stretched from one side of the street to the next, three or four feet in height, and just as long from Vorin's side to the opposite, where a matching formation of the mutants—but different, larger and broader—stood with spears at the ready.

Vorin felt an eyebrow hitch up as he noticed that the spearheads were not simple designs typically found among the men of the Empire, there was a rounded hooked protrusion half a foot down from the tip of the spear, while a handspan lower than that and on the opposite side of the spear from the hook was an extra spike jutting out. Vorin wondered at the design, what purpose could such additions add to a simple spear?

Discarding any further thought on the eccentric weapon designs of these mutants, he instead focused on this peculiar platform. If it was supposed to block passage down the street, it failed. It wasn't so high as to be unclimbable.

With a laugh, one that those who heard him shared, Vorin pointed at the wooden construction. 'The Sons of Malice will not be deterred by such a pathetic barrier.'

One of the large mutants at the front of the formation on the opposite side of the barrier tilted his head, eyes narrowed. Vorin saw it for what it was, a mocking challenge. He let out a dark chuckle.

'Advance. Cut them down.'

As one, the warriors of Malice continued to advance, reached the platform, and begun to climb it. And Vorin finally realised its purpose. So long as they were busy climbing the drat thing, the reach of those strange spears was allowed free reign to be thrust at them. Instantly there was blood soaking that wooden platform as the first warriors to try and climb it were skewered, the armour punctured by the polearm and the natural strength of these mutants. Vorin hesitated for a moment at this revelation, then sneered.

'Fools, we have shields,' he said with a mocking cackle, began to climb the platform himself with the arm carrying his shield angled to protect him from any effect to run him through.

Unfortunately, that was when he learnt of the utility behind the hook on the spears. He could only watch as a spear was thrust such that it went to the side of his shield, then twisted around so that the curved hook latched onto its side, and was then pulled back, pulling his shield away from him and exposing him to another spear that was thrust toward him. He managed to avoid being killed on the spot, threw himself sideward so the polearm only punctured the shoulder of his axe-arm. But at least he was alive.

And then, on the rooftops of the buildings on either side of the street, those handgunners made another appearance. With attention focused on the obstruction and the threat in front, the block of warriors hadn't a chance to react to the handgunners flanking them on both sides. It was a massacre, warriors shot down by the cowardly tactics, unable to protect themselves, hadn't even had time to be aware that they needed to.

A second spear thrust toward Vorin met its intended target, punctured through his cuirass and into his breast. He knew the moment he felt the sharp pain that it was a lethal blow. He collapsed, fell to the ground, his injured arm no longer able to support his weight. He had never even managed to get atop the platform.

His death was hastened when none of the other warriors cared to mind their steps as they surged forward in their attempt to get over the platform. He was crushed to death long before he suffocated from the blood filling his lung.

#

Korild watched the sun's slow rise. Until the gate was smashed open, it was all he and the other cavalry riders could really do. His horse, daemonic or not, was not going to climb any ladders. Until the gate was open, they could only stand there waiting for their time.

As the leader, Korild could have dismounted and followed his warriors, but Korild was a knight, he was born and bred to ride. And ride he would, until he had run down every insignificant spec that had dared to insult him. They had dared to contest his might. He would kill them all.

The sun continued to rise, seemingly ignorant or perhaps just uncaring of the blood being spilt. The gate was slammed into yet again by the ram. Again. And again. He could see it weakening. Soon, his time would come.

He called out for the warriors who hadn't yet scrambled up the ladders, halted them. Better they be allowed to go through the gate, could remain in a formation. Who knew what these cowards and mutants had planned. Korild was not interested in underestimating the full extent that they would go do delay the inevitable. No doubt they had planned traps and ambushes.

Better to preserve strength in unity.

With a final crash, the gate was forced open.

Korild laughed. Finally. Finally, it is time!

The distant booms of artillery firing caught his attention, not because it existed, but because there was something off about the sound. That hadn't sounded like it had come from within the village...

The explosion was different this time, it wasn't a flash of fire that immediately extinguished itself, but instead the fire lingered and spread from the force of the detonation and covered those that were unfortunate enough to be caught within its grasp. It was like a burning liquid of viscous flame that coated and stuck to those poor souls. And they screamed, burning under the blanket of liquid fire that warmed them with no mercy, just the cruel touch of one of the most primal forces of the natural world.

What was worse, it wasn't a singular shot that landed, but multiple blasts, and all had hit with an unerring accuracy, the kind of accuracy that suggested line of sight and not vague guesswork.

This was... new. What new cowardice was this...?

'My lord, up there!' A member of his retinue pointed, gestured frantically toward one of the hills to their west.

Korild looked up and gaped in shock at the distant form of those large creatures. The ones that carried the artillery on their shelled backs. Eight of them, staring down the hill, screened by a line of the handgunner equipped mutants.

'What in the hells? How did they get around us?'

There was no real answer for the question.

#

He looked down the hill at the mass of white armoured figures, at the presence of larger daemons, at the mounted cavalry. For a moment, just a moment, he felt fear. But that fear was swallowed down and pushed back. He was an agent of the Great Plan—this was what he had spawned for. This was the Great Enemy, the Ruinous Powers at work, and they were attacking this settlement, where his kin were fighting to defend themselves and the occupants of this village.

'Line your shots, aim for the largest mass of them that you can see,' he said, managing to project his voice, before looking at the screening skinks, positioned before the bastiladons with their muskets at the ready. At this range, the handguns would do no good, but they had their place in the moments to come. A projection of force, a clear barrier between the Ruinous Forces and the artillery.

There was a moment of silence as the gunners for the carronades got to work, carefully aligning the heavy guns. Then hissed out sounds of readiness.

He waited another ten seconds, observed the scene below, and then Major Boney slid his sabre from its scabbard, held it up in silent salute. This was the moment that he accepted his position, accepted his role as a leader of the Legion. This might be a battle that he wouldn't walk away from, the numbers below were vast, but he saw his duty. He breathed in, held the breath, exhaled. And then, with all the acceptance of what he was committing himself to, he pointed his sabre down the hill at the forces of Chaos.

He was Major Boney of Outland Legion. But more than that, he was a Child of the Gods and a warrior spawned of Madrigal; he would not be found wanting.

'Fire.'

As one, all eight of the artillery guns fired.