Basecamp

Five hundred years ago

—

Moretexl hemmed and hawed, eyes narrowed. To anybody nearby, it likely appeared as though he were trying to drill a hole into the strange panoply that was being presented to him. And, if he was going to be honest, he wouldn't protest a spontaneous manifestation of such an ability, even if it was limited to this one time. At least it would be a worthy use of such an unusual and short-lived talent.

Snorting out a huff of air from his nostrils, the Eternity Warden reluctantly leaned forward and rapped his knuckles against the curved metal. It didn't buckle under his attention, not that he was really testing for such, but if it had, he would have had a very valid excuse to complain. A light sigh escaped him, and he finally tore his eyes away, instead turned his focus to the nearby skink.

'Mussst I really?'

Unfortunately, this particular skink was immune to the dour glare of the aged saurus, if anything seemed amused by the larger reptile's annoyance.

'Oldblood Ingwel'tonl'sss order.'

As if I needed to be reminded that this is an order, Moretexl thought irritably. He returned his glare to the source of his annoyance. The breastplate, and other assorted bits of armour and cloth and leather, unfortunately, hadn't mysteriously melted into slag while he wasn't paying any attention, and there was no more putting this off.

Without looking away, he asked the artisan who had crafted this abomination 'So how do I put all this on?'

Half an hour later, Moretexl was stood, wearing one of the first crafted pieces of the Templehost's new uniform. His opinion, now that he was wearing the armour and skirt, was completely unchanged. It felt unneeded, a breach in tradition being done not because it was decreed by the priesthood or the slanns, not because it was a part of the Great Plan, but because Ingwel'tonl and Iycan'ceya had been listening to Solinaraxl, and come to agree that wearing warmblood styled uniforms would help in their ongoing task.

During the past fall and winter, the Templehost had hunkered down in a Tilean town, bolstering the defences during those two seasons, with the price being that the local blacksmiths would teach the skink artisans how to forge armour in the style of the ancient empire which had once ruled from these lands. The previous year it had been the weapons of the warmbloods: the swords and spears and halberds. Convenient that the Templehost happened upon a town that remembered such ancient crafts, but then again… The Eternity Warden stifled those thoughts quickly, lest he work himself into another bout of irritability.

Though, to the skink artisans' credit, they'd taken the lessons well and then worked in some of their own, minor, alterations, so that it wasn't that the Templehost would be wearing exact copies of the ancient human empire's armour. The influence was still clear as day, but it was enough that it now felt like something made for the Children of the Gods rather than repurposed.

The artisan rubbed at the underside of his jaw, while his eyes narrowed. 'You missssing sssomething.'

'Thisss isss fine.' Moretexl was quick to try to shoot down such a notion. He was already disliking the idea of wearing such coverings, he didn't want more added to it.

The skink shook his head. 'You are oldblood, more, you are Eternity Warden. Need… ssssybol of posssition.'

Another skink nearby, an artisan who hadn't focused on metalwork, nodded in agreement and scampered off. Moretexl felt his nerves itch, knew that his opinion was being summarily ignored. They were going to add something, and damn his opinions on the matter.

He flinched when he felt the sensation of something brushing the back of his neck, twisted around to ward off the invasion of his personal space. Felt something drag behind him as he turned. At the approving twitters of the skinks, he sighed and craned his head around to observe the crimson cape that had been affixed to the back of his cuirass. He really wanted to protest, to argue against the impractical length of cloth that just screamed at him as a weakness that any foe in combat would grab at, but Ingwel'tonl himself appeared, similarly garbed and looking pleased with what he saw as he looked upon the Eternity Warden, and Moretexl gave up the idea of fighting what was happening. For now.

He promised himself that once this experiment backfired and there was proof that this venture of dressing like they were warmbloods was ill-fated, then he would bring it up and argue for a return to tradition.

#

Present Day

Northern Middenland

—

Mort scowled at the parchment, his inscriptions painting an unpleasant picture. He could be wrong, he would easily admit that. He was neither a priest nor a specially trained interpreter, so there was easily a possibility for error in his translations.

If he was right though…

The fabric curtain shielding the inside of his wagon from the outside was pulled aside to allow somebody entry. Mort looked up, hand automatically reaching for his sword, but stilled the motion once he recognised Ingwel. The oldblood wasn't wearing his officer's coat, just his undershirt, which was an indicator of just what hour it was. Ingwel rarely allowed himself to look anything less than fully dressed until the hour was late and he was about to retire for the night.

Ingwel paused, his scarlet eyes roving up and down Mort's body, before settling on his face with a lightly amused slant to his eyes.

'I haven't seen you wearing those in a while.'

Mort stared flatly at the oldblood. Refused to feel self-conscious over the spectacles rested on the end of his snout. There was a reason he wasn't oft seen wearing them, it was like an admission of weakness, that his eyes weren't as good as they should be. He couldn't even blame age, not like warmbloods could. Good enough for fighting, good enough for his job, but centuries of wandering the lands of the warmbloods had taught him that his vision wasn't quite so suited for mundane activities. He could get by without, but prolonged periods of reading, or writing, gave him a headache unless he admitted weakness and wore those dratted glass lenses.

He let out a grunt and returned his focus to his parchment, double-checking his inscriptions. Ingwel huffed a quiet laugh and carefully placed a cup of some boiled brew—probably Cathayan tea if the scent wafting from it was any indicator—on the desk a respectful distance from both parchment and golden plaque.

'I knew the moment we got that plaque that I would rarely see you until Horeo's next arrival,' Ingwel started, easing himself upon a nearby stool. 'I accepted that, you are singularly dedicated to your position as an Eternity Warden, to expect any less would be a disservice to you.'

Mort stilled, his eyes returning to Ingwel. 'I sense a "but" coming,' he growled out, though not with any heat.

Ingwel's look turned faintly disappointed. 'I expected you to at least keep your health in good order. A month and a half… and nobody has seen you sunning yourself, none have seen you getting any food portions.'

'I've gone longer in Annat'corri's star chamber,' Mort said, though he knew that was a weak defence.

'The star chamber is saturated with the energies of the geomantic nexus it is built upon, energies which prevent you from suffering during your vigil,' Ingwel rebutted. 'And even then, one of my earliest memories of you is you coming off of that duty and eating fit for a dozen kroxigors before sleeping for two days straight.'

Mort felt his scales heat at the reminder. Months of silent vigil in the star chamber, yes, like Ingwel had said, he was fuelled by the ambient magics within, made so that he needed no food nor sleep, even beyond what was typically possible for a saurus in good health and discipline, but afterwards his body still craved those things that he had gone without.

Ingwel shook his head in disapproval. 'All you had to do was ask and somebody would have brought you dinner once a week, which you could have eaten outside—in the sun—and still been doing your duty.' His eyes then flicked to the parchment. 'And it's not as if you aren't showing yourself capable of doing your duty while working on something else.'

'You've made your point.' As if to prove that Ingwel had indeed made his point, Mort grabbed the cup of tea and took a sip at it. He sighed in slight contentment at the warm drink entering his system.

Ingwel watched Mort sip at the drink and apparently decided that he had indeed won. His eyes then drifted again to the parchment that sat next to the golden plaque that had taken Mort away from the battlefield to the guardianship role.

'I had no idea you were trained to translate plaques,' he said after a moment.

'I'm not, technically.' Mort sighed and adjusted the spectacles on his snout. 'Annat'corri likes to think out loud when he isn't in deep meditation. Spend a few millennia listening to his thoughts as he contemplates plaques, you start to pick up some of the process.'

'Really?' Ingwel leaned forward, eyes alight with interest. This was probably the first time he'd really heard about what it was like to actually be Annat'corri's Eternity Warden, stationed within the private sanctuary of the slann star-mage during the months that the lord of Tiamoxec contemplated the will of the Old Ones. 'What did Annat'corri think about that?'

Mort hesitated a moment, then allowed his eyes to narrow into a small smile. 'When he realised, I think he was happy. He liked being able to share his thoughts and have somebody question him on how he came to those thoughts. The trouble with the priests is that they will always defer to him, take his word without a second thought, even if they don't understand. But with me, because I wasn't… trained… he sometimes had to fully explain his thought process, which helped to check himself.'

Ingwel hummed, then actually made an effort to read what Mort had written upon the parchment. 'Why is it difficult to interpret plaques? I never actually understood that.'

Mort considered how to word the issues that came from the inscriptions and their translations. 'The problem is that they aren't written words, it's not a language to translate. They're images and symbolism. The part that makes that a problem, as Annat'corri explained it, is that over time, we change how we think, and some images lose their meaning because of events that have transpired or even just a difference of perspective. Some of the disagreements in translations come from whether the plaques were made with future meanings intended, or if we have to work out the historic meanings. Other disagreements simply come from different perspectives colouring interpretations. I doubt most slann of Lustria will reach the same conclusions as any of the three slann of Madrigal.'

Ingwel tilted his head. 'Can you give an example?'

Mort tore a blank section of his parchment from the greater whole and then grabbed a nearby stick of graphite. He scratched on a symbol that he knew would have a definite meaning to Ingwel and then slid it closer so that the younger saurus could easily see what had been drawn onto it. 'What does that mean to you?'

Ingwel's eyes widened in instinctual disgust. 'It's the eight-pointed star of Chaos, a symbol of the Ruinous Powers, the Great Enemy.'

'Ok. Now what would that image mean, if Chaos had never come to this world, if we had never heard of the Ruinous Powers.'

Ingwel hesitated for a moment, trying to consider such a world. After a moment, he shrugged hopelessly. 'I can't even begin to fathom.'

Mort nodded. 'That's the problem even some trained interpreters have. A plaque might have been inscribed at a time before Chaos arrived, and certain images, like that star, are now symbolic of the Enemy. Same with any depiction of a hammer. Ever since Sigmar's ascension, hammers are now seen as his icon. But did the one to depict that hammer know that this connection would come to be and is depicting the Sigmarites, or must we work out other meanings of a hammer in symbolism?'

Ingwel leaned back, musing on what he had just learnt. 'Interesting.' He glanced at the plaque, eyes narrowed. 'So, out of curiosity, what is your interpretation of this plaque?'

'Remembering that I am not truly trained, so am likely wrong.' Mort huffed, then rested his finger upon a particular image on the plaque. 'It looks to be a warning of an item. I think this symbol represents godliness, but not an Old One.'

'So, "god" as in one of the warmblood pantheons?'

'Maybe. But… lesser.' Mort trailed his finger, following what appeared to be the correct sequence for this particular interpretation. 'A gift, bestowed. Power, but with limits. Mortality, despite godliness?'

His finger ran along the edge of the plaque, felt at the barely perceptible grooves etched into the side. One of many little details that helped to identify a plaque, in this instance a way to tell that this particular one had a partner piece that would be set to that particular side.

'It doesn't help that this was part of a set. And we'll probably never know where to find the others. We don't even know which temple-city this one originally came from.'

Ingwel crossed his arms and tilted his head back in thought. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that sound somewhat similar to the nature of daemon princes? Lesser entities who were gifted a portion of power by Chaos, but with limits that keep them from ever becoming an actual threat to the Four.'

Mort huffed. 'That's…' His eyes lowered back to the plaque and grimaced. 'Not untrue. Except for the fact it warns of an item. Daemon princes aren't items, or bestowed their power through items.'

Ingwel chuckled. 'True.'

Mort took another sip of his cooling tea, then snatched up the piece of parchment which he had drawn the eight-pointed star upon and held it over a nearby candle, burning away the foul image.

'What news of this war of ours?' he asked after a period of silence.

Ingwel let out a sigh. 'Good news, the graf has finally returned to Middenheim and by all accounts is getting ready to sally out and protect his land.'

'And the bad news?' Mort asked.

'Captain Preda just reported that whatever the warhost was doing in the ruins of Feyerabend Keep, they're finished and have started to organise themselves. It looks as though they'll be marching soon.'

Mort let out a concerned hum. 'Even with the Middenland army getting involved, the warhost still outnumbers us. Especially if we're still scattered from chasing down the raider bands.'

'Which was doubtless part of the intent of sending out those marauding warbands,' Ingwel said huffily. 'Tomorrow morning, I get to chat with Preda, Hoffman and a Middenlandese state captain to see if we can determine what direction the warhost plans to march, and where we should plant ourselves so as to block their way.'

'Assuming they don't decide to march east,' Mort pointed out.

'If they do, they get to march through the Drakwald. They then become Marienburg's problem until we can catch up,' Ingwel grunted.

It wasn't a question of if, Ingwel would have the Legion pursue the forces of Chaos. The Ruinous Forces were an anathema to the world, a blight that needed to be extinguished. Skaven might hold the dubious honour of being the enemy that the Children of the Gods despised on a personal level, but Chaos would forever be "the" enemy. The moment that the Legion were to learn of any forces of Chaos that came south from the wastes and set foot within the Old World, that became the goal, their reason for roaming. Cull the weed before it spread and truly became a threat to the Great Plan.

It was a pity that it was logistically impossible to cull the entirety of the lands north of the Sea of Claws, the Norscan lands through to the very Chaos Wastes themselves. Even if they weren't operating as the Legion, there was an unfortunate reason why it was that no temple-hosts went on a crusade within those lands. It was a venture destined to fail through attrition if nought else.

Somewhat fitting that the Great Enemy made its home in the lands that were singularly most inhospitable for the Children of the Gods, even before the corruptive taint of Chaos's ambience saturated those lands. With the corruption seeded in the wastes, there was no realistic way that the Children of the Gods could take those lands and hold them. The best that any could really hope for was to keep the sons and daughters of Chaos confined to their frigid and inhospitable lands.

#

Hoffman rubbed at his shoulder, cursing the Chaos warrior who had managed to get so lucky. A lucky throw of the axe that had by a fluke of a chance managed to catch him at a weak point in his armour. The crescent blade of the axe hadn't bitten deeply into his flesh, but it had bit deep enough to be felt regardless. A week later, the flesh itched where the wound had slowly healed, flesh knitted itself back together, but there was still a blotchy red mark as proof of the injury.

Thankfully, these weren't Nurglites, he'd have likely had to amputate the arm to prevent the spread of whatever rot coated the weapon in such a case.

There was a new face in the tent, a middling-aged soldier in Middenland colours, with the embellishments that marked him to be a captain. A second look showed that the uniform was worn, breastplate storied. This was a man who had worked his way to the rank, not one of those nobles who bought their commission with family wealth. That could be a good thing or a bad thing. On one hand, a captain who had earned his way from nothing got his ranking through merit, but some commoners who worked their way up the system had a chip on their shoulders regarding those they saw as privileged—a dark reflection of the out-of-touch nobility officers who saw the common rank and file as disposable.

On the upside, even if this captain was one of those chip-on-shoulder types, he would doubtless have other things to be distracted by, considering they were in a camp of non-humans.

But, seeing as this captain had apparently been sent by Graf Todbringer, he was hopefully of a reasonable sort.

The entrance flap to the tent fluttered, allowed entry for a saurus that Hoffman wasn't familiar with. Lithe compared to the majority of the saurus seen within this camp, lacking the bone crest. The saurus nodded in wordless greeting, moved to the table in the middle of the tent and unfolded a map, marked out with what were doubtless up-to-date details of the positions of friend and reported foe. The saurus then hissed wordlessly—Hoffman assumed it was wordless, it had been a low drawn-out sound, akin to air slowly leaking in an unbidden sigh rather than muttered grumbles—and stared at a particular annotation.

Another saurus entered the tent, this one far more familiar to Hoffman. Ingwel was nursing a cup of some steaming liquid, which given the early hour might possibly be the first thing he'd had a chance to ingest. He didn't look like he was suffering from early morning drowsiness, though despite the slight interest that Hoffman had taken regarding the lizardmen after learning of the collaboration the Knights Panther and the Legion had had decades prior, he was never going to claim to be an expert in them. Their bodies were far too alien for him to begin to comprehend their moods and tells. To his eye, the lizards were expressionless, impassive. Were it not for the tone of voice as they spoke, he would honestly have believed them to not feel emotion.

A small portion of his brain rebelliously wondered if they were simply playing up the idea of having emotion, like how parrots could mimic words and sentences but not comprehend the true meaning, were these lizardmen simply mimicking emotion?

He shook that thought away, dismissed it before it could properly form, angry with himself for having such a thought about what were his allies. Reminded himself of the blunders of the Colonial Marshal of Lustria, who was picking fights with the local lizardmen because he didn't want to comprehend that they were not simply beastmen of a reptilian shape.

'Gentlemen,' Ingwel said after taking a sip of the tea in his hands. The simple act of drinking from the cup was performed differently than if it were a human. Instead of tilting the cup, the large reptilian tilted his entire head back and almost had to pour the liquid into his gullet. Once the peculiar display was done, his attention drifted to the Middenlandese state captain. 'Captain…?'

'Captain Bahnsen,' the Middenland captain introduced himself. His accent confirmed Hoffman's earlier analysis, this was a commoner who had worked his way through to captaincy through merit. 'Graf Todbringer sends apologies that the Middenland army hasn't contributed to our own defence sooner, but, to quote him: the moment he left Middenheim, a tower of cards he weren't aware of the existence of crumbled.'

'Any outsider involvement?' Hoffman asked, brow raised in confusion.

Bahnsen shrugged. 'Not that I've been told of, but I wouldn't rule it out. The timing was unfortunate and only served the warhost. But with nobody with the authority to muster the regiments, we were left standing around in our garrisons with our thumbs up our asses.'

Ingwel huffed out a breath. 'Indeed. What is Todbringer's plan of action, now that he is back and rallying the army?'

'He wants to take the fight to the majority of the warhost, the ones that've been lingering in the ruins of the Feyerabend Keep.'

Ingwel and the saurus that Hoffman didn't know shared a look. 'Interesting timing, considering they've just started to organise themselves and look to be marching soon.'

Bahnsen scowled. 'That's a bugger. I believe the graf was hoping we'd get the opportunity to circle them—him from the south and west, you from the north and east.'

The unnamed saurus snorted. 'We'd still be outnumbered.' Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowed. 'But bring enough of your artillery… it could have worked.'

Hoffman finally spoke up. 'Do we know which direction the warhost plans to march? If they plan to move eastward, I can have my knights scout out an ideal ambush position. Similar result to the graf's initial plan of circling them. Arguably, it would be even better for us, as they won't be in grounds they've had time to fortify.'

Ingwel turned to the other saurus. The saurus shook his head. 'I'm waiting for some of my cohort to return, they'll have the direction the warhost is looking to move in.'

Ingwel hummed, then turned his attention to the map. 'Does the graf have any other plans, or is he going all in with his intention to strike at the warhost?'

The Middenlandese captain shook his head. 'He's waiting to hear your own reports on the front. According to him, you'll have the better picture of what is happening.' As he spoke, he leaned forward to better examine the map, and Hoffman followed in his stead, eyes scanning each scribbled annotation.

'By all accounts,' Hoffman said, slowly, piecing each of the notes written down into a single cohesive whole, 'we're not doing too badly.'

Ingwel's finger rested against one of the annotations. 'But we've also stalled in a few places. This town…' his finger trailed to another, and slowly moved along a path that only he seemed to see, from one annotation to the next. 'And this town. And where they were meant to then move on, it looks like their stalling cost these towns and villages.'

'We all knew we couldn't save them all.'

Hoffman knew it wasn't a comforting thing to say, to point out that small failures had been expected. Ingwel turned his attention to Hoffman at the words, scarlet eyes boring into him, with no clue as to what he was thinking, no shift of facial muscles that hadn't the dexterity to contort in the way that those of men could. The silence seemed to stretch on, and Hoffman wondered if he'd made a mistake, in his reminder.

Eventually, Ingwel nodded slowly. 'I know, and you are right. We aren't doing badly, in the grand scheme of things. But the cold and ruthless calculus of warfare is at best a cold comfort.' He paused, then tilted his head. 'And it's a logic that is all too easy for my kin to fall into.'

Bahnsen stared at the map, reading each annotation and each marked location of a Chaos band having been spotted, as well as the last reported position of allied regiments. Hoffman got the impression he was trying very hard to ignore the conversation, whether out of discomfort or simply because he didn't see it as any of his business, Hoffman couldn't tell.

'Is it alright if I bring this map to the graf?' the captain asked after a while. 'It would surely help him with his planning. This is a well-detailed map.'

Ingwel opened his mouth but didn't get the chance to answer, a third saurus entered the tent at that moment, in the process of unfolding a sheet of parchment as he approached the marshal.

This new saurus was slightly smaller than either of the previous two, not by much, and only noticeable because he was in such proximity to them. The knight in Hoffman looked past the alien visage and instead looked to the familiar. He wore the same red coat as so much of the Legion, but there were slight alterations, alterations that were shared with the unnamed saurus who had been in the meeting thus far. Things like the sabre being worn not from the hip but instead from a baldric which replaced the crossed shoulder belts most of these redcoats wore. It was details like that which gave Hoffman the idea that both were riders. Cavalry troops perchance? It would explain the presence of the other saurus. The cavalry being used as scouts, this saurus was likely one of the better informed of what was happening out in the Province.

'Marshal Ingwel, Captain Preda,'—there was a brief pause as he registered the two humans in the tent with them, then he nodded once in greeting—'human and human.'

Yackl.' Ingwel looked to the newcomer. 'What news?'

The saurus—called Yackl apparently—handed the parchment to Ingwel, but gave a verbal report that was doubtless the same as had been written down. 'The warhost has finished forming a marching column and has started to march east and north.'

Ingwel hissed softly, read the words on the parchment, as though double checking what he had been told, then grabbed a quill that was rested on the table, uncapped one of two bottles of ink and then used that quill and ink to circle the marked location of the warhost in a crimson ring, and then carefully trailed three lines from that circle in a north-eastern direction.

'Those are the most convenient routes they can take going in that direction,' he mused aloud, examining the map and the newly etched markings. He re-read the parchment, then hissed again. 'They aren't splitting themselves, or if they plan to, they aren't doing so right away.'

Hoffman scowled. 'Where do you think they're planning on going?'

The saurus turned to face him, and Lord-General Hoffman had to remind himself that this was an ally. Unlike Ingwel, who seemed to know how to make himself look approachable and un-aggressive towards any humans he was talking to. Not harmless, no amount of effort would ever convince a human that Ingwel was not fully capable of harm should he so desire it, but he managed to project the air of calm authority, that he wasn't about to use those sharp teeth or claws, or even the blade he wore at his hip, to rend one's flesh. This Captain Preda didn't have the ability—or simply didn't care to try—to project that same air.

What a fitting name, this captain has. Just having his attention placed firmly upon him had every one of Hoffman's senses cry out that he was in the line of sight of a predator that would not hesitate to make him prey if he made the wrong move. Preda must have noted the unease that he was causing within Hoffman, he took a visible step back and turned to look again at the map, tapping his claws on the desk in an irregular rhythm. Hoffman let out a breath he hadn't been aware that he'd held in.

'Eastern Nordland maybe.' Preda answered with a possibility. 'Or maybe they plan to go further than that, maybe they are aiming to leave the Empire's territory. Keep moving that direction and they will reach the Oblast eventually.'

'And the Oblast is vast and empty enough that they could move mostly uncontested east to the World's Edge, back south to Ostland, or north to the rest of Kislev.' Hoffman frowned. 'We can't risk following them, not without upsetting the Kislevites. And last I heard, tensions are high enough in Kislev that a foreign army crossing their borders might start something.'

'Tensions. You mean their seven-year winter?' Ingwel asked.

'I… don't know anything about that. A correspondence of mine has mentioned civil unrest in the realm, something about a feud between their church and the tzarina.'

'Of all the times…' Ingwel shook his head. 'I can't wait for the irregular Solin sent to check Kislev to get back to us. It'll make for a most enlightening report, I'm sure.'

Preda crossed his arms, his eyes never having left the map. 'The warhost still have hellcannons held in reserve. Moving those…' His finger trailed one of the predicted lines of movement that the warhost might traverse. 'This is the easiest path for them to take if they plan to continue keeping their artillery with them.'

'You sure?' Ingwel asked.

Preda looked toward Captain Bahnsen. 'You are a native of these lands, your opinion?'

Bahnsen's eyes widened momentarily at being addressed directly by the saurus, then looked at the map again, eyes steeled with an officer's discipline. 'He is right, the terrain on this route… it will cut their travel time down, they won't have to fight the terrain so much while moving any cannons they have.' His lips upturned. 'But it has its downside, for them. Forest on this side. And they'll still be forced to march uphill here, here, and here. And that's assuming they don't turn at some point.'

'That'll be the job of me and mine, to watch them.' Hoffman declared. 'We can follow and send word if they do turn. In the meantime, you and the graf can co-ordinate and plan out where best to wait for them if they keep to their path.'

'Very good.' Ingwel nodded, glanced at the fresh ink upon the map and once he had determined that it was dry, rolled the map and slipped it into a container which he then handed to Bahnsen. 'I'm sure the graf will make good use of this. I look forward to future our correspondence.'

The captain accepted the map with a solemn nod. 'With how detailed you've marked it, I'm sure he shall.' He tucked the container away safely and then looked at Ingwel. 'By your leave?'

Ingwel nodded, and the human disappeared to return to his graf. After a moment of silence, the marshal then turned to the other two saurus in the tent with him. 'Yackl, go get Sergeant Nalpoch of the terradon cavalry. I need him to fly a message or two.'

Preda blinked, while Yackl vanished, swift to obey the order. Hoffman wondered, for a moment, which creatures terradons were. He was under the impression that the lizardmen cavalry made use of what the colonists in Lustria called cold ones—though he wasn't certain if they had started calling them that first, or if it was because that was what the dark elves called those same creatures—but was reasonably certain that he had heard the Legion calling them aggradons at some point. The thought was unimportant, however, could easily be the name of a particular breed of the creatures, a nickname of the regiment that this Sergeant Nalpoch worked within, or something else. He'd learn in time, or he wouldn't, if wasn't important enough. Instead, he leaned back and watched as Marshal Ingwel finished the last of his now lukewarm beverage and unfolded a fresh map, one that hadn't been annotated repeatedly.

'Preda, take a number of your riders and check all three routes for ideal places for us to meet the warhost. I want to know the advantages and disadvantages of each possibility that I might need to account for if the graf makes a decision without input from us.'

Preda nodded and peered at the map as though to commit the routes to memory, even without clear ink markings. 'Understood. I shall depart at once.'

He didn't wait for a dismissal from the marshal, Preda simply pivoted around the moment he'd finished speaking and marched from the tent, leaving just Hoffman and the large saurus. Ingwel turned to face Hoffman fully.

For the first time since meeting the marshal, Hoffman was alone with him. It was an opportunity to properly examine the aged saurus. Even without others standing by him, Ingwel was a large figure, towering over Hoffman, even with the slouch to his posture. Somehow, he made his size easy to ignore though, where Preda hadn't been able to hide the predator nature he carried, Ingwel was somehow able to convey the idea that he was a diplomat as well as a warrior, carried an air of welcoming discussion.

Had the cup of tea he'd arrived in been some calculated effort to cultivate that air, or had Hoffman's initial assessment of it being the first thing he had been able to ingest been accurate?

Even without the way he projected the air of patience and willingness to engage, Hoffman had a chance to watch some of the smaller movements of the saurus, took careful note of the way that the large lizardman moved with deliberate slowness, had been carefully gentle in any physical interaction he made. Even the moment he had marked the map with crimson ink, the movements, the quill had moved with careful deliberation where most humans in a similar position would have had a flourish in their efforts.

Everything physical action that Marshal Ingwel did was so clearly done with interacting with smaller and weaker races in mind. He made it so easy to ignore the fact that he was an eight-foot—nearing on nine—lizardman. And for all that his eyes were unreadable, there was definite intelligence to them, the kind of intelligence that the breyherds only wished they had in actuality.

'You said you are willing to tail the warhost to make certain they don't shift their intended direction?' Ingwel asked, very clearly just verifying, making certain that there was no miscommunication between them.

'I am.' Hoffman nodded a single sharp nod.

'Are you certain? I can have terradon cavalry do the same…'

'What are terradon cavalry?'

'Flyers. They've been the ones reporting most of the marauder warbands for us.'

Ah, Hoffman thought, so they are something different from the usual cavalry. 'I can understand the appeal.' And he could, flying overhead would give a very clear picture for the scouts, and they'd be safe from a lot of the danger. Not all, the presence of hellcannons alone would put to bed any lie of absolute safety, but for strictly scouting purposes, that risk was almost negligible. 'I feel that with the warhost, we don't want to alert them that we are watching them. Can't hide from prying eyes when in the sky, while scouts on horseback are less visible than creatures flying overhead. We simply need to keep to the trees and we can keep them in sight, but remain hidden from most prying eyes.'

Ingwel's scarlet eyes rested on Hoffman, unreadable. That expressionless muzzle gave nothing away as to his thoughts.

'It feels like a scouting job such as this would be beneath a knightly chapter such as yours,' Ingwel said slowly. 'I always picture your kind as at the head of a charge.'

Hoffman let out a soft snort. 'War isn't all the glorious charges. Don't mistake Empire knights for our Bretonnian counterparts, we understand that the less-than-glamorous tasks are just as essential to winning a war.'

Ingwel's voice was coloured by a measure of amusement. 'Wouldn't dream of it.'

'Me and my men have spent the last month and a half non-stop running down marauders and Chaos logistic trains. We are tired, bordering on exhausted. I have a shoulder that aches from an axe wound and doesn't quite have the full range of mobility it normally has. Right now, a simple scouting job is a reprieve we need. Especially now that the Knights of the White Wolf will have finally swept back from the Ostland border enough that they're actually contributing to chasing down stray marauders in our stead.'

Ingwel dragged out the following silence for a moment, then let out a slow nod. 'I understand.'

Hoffman grinned wryly. 'It's not like you can order me not to anyway. But I thank you for your concern.'

Ingwel snorted. 'Very well.' He held out a hand in a human gesture of respect. 'I wish you good fortune. Hopefully, I'll see you again.'

Hoffman clasped the lizardman's forearm, or he tried to anyway, the forearm in question was so thick that there was no way his fingers were going to even partially encircle the limb. Meanwhile, Ingwel's fingers had length to spare, just to drive home the size difference between their two races. But, it was the thought of the gesture that counted in the end. And while Hoffman and the Knight Panther's efforts in this war against the Chaos warhost had resulted in fewer joint effort battles than he had predicted, he had found that working with the Legion was not an unpleasant experience, the circumstances which had led to it notwithstanding.

'If all goes well, I'll join you in the battle against the warhost wherever you and the graf agree to meet them.'

Ingwel's eyes narrowed, and Hoffman finally thought that he was able to see an emotive expression in the gesture.

'Looking forward to it.'

Hoffman cast one last look to the newly unrolled map, unsoiled by inked notations. It was more of a quick reminder of the terrain he would be riding across, that moment of double-checking the route before committing. That done, he gave one last nod of farewell to the marshal and then departed the tent with the aim of tracking down his fellow knights and briefing them on their next agenda.

#

Skaros rolled the stone about in the palm of one gauntlet-clad hand, eyes drawn to the iridescent glimmer. Such a pretty bauble, for all that it was capable of. Potent magics solidified, so esoteric tale went.

Infuriatingly, its power had waned in the vast expanse of time which had passed since it had been interred in the tomb, hidden away from those who would abuse its potential. A safety measure maybe, perhaps those ancient fools had accounted for the idea that somebody might one day seek the power of this relic, and in an attempt to deter those hungry for its power, deliberately designed it with more tasks than simply finding it to harness the potential it held.

Never mind that he had expected this setback. Had planned to account for it. Malice had spoken, had warned him of the chance he had to unlock the stone, to reignite its potential and take what it offered for himself. Warned him, because it represented a last chance.

The Four were moving, whispers in the north spoke of a potential coming of the next Everchosen. Malice's time of power was coming to the end of the cycle, soon any boon that could be granted would wane in returns. So it was that Malice had directed him to this place, at this time. If he was to keep acting, he needed to fuel Malice's warhost through alternative means.

What a shock the Everchosen would have, should he or she indeed emerge, to learn that the Warhost of Malice would not be weakened with their coming, not this time.

But like all real sources of power, there was a price, even if the price at this time was simply rekindling that power for use.

There was a distant rumbling sound, akin to thunder echoing the air. Skaros tilted his head, confused for a moment. The skies were clear, the whirling maelstrom that was the Winds of Magic over the past two months invisible to mortal eyes. Yet something had caused that sound.

Are there schemes in place, that malice had not thought or known to account for?

It was maybe a touch heretical a question, but Malice, being a god who had been forced to come to terms with its nature of constantly weakening just on the cusp of victory, was not going to punish him for such a question. Maybe somebody less favoured, but from Skaros, it was not a question that was borne of doubting the power of his patron, but a question of trying to consider what possibilities might go wrong, what hurdles would be set in his path.

The game played by the Four was of little interest to Skaros. They could destroy each other for all he cared. But the explosion of power those months ago, the maelstrom's presence, it spoke of affairs happening elsewhere. And as little as Skaros was interested in the Four feuding with each other, one always had to be careful of other players in the game. It would not do to get dragged into other's affairs through ignorance.

He would have to keep his eyes open.

He carefully put the stone into a pouch which was then secreted away, hidden from prying eyes and protected.

'Begin the march. We move north-east.'

Kranax heard his command and repeated it, louder. The Warhost of Malice began its march. Skaros turned to one of his warriors, one of those who acted as a part of his personal retinue. Not bodyguards, but trusted companions, in as much as they could be companions when they weren't fellow exalted.

'Go to Fatesaw, tell her I would speak with her.'

The warrior nodded wordlessly and disappeared into the throng of marching warriors.

-TBC