Reunions in the Rain

Five hundred years ago

—

Ingwel'tonl stared at the map on the makeshift table in front of him, keen eyes taking in every detail he could discern. To his side, Iycan'ceya looked through the notes he had written down throughout the season that the Temple-host had been garrisoned—for lack of a better word—within this warmblood settlement. The skink carefully sorted his notes into four separate piles, of which the oldblood would only be privy to one.

And on the other side of the desk, the skink oracle Yade-To worried at the hem of the leather skirt that fell from the waist of his cuirass, clearly still not yet used to the armour. At least Yade-To wasn't being passive-aggressive about wearing warmblood-styled garments and armour, unlike Moretexl, who had spent the past moon sniping and making his general displeasure quite well advertised to Ingwel'tonl.

As part of his passive-aggressive protest, Moretexl still refused to hide away the sibilant hiss to his words unless he was forced to directly communicate with a warmblood, whereas Ingwel'tonl, Iycan'ceya and Yade-To had reached the point where they no longer needed to think about doing such, to the point that even in private, they now spoke the warmblood tongue with only the faintest of accents. While the non-ranked warriors and the artisans had still yet to reach that point, there was a slow progress as more and more made the effort to adapt, to conform.

The oldblood wondered if he should communicate with the priests back home in Tiamoxec, tell them to prepare any future warriors that were to join the Temple-host by teaching them to speak not just the language but also the accent.

Ingwel'tonl tilted his head, as Yade-To's words registered. '—and according to the Auditore matriarch, skaven are responsible for the death of the local magister.'

Ingwel'tonl felt more than saw Iycan'ceya's head jolt up from his notes to stare at the other skink.

'She is certain?' the priest asked, tone bordering on disbelieving.

Yade-To angled his head into the closest gesture that their kind naturally had to a human shrug. 'While she didn't see it, her offspring supposedly did, and she swears by her offspring's honesty.'

Ingwel'tonl and Iycan'ceya shared a look, to which the skink priest let out a soft trill and shuffled through one of the piles of his already sorted notes. It didn't take long for him to find whatever it was that he sought, a sheet of parchment was pulled free and the skink carefully read the words and reminded himself of the contents.

'Magister DeMachivi spent the last cycle trying to organise an effort to purge a suspected vermin under-city. Two moons ago, he started to make progress, openly claiming to be in negotiations with dogs of war for the purpose.'

Ingwel'tonl considered that. 'It would fit with what we have heard of how the vermin act in warmblood territory. Knives and whispers.'

'So you think we should act on this?' Iycan'ceya asked, tone flat.

Ingwel'tonl glanced to the side, peered at the window, the closed wooden shutter the only barricade against the heavy winter winds and the heavy rainfall that hadn't eased in the past moon. Apparently, it was the worst winter that the Tilean peninsular had experienced in living memory—though snow had yet to fall, it was believed to be a case of when and not if—and while it was not unsurvivable weather, it was far from pleasant for the Children of the Gods. As much as Ingwel'tonl wanted to leave this town, to strike at the enemies of the Great Plan… He refrained from letting his eagerness dictate his actions. The Temple-host had garrisoned itself in this town for a purpose, to learn from the warmbloods who were being afforded protection during the winter season. And for all that it hadn't been an exciting period, it was working.

Every year since that first time his brother had made the suggestion, they had found a town or village and they had taken to protecting it in exchange for learning. And while it was slow going—as willing as Ingwel'tonl was, he was fighting against centuries of established behaviours and habits to behave in a way contrary to his kind—it was still working. Slowly, but steadily. The adoption of uniforms inspired by the ancient Tileans was the latest and greatest step on that path.

'Not now. But come the spring, we should… investigate this supposed under-city.'

Yade-To clicked his tongue. 'We do not have numbers enough to fight with an entire under-city.'

Ingwel'tonl tilted his head, then glanced toward Iycan'ceya. 'Do you think you can communicate with the dogs of war that the magister corresponded with?'

Iycan'Ceya blinked, then straightened his posture while he absently pulled at the leather straps of his feathered cloak, a personal effect which he had refused to part with even as he agreed to adopt the clothing of the warmbloods. He projected a sense of arrogant pride as he stared at Ingwel'tonl with unblinking eyes. 'Easily.'

#

Present Day

Northern Middenland

—

Ingwel eyed the sky with disdain, even as the old memory faded back into the recesses of his mind. He supposed that the similarity was what had drawn it out in the first place—the weather was determined to prove that the summer season was ending in favour of the fall and so the sky had opened up to allow a heavy rain which slammed down with surprising force. It wasn't quite monsoon levels of heavy but was heavy enough that not even five seconds into the rain's beginning, Ingwel's coat and breaches were soaked through so thoroughly as to weigh him down whilst also sticking to his scales as firmly as if somebody had used glue.

They had gotten fairly lucky, in that shortly after the rain started, but before it reached the levels that made travelling through it a challenge, they had come across what looked to have at one time been a roadside inn. It was long vacant, the road that the Legion was travelling was not nearly beaten enough that any inn would last for long. It wouldn't have been the lack of custom, but a road such as this, without regular patrol, was vulnerable. The only sign that the hostile elements that had caused this inn to be abandoned hadn't been greenskins was the fact that it still stood, all walls intact.

No doubt highwaymen and brigands had made the roadside respite less than hospitable.

Just about the only upside to the weather was that it would be slowing down the warhost. Nobody was marching in this weather, not even Chaos. The ground was nought but mud, slick and soft. Anybody wearing armour was destined to have a bad time if they tried to march in this rain.

But armoured warriors weren't the only thing to struggle. Even if Ingwel were to ignore the weather and marched on the warhost intending to take the fight to them, his skinks weren't going to be putting up much of a fight. Rain this heavy? No musket would be firing, the gunpowder would be soiled through and made useless.

That had been a hard learnt lesson in the past, back when they had first adopted the use of muskets. Rain and gunpowder, that was a bad mix. Cannons were also affected. So even if the Middenland army caught up right that moment to lend aid in fighting the warhost, they were gutted in strength until the sky stopped its torrential downpour.

As brave as the men of the Empire could be, mortal men were so… small… so fragile. Ingwel had nothing but respect for those who fought despite this fragility. That they fought when it was so easy for them to die…

Ingwel exhaled softly then looked down away from the sky and instead towards the hill which was where he had planned to set up camp before the rain fell. They had been making good time, with emphasis on the past tense. Though he supposed that even if the muddy ground slowed them once the rain let up, they would still be there in good time.

Middenland's army on the other hand…

He heard the squelch of mud, only barely through the pattering of rain. Turned his head, eyes locked onto Iycan, who was looking particularly skin to a drowned dog. As was usual when looking upon his chief of intelligence, he was reminded of the first to have the name. This latest Iycan'ceya was wholly different from the first; cheerful even when he was aloof, more hands-on than the original, using his mastery of Ulgu to mingle unseen among the warmblood populace. The first Iycan, for all that he did care, did develop a soft spot for the warmbloods, had always kept a firm distance and never stopped looking down at the warmbloods with a haughty air of superiority.

Never mind that the humans had proven themselves to be something special when Sigmar Heldenhammer had achieved true ascension, the first Iycan never stopped looking at the warmblooded races as unlearnt children.

'Any news?' Ingwel asked after a pause.

'Boney and Zak just caught up to us as the rain started,' Iycan reported.

'Just Boney?' Ingwel tilted his head. 'Was he not with Solin?'

'He split off from Solin at some point. According to Boney, they got word that the settlement Zak was defending was being reinforced.' A pause. 'By one of the exalted champions, if the description has any bearing to it. Our newest major has proven himself, it was thanks to his arrival that Zak wasn't overrun.'

'That's good.' It was understating the accomplishment that the newest skink major had earned. 'Did Zak have anything to add?'

'That it looks like we've got a dedicated artillery specialist.'

That had Ingwel cast a look at Iycan, a mixture of surprise and something else, something he wasn't quite able to pinpoint.

'Truly?'

Iycan's eyes narrowed into a grin. 'Turns out he really likes cannons. He's… besotted with them.'

Ingwel chuckled, a soft rasping sound.

'It gets better. His role in defending the village had him rewarded. He's replaced his bastiladon's carronades. He was gifted some Dawi-made fifteen-pounders.'

'Lucky sod.' Ingwel paused, then tilted his head in concern. 'And his bastiladons aren't struggling under the weight?'

Iycan shook his head once. 'No, they're handling the weight of the cannons and the ammunition fine. Though Zak mentioned that Boney is letting them rest slightly more often than is normal, I'm assured that it is more about letting them get acclimated to the new weight than out of necessity.'

'That's good then. It will be nice to have a major who wants to lead an artillery battalion.'

'It is a first for us.' Iycan agreed, wringing his cap—not that the action was going to accomplish much while they were both still standing in the pouring rain. 'Some logistical issues in light of Boney's new guns, the artisans will have to make separate cannon ammo for his use specifically.'

Ingwel shook his head, ignored the way the act had droplets of water arc horizontally to the ground for a brief flight. 'Easy enough to fix, just assign a handful of artisans permanently crafting exclusively for his battalion's needs.'

It wasn't as if they were lacking for skinks of the artisanal vocation. If a skink could not fight any longer, they took up a craft. And then there were those who were dedicated artisans from the start. Those skinks were all volunteers, who had made the deliberate choice to leave Madrigal rather than being tasked, those who relished the chance to explore the lands beyond Madrigal and learn to make things that were very different from what was traditionally made by Children of the Gods, it was something that naturally appealed to the minds of the more inquisitive skinks.

Iycan tilted his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing with the order that was thinly veiled as a recommendation.

'Anything more?' Ingwel asked after a moment of silence.

'One of the irregulars came along with Zak and Boney. Anten.'

Ingwel felt a flicker of recognition. Hadn't that name come up recently? 'He's the one who gave us what we know on the Dawi-Zhaar, is he not?' But even as he asked, he knew he was forgetting a more important detail.

'He's also the one that Solin sent to investigate Kislev's ongoing winter.'

Ingwel felt the recollection of that fact slide back into place even before Iycan had finished the sentence and let out a soft hum.

'He has news?'

Iycan shrugged. 'Naturally. I don't know him that well, but I always got the impression he rather enjoyed the solitude of working alone in the Dark Lands. Not the type to come back to us because he missed our charming dispositions.'

'How bad is it, if he decided to tell us in person?'

Iycan hesitated a moment, head angled so that he was looking up at the bawling skies. 'It's not good.' He admitted it slowly. 'But it's also an outside context issue, nothing to do with the Warhost of Malice.'

'But…?'

Iycan shook his head. 'Well, if the report is accurate, we now know why the sky exploded, what caused the maelstrom. A god being fatally wounded would do that.'

Ingwel had to pause and assess the words spoken. Had he heard correctly, or had the rain distorted the sound into something other?

Iycan continued speaking. 'If we weren't busy with the Warhost of Malice, I would have been recommending we march north and east, to meet up with the Tzarina and offer our services. As it stands, we have our own affairs, so we shall have to trust that Tzarina Katarine will handle the fallout.'

Ingwel hissed softly, irritated. 'Sounds like the events happening north are the exact thing we should be involved in. The very purpose for our being here.'

'It was bad timing,' Iycan said with a frown, nodding in agreement. 'We can't exactly ignore this warhost, nor the undead, if they've not gotten themselves removed yet.'

Ingwel huffed at the reminder of the other issue plaguing Middenland. 'Have we had any word from Sharpe about that?'

'Not since they'd entered the Drakwald.'

Ingwel let out a soft sound of contemplation, rubbing his knuckles against the underside of his jaw. After a moment, he turned and started to wade across the muddy grounds. 'For the time being, I'll have to assume that no news is good news.'

Iycan stared disdainfully at the mud, but after the briefest of delays, he began to follow behind the marshal.

'We've gotten lucky so far,' Iycan finally spoke again. 'The undead choosing to skulk about in the Drakwald… we could have been fighting a two-front war. And with Middenland's army having been stuck in limbo as it was…'

Ingwel rumbled in agreement. 'Saying that we would have been stretched thin would be… an understatement.'

A nearby carnosaur rumbled as they neared, its head lifting from where it had been tucked beneath its tail, baby blue eyes looking dolefully at Ingwel, who paused in his stride long enough to reach an arm out and pat the large thundersaur's snout tenderly.

'I know, pretty girl, the rain is horrible.'

The orange and black carnosaur trilled softly and pushed her head against Ingwel's palm, clearly communicating her wanting more of Ingwel's affectionate attention. Ingwel huffed and scratched lightly at coarse scales before patting again, with a little more force to communicate with her that that was it. One last affectionate pat and he stepped back. The carnosaur rumbled and then tucked her head back beneath her tail, though not before giving a full-body shiver as though trying to dry herself despite the heavy shower still pattering down upon her.

Iycan had stood a respectful distance away and watched, eye narrowed in wary concern for his own safety. The carnosaur was docile and friendly to Ingwel, and to a lesser extent to his spawn-brother, but was particularly cantankerous when it came to anybody else. It said plenty that even stoic Mort wanted to be nowhere near her. Once Ingwel had backed away and was next to the skink once again, resumed the trek toward the inn, Iycan let out an exaggerated sigh of relief.

'She terrifies me.'

Ingwel let out an amused guffaw. 'Gila is harmless.'

Iycan cast a side-eyed look upon Ingwel. 'Apex predator of her environment, the same race that rendered the Lustrian population of dragons extinct… and you call her harmless.'

'Well,' Ingwel said with a narrow-eyed grin, 'harmless to us. To greenskins and Chaos and anything we do not like, quite the opposite.'

Iycan barked out a single "hah" of laughter.

#

If it hadn't been for the fact that his current regiments had no wagons to haul, they would have been stuck in place when the rain started. Not even any thundersaurs, just the march of saurus and skinks. As such, rain was unpleasant, it might have slowed their pace, but it wasn't enough to stop them entirely.

That didn't stop it from being a relief when Solin finally caught up to an encampment of his fellow members of the Legion, the thundersaurs and wagons indication that the rain had indeed been sufficient to put a halt to any momentum for anything heavier than foot travel. For a moment, Solin wondered who was leading this camp. He didn't have to wonder for long, he spotted the black and orange carnosaur resting at the edge of the encampment. As if sensing his attention, Gila looked up and looked at him with a half-lidded gaze, then chuffed, rolling so that she was on her belly instead of her side and shuffled forward, as if trying to get closer to him without making it obvious that she was trying to do so.

A stern look at the carnosaur that seemed to believe herself as cute and subtle as a puppy had the apex predator croon and then curl itself back into a circle.

'Halt, who goes there?' a wary and particularly grumpy voice asked as Solin led the way to the encampment.

With an irritable hiss, Solin pointedly stepped closer to the source of the voice, close enough that despite the rain's thickness the sentry could visibly identify him.

'Oh, Colonel Solin…' the saurus standing as sentry's voice trailed off, no doubt sensing that Solin was not in the mood for standing in a downpour.

Solin hissed under his breath and cast a dour glare up at the sky, as though his irritation could be seen and understood by the gods themselves and intimidate those same gods into clearing up the weather.

He held no issue with water under normal circumstances. But rain was a nuisance he could do without. Especially in such a thick and heavy barrage as this.

Solin continued to hiss irritably, and stalked past the sentry, calling out an order to those under his command to do as they will. A quick question to another saurus, this one using the rain as an opportunity to cleanse his scales, he learnt where to find Marshal Ingwel, and moved into himself into the sheltered confines of the room that Ingwel had claimed his office.

Ingwel cast Solin an unimpressed look at the abrupt intrusion. That look quickly morphed into amusement.

'Whatever happened to your clothes?' he asked instead of a proper greeting.

Solin crossed his arms, his loose, ill-fitting shirt almost swallowing him whole, a spare borrowed from Captain Mex—who was considerably broader than Solin, and gifted with a few inches of extra height on top of that despite being centuries younger. 'Incineration.'

Ingwel guffawed. 'You managed to set yourself aflame?'

The larger saurus's amusement was quickly washed away when Solin snarled toothily at him. From anybody else, Ingwel's reaction would have been more violent; a quick put-down and reminder about Ingwel's position at the top of the hierarchy compared to the one whose hissing wasn't gentle or sarcastic but a full-on warning of violence. But because of who it was, and how rare it was for Solin to actually act on such anger, even if only verbally, Ingwel visibly paused.

'What happened?'

'A cultist dropped a pox on the village we'd saved. While I found it early enough for a quarantine to keep it from spreading…' he trailed off.

'What happened?' Ingwel repeated.

'A kid died in my arms.' Solin's tone turned bitter. 'I got the "privilege" of holding him as he bled out of every orifice until his body failed him from the lack of blood.'

Ingwel sighed, and Solin could see his gaze soften in sympathy, even if Ingwel had never quite understood why such pain was felt so keenly by Solin. Solin was aware that to Ingwel, the death of a child was a tragedy, but it was always in an abstract sense. But at least the other oldblood understood that while he didn't understand, that didn't mean that Solin didn't feel a keen sense of hurt.

As if to show his sympathy—or just his support for his spawn brother—Ingwel grabbed the back of Solin's head and pulled while slowly bringing his own head forward until their foreheads connected.

'Hey, we will kill every last member of this warhost. Avenge the child.'

Solin allowed a huff to escape his maw and he leaned into the embrace, his own hand coming up to clutch at the back of Ingwel's head, just below the larger saurus's bone crest. They held that position for roughly seven seconds, before pulling back.

It was once he had done so that Solin realised that they weren't alone. It took him less than a second to recognise the russet-hued skink. 'Hey, Anten.'

'Hola,' Anten greeted, tone politely disinterested and his attention firmly affixed to Ingwel's desk.

'Still prefer Estalian to Reikspiel then?' Solin's eyes narrowed in amusement, all previous ill feelings shelved and filed away to ideally never again surface.

Anten grinned back. 'Estalian has a nice poetic flow to it. Reikspiel sounds like I am perpetually angry.'

'Was meinst du denn? Ich bin nicht wütend.' The older, more archaic dialect of Reikspiel slipped out easily.

Anten gaped at Solin, then mouthed the words to himself before rolling his eyes upward. 'Yes, thank you for proving my point.'

Solin chuckled and didn't argue against the observation. Compared to High Saurian, all warmblood languages felt lacking, like they were missing whole notes and cadences, making them flat in some ways, while in others it was like there was only a single emotion driving the entire language.

Reikspiel did sound like the one speaking it was trying to out-snarl an angry carnosaur. But, Solin was aware that to warmbloods, High Saurian sounded less like a spoken language and more like a predator hunting them. Technically true, but missing the point.

'What news?' Solin asked after a moment.

'Oh, the usual,' Anten said with a verbal shrug. 'Chaos dwarfs are sadist slave-drivers picking fights with hobgoblins and rats and everything they ever see. Kislev is cold and miserable and on the brink of civil war between the Tzarina's court and the Great Othedoxy. And Ursun is mortally wounded. You know, the usual.'

Solin cast Anten a significant look. 'I'll want a slightly more detailed description of those last two parts later. But my question was actually directed to Ingwel and focused on the immediate here and now, considering I was told to bring all my cohorts to rally up.'

Ingwel huffed an amused breath. 'Anten already passed on everything to Iycan, who has no doubt already found extra details to add to everything.'

Anten nodded. 'Iycan'ceya, no matter who it is to have the name, is a scarily competent intelligence agent.'

'Speaking of whom,' Solin started, looking about as the lack of the second colonel registered. 'Where is he?'

'You just missed him,' Ingwel said, moving to the hearth and carefully moving a pot from where it had been suspended near the flame. The contents were poured into a set of cups, one of which was handed to Solin, another to Anten and then he took the last for himself, sipping at the liquid. Solin took a sip of the beverage, identifying it quickly with that first taste and he stepped back, nursing the cup between his hands.

Ingwel after a few moments, no doubt to give the other two a chance to actually enjoy the tea they'd been given. 'I called you and everybody else back as the warhost has started to move en mass. With help from the army from Middenheim, it's hoped we can cut them down before they leave the province's border.'

'Where we'd likely lose track of them for a time.' Solin crossed his arms, eyes narrowed into a grimace of disgust. 'Especially since we still have unresolved business regarding the walking dead.'

Ingwel let out another amused breath. 'Already had that conversation today.'

Solin tilted his head in a shrug. 'Fair.'

'Though with this weather,' Ingwel continued, staring at the wall as though able to see through it to the outside. He then shook his head. 'Never mind. It might've slowed us, but it's slowing the warhost just as much.'

'Assuming the mud doesn't dry up by the time we get to them, they'll be more inconvenienced by it than we will.' Solin mused thoughtfully. 'They're using horses for their cavalry—for the most part—and horses don't like galloping on mud. And then their hellcannons will be encumbered.'

Ingwel grinned. 'Whereas our aggradons aren't so fussy about the mud, and our artillery is mounted on bastiladons, which care even less. I'd considered that.' His grin fell. 'But if the rain doesn't stop, our skinks will be fighting without muskets. With the numbers we'll be going against, it's our ranged weapons that will be giving us an edge.'

'Fair point.' Solin nodded in understanding. 'And javelins nor bolt-spitters will have enough range to make up for it.'

Ingwel huffed and scowled at the map rolled across his desk. 'Dry skies but muddy grounds would be ideal.' He jabbed his finger against the map, at a particular point. 'Make the terrain work for us, make our legion have the power of multiple. Even on dry ground, it works to our benefit.'

'Just like in the Border Prince Peninsula,' Solin said, eyes lighting with recognition. 'That battle against the disgraced Bretonnian duke.'

'The first time we brought black powder weapons to bear against a Bretonnian, disgraced or not.' Ingwel grinned at the memory. 'His cavalry never got a chance to come near us. His foot-knights were cut down, and the men-at-arms and peasantry routed almost as soon as the duke's attempt at a charge left him running back to them without a horse.'

Both of them laughed fondly at that memory. It felt like such a long time ago, and one of the less… urgent jobs they'd involved themselves in. Despite the usual rule of the Legion not getting involved in internal affairs, that they were not to play king-maker with the warmbloods, a Bretonnian duke attacking a border prince for the sake of a power grab, particularly a border prince that had proven himself to be an honourable sort that had hired the Legion numerous times to track down greenskins before they could truly form a "Waargh" meant that they had felt compelled to get involved.

Not mentioned was that the Legion had gotten lucky in that conflict. That disgraced duke had hoped to carve out a small fiefdom for himself on the peninsula. In his efforts, he had made the mistake of trying to play multiple princes against each other. When it had come to light, where before he had been promised support, the angry princes had turned their backs on him and not come to his aid during the battle. Had the duke been supported by artillery fire, the battle might not have been nearly so one-sided.

And the other reason they'd gotten lucky was that the cavalry that they were so busy grinning at the memory of obliterating had not been made of actual Grail Knights. Thus far, that was a fight that the Legion had yet to experience, and even Solin and his disdain for the Bretonnians did not relish at the idea of engaging with those blessed by the grail.

The last that they had heard of that dishonourable duke, was that one of the princes had arrested him shortly after his rout. Whether the prince ever followed through on the threat of having him hung for his manipulations, they never found out, the Legion had moved on, their client satisfied with the defence of his city.

Outside the building, the air vibrated with a distant rumble, had the old walls rattle from the force. It appeared that the squall was getting worse than just a torrential downpour.

#

Hoffman shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about his body.

'Infernal Middenland weather,' he grumbled under his breath without any true heat to his words. 'Can't make up its mind. Blisteringly hot one day, then not even a full day later and it's pissing like the gods have just finished a tavern crawl.'

Nearby, another knight guffawed, having somehow caught his words even through the sound of the rain, then fanned his hand and pretended to look like he was about to faint. 'Such vulgarity to my virgin ears.'

'You ain't a virgin, Schmidt.' Yet another knight ribbed the first with a teasing grin.

'How would you know that, Stanten? Been peering through the windows of the inns I've been sleeping, in have you?' Schmidt rebutted.

'Don't have to, I can hear you from across the village,' Stanten countered.

There was a general chuckle from the knights, a moment where they could forget that they were caught in a storm with no real cover to hide within. The treetop canopy of the woodland blunted the worst of the rainfall, though, with how heavily the rain was coming down, it wasn't enough to shroud them entirely, and the wind enjoyed kicking the rain at them from a side-on angle rather than limiting it to overhead.

Hoffman shook his head, and lifted his spyglass to his eye, peering out at the distant mass that he knew to be the Chaos warhost which had kept him busy for the past month and change. Even at this distance, it was far from safe. The amount of cavalry that romped not quite alongside the warhost was the biggest threat, the ones that could charge and pursue if the Knights Panther were noticed, and the most likely to notice them tailing behind.

The biggest threat, but incidentally, not the most dangerous threat. That dubious honour went to the daemons that moved within the warhost. Vile abominations that hurt Hoffman's mind to look upon for too long, even from such a distance. The sheer wrongness of daemons pained the minds of honest men, as though their unnatural nature caused a conflict in the minds that unconsciously tried to fit those obscenities into something that better fit the nature of the real and material world.

As much as some of the younger knights under his charge were grumbling about the nature of their current task, this was hardly menial nothingness. The presence of such daemons cut away any true bite those younger knights might have had when making their complaints.

His gaze landed upon a gaggle of warriors, complete with foul-plated armour. A part of his mind still couldn't quite get over how bafflingly strange it was to look upon warriors of Chaos clad in such vivid white armour. It felt like an anathema to the nature of Chaos. Or maybe it was because of that that they chose to wear such; like they were deliberately mocking the idea of being pure souls. He wondered what they were talking about. If they even were talking beneath those helmets of theirs.

A flicker of movement at the edge of his extended vision had Hoffman adjust the brass tube ever so slightly to the right. His sight came to rest upon a large armoured figure, strangely bereft of most of the decorative touches that most warriors of Chaos graced their hell-forged armour. More so than the others, this one looked as though he were not some champion of a dark god, but a paragon of order and virtue from out of a theatre's tale. Gleaming white armour with gold accents, and a dark, muted red cape. The horns on the helmet, and the foul-looking blade that he carried were the only hints that this was not some paragon of order but instead a champion of Chaos.

Based on conversations with Marshal Ingwel, this could well be the leader of the warhost. Too bad Hoffman didn't have a Hochland long rifle. Not that it would have done him much good, he could admit that he had never felt an affinity for firearms. Carried a pistol, just in case something came up that couldn't be struck with sword or lance, but his expertise was sorely lacking. But then, maybe one of his subordinates would have had the proficiency to both make use of such a weapon and be able to hit a target from so far and in such weather.

Were it only so easy. No doubt even if one of his subordinates was both armed with a long rifle and gifted with being an amazing shot, the Chaos warlord's patron god would allow him to survive such an otherwise ignoble end.

His attention followed the Chaos champion, forehead creasing in irritation when he noted that the oh-so gleaming white armour did not get soiled despite trekking through thick mud. By all appearances, the armour didn't even look like it was wet from the rainfall. It was a mockery, one of which this foul champion was likely unaware.

The champion moved through the camp, pausing at times, attention fixed to one warrior or another, at one point to what appeared to be a pair of dwarfs, though mutants if the thick tusks poking out from their lips were any indication—weren't there rumours of Chaos aligned Dawi beyond the World's Edge?—and the bobbing of the helmet was the only hint that Hoffman got that the warlord was speaking rather than simply leering at his subordinates.

For ten minutes the warlord just seemed to trail aimlessly. Eventually, he came to a halt near the outer edge of the Chaos camp and was approached by somebody who looked wholly different from the majority of the camp's occupants. Judging from the build, it was a woman, dressed in fine fabrics—Arabyan silks, both in material and in style. Another that he had been warned of. A sorceress. No doubt that she was using her magics even at that moment, as there was a faint trickle of steam rising from her body, and like the warlord, did not appear to be burdened by the rain.

The two appeared to converse for a time, the woman occasionally making gestures if though to emphasise a point, but otherwise kept her body language strictly passive, subordinate, though not submissive, there were enough small gestures that could not be taken as coming from somebody who was passive.

'Wonder what they're chatting about,' Schmidt said, peering through his own spyglass.

'Nothing good,' Hoffman grunted out.

'Not just complaining about the weather?'

Hoffman allowed a grin to lift his lips. 'They don't get to complain about our weather. That is our gods-given right, not theirs.'

'Maybe this rain is Ulric pissing on the invaders.'

Hoffman allowed himself to let out a laugh at the younger knight's words, crass though they may be, as well as at the reminder of his own choice of words when complaining about the rain. 'I'd hope Ulric wouldn't be catching us in the crossfire.'

The white warlord seemed to go still, pausing in his conversation, helmet tilted back as though staring up into the grey clouds above. Then, that helmeted visage turned and lowered so that it was looking directly toward the woods where the Knights Panther had secluded themselves. Through the narrow visor, Hoffman barely made out a scowling face with narrowed eyes that seemed to match gazes with him. Hoffman inhaled sharply, stumbling back in shock. It seemed so impossible, but…

'Damn, do you think he knows we're here?' Schmidt lowered his spyglass, his complexion ashen.

'He's talking to a sorceress.' Hoffman let out in a low tone, then turned and raised his volume. 'Mount up, we need to move.'

'My lord?' One of the junior-most knights started in surprise. 'But with this weather…'

'They might know we're here, I'm not going to gamble our lives. I'd rather chance the weather than chance daemons and this weather.'

That got everybody's attention and destroyed any good humour that might have been found. Hoffman's second-in-command quickly rose to the moment, organising everybody.

Hoffman himself quickly mounted his destrier, who whinnied nervously, sensing his owner's unease. Hoffman carefully patted the side of the stallion's neck to reassure the horse.

Once everybody had mounted their horses, Hoffman led them deeper into the woodland, to hopefully avoid notice for a time

#

'Grapeshot,' Boney identified the cannon ammunition before him.

Good,' the cannon operator said with a resolute nod. 'And what is it good for?'

'Close range,' Boney recited. 'Fires many smaller shots at once, which spread.'

'And…' the other skink verbally prodded.

Boney hesitated a moment, checking his mind for what he had been taught. 'Not so good at penetrating armour. Still works, but if the enemy already have shields facing the cannon, coupled with armour, there is no point in using grapeshot.'

The cannoneer grinned. 'Good. There are exceptions, but that is the general rule.'

'Does it get much use then? I would think every army in existence have shields ready.'

The pale skink shook his head once. 'You would be surprised. Depends on the race, depends on the targets. Witch elves do not use shields.' The skink then paused and snorted an amused breath. 'Do not use armour either. Not that the Legion has fought them. Not while I have been spawned.'

'Druchii?' Boney wondered. 'Do they often appear in these lands?'

'Black arks,' the cannoneer said as if it answered the question. Boney supposed it did, Madrigal was aware of the existence of Druchii black arks, though the dangerous waters around the isle and the tsunamisaurs meant that to date never had one landed on Madrigalian shores. But with Captain Horeo ferrying reinforcing Children of the Gods to the Legion on a regular basis, it was only a matter of time before a black ark made itself a problem. If not for the isle, then for Horeo's efforts.

It was hardly the only issue that Horeo had to deal with every time he set sail. Boney remembered the pirate attack on the ship while he himself was being transferred over to the Legion. Horeo had largely treated it as a minor inconvenience, but Boney could read his fellow skinks quite well—for all that the skink chieftain had played up the idea that it was a non-issue, Horeo had been fuming at the attack. He hadn't liked that the undead pirates that had made themselves such a menace to their Lustrian cousins were now trying to extend that treatment to Madrigal.

Boney hummed thoughtfully, then looked at the next cannon shot that the operator briefly lifted to inspect.

'Salamander shot.'

He didn't need to mull over the tactical usage of salamander rounds, he had seen how potent they were. It was a creative use of salamander bile, one he wouldn't have thought of, but seeing it in action was enlightening.

The cannoneer shook his head once, then rotated the ball enough to show a splash of red paint staining it. 'Close. Explosive.'

Boney tilted his head, wondering about the use of a cannon shot that outright exploded. 'Is there a benefit to salamander over explosive?'

The cannoneer carefully stored away the round shell. 'They are specialised. Not for use on infantry. Salamander shots and even solid shots are better for that. Too limited in scale.'

'But…?' Boney gently prodded.

It was a different voice that answered. 'Explosive shots work well against singular but large targets. A giant or a dragon ogre.'

Boney turned at the familiar voice, trying to stop the way his muscles tightened at the presence of a saurus so close to him, had managed to get within arm's reach without his notice. Then a reminder of who Mort was, and the embarrassment and irritation chased away the nervousness, a reminder of that dratted nickname of "Major Adorable" ringing in his mind. Mort looked down at him with an expression of indifference, though a slight flicker of annoyance and concern did cross the ancient saurus's eyes before pointedly looking away from Boney and to the stacks of cannon ammunition.

The cannoneer nodded in agreement with Mort's words but also contributed. 'The warmbloods typically only use explosive shots with mortars. Solid shots bounce off the ground and punch through anything in their path. Does not work so well with a shot coming from above, so explosive to compensate.'

Mort grunted in acknowledgement. 'Though we don't use mortars, so from us, our usage is to focus down and do as much damage as possible to particularly big and dangerous monsters on the field.'

Boney gave a single nod to show his acknowledgement of the lesson on the different cannon shots. The cannoneer, no longer required to educate Boney on the different ammo types for the battalion's artillery, went back to sorting through and checking the ammo stores, occasionally pausing to scratch a note down on a nearby sheet of parchment.

Boney turned his attention fully to Mort. 'I thought you didn't like our using cannons.'

Mort's eyes narrowed, his expression becoming pinched. 'I don't.' He paused a moment, his gaze turning to peer out of the repurposed stables, at the dreary grey rain. 'But I don't have to like cannons to understand the strategy involved in them. My regiments might not use them, but I still work with the rest of the Legion, who do. I have to understand them if just to work alongside them.'

Boney let out a hum of understanding, absently looking around the stable, noting a number of armoured saurus standing at strategic points, including two at every visible entrance, or exit.

Mort continued, tone rueful. 'And even if that wasn't the case, we fight enough enemies who use such weapons against us. It's prudent to understand how the enemy might use their weapons, to plan around them.'

The skink cannoneer guffawed, even while he carefully examined another iron shell, this one the splash of paint being blue, which meant that it was actually the salamander shot that Boney had mistaken the explosive shot for being. After a moment, the cannoneer carefully put the cannonball into the crate and then cast a suspicious look at Mort.

'I heard you were refusing to leave your wagon.'

Mort's pinched expression returned. 'It was made clear to me that for my health's sake, I am required to spend at least two hours a day outside of my wagon. To eat properly while sunning.' He cast a dour look at the rain outside. 'Apparently, this weather is no excuse.'

Boney stared at the eternity warden, trying to comprehend the idea that he was being made to do anything. Mort must have picked up on the incredulity, because he let out a sigh.

'Marshal Ingwel'tonl set a kroxigor on me. Either I left under my own power, or I would be carried out under his arm like I am an unruly skink spawnling. I preferred that I keep my dignity.'

A trace of humour entered Mort's eyes at that last sentence, though it was gone so swiftly that Boney reckoned that he had imagined it. For his part, Boney had to try and suppress a snort that wanted to escape him at the mental image that had emerged from Mort's description of his fate had he not accepted that he would be leaving his wagon willingly or not. Any lingering unease at Mort's presence was successfully warded away after that point.

Mort didn't outwardly react when Boney's amusement finally won out and made itself heard. He rolled his eyes with thinly veiled exasperation and continued to speak. 'The one caveat I did manage to get was that so long as I am exposed while guarding such a valuable treasure, I have an honour guard.'

That explained the armoured saurus surrounding them. Mort spared those that were visible a brief look.

'I am not used to being the one who is under guardian protection.'

'But you're not the one they're protecting, it's what you carry,' Boney reminded him.

'Yes,' Mort agreed, 'but as the warden of this plaque, and with it not leaving my presence, they are treating me as the subject of their protections.' He scowled at one of the saurus, who gave him an unrepentant grin in return.

For a moment, they were silent, the only sound being Mort shuffling to a nearby wall that didn't have a stack of crates full of artillery ammo and sitting cross-legged, his back pressed against the wall. He then shot a look at the saurus guardians, a clear silent "see, I am relaxing". The same saurus who had grinned at him let out a chuffing sound and finally stopped staring at Mort in favour of looking outward, in the direction that any threat might actually come from.

Mort spoke up after a while. 'So, I hear that you plan to become an artillery officer.'

'You disapprove?' Boney asked back at him.

Mort shrugged. 'I am resigned to the notion. Centuries of slowly peeling away and discarding the traditional ways of our kin? I was resigned to the idea that we would have a leader who embraced such.'

'You don't say that about Sharpe, and I hear he was the reason the Legion started using muskets.'

Mort rested his jaw against his fist. 'For all that he encouraged that switch, he still works as is natural for his breed. He is still a skirmisher, he just uses a handgun instead of a blowgun, or bow. That goes for skinks in general, the change didn't change much.' Mort shrugged. 'But you are intending to focus yourself on artillery. That's not just the same tactics with a different weapon.'

'Solar engines?'

'Not even our Lustrian cousins have solar engines in numbers enough that a skink priest or an oldblood could focus themselves on being an artillery specialist.' Mort shrugged. 'A solar engine is a relic that is let out of the temple-cities sparingly. The fact that the legion has even one of Tiamoxec's solar engines was a big controversy back when we first departed the isle.'

Mort huffed a deep breath and angled his head back so that he was staring up at the ceiling of the stables.

'You disapprove of the Legion's changes?'

'I am old, and I am assured that I what is described as cantankerous. I have lived millennia with the traditions that have lasted our race since the days the Old Ones departed this world, that have endured through the emergence of Chaos, and the wars and every battle since those ancient days.' Mort rapped his knuckles against his breastplate. 'The five hundred summers that this venture has lasted is but the blink of an eye compared to the rest of my existence, and the changes have been gradual. I do not care for change, especially change that feels to me like it comes too fast, too abruptly. If I were the leading oldblood, we would still be in our traditional stylings.'

The eternity warden paused, letting out a long drawn-out breath.

'And if I were the leading oldblood, we would have failed in our assigned duty long ago. There is a reason that Annat'corri did not assign me as the leading saurus of the temple-host that we started as, and I acknowledge that. I have made my peace with it; Ingwel'tonl was indeed the better saurus for the duty. But, so long as I still breathe, I will still be the voice that reminds us of where we came, of the traditions that got us as far as we had. I would not see us casting aside our history for no reason. Not without cause.'

Mort was silent a moment, then looked down from the ceiling and back to Boney. Must have noticed something about the skink, he snorted softly.

'You are surprised that I can admit that?'

'A little,' Boney admitted easily.

'I am an eternity warden.' Mort said that as though it explained everything. Maybe in a roundabout way, it did, but while Boney was aware of the more well-known duties that came with such a title, he didn't know enough to know what that had to do with the admission.

However, at that point, Mort shifted his weight slightly, and it became clear through his body language that he was done speaking, that he was now intending to spend the rest of his mandated time outside of his private wagon keeping to himself.

Boney, not one to push his luck with any saurus, stepped back and took a position next to the cannoneer, who was still slowly going through his inspection.

'I think he likes you,' the cannoneer said in a low hiss to avoid being heard. 'Must be because of how adorable you are.'

Boney cast a glare at the cannoneer, who let out a soft snigger but never ceased in his work.

#

Ingwel scratched a thick line of black ink onto the map which was laid across the desk. With that representation marked out, his keen eye took in everything noted down.

'You're sure?' he asked aloud to the armoured human sharing the room with him. He was one of the Knights Panther, the latest to be tasked with running a message sent by Hoffman.

The knight, an older, more experienced man who had doubtless served a long and storied career, nodded. 'The warhost can't easily turn now, it would leave them too exposed.'

Ingwel grunted in understanding. Once an army reached a certain size, speed was slowed to a crawl. And turning became an affair of its own, even whilst in marching columns, barring the idea of everybody doing an about-face and marching in a reversed formation to what had been started with. He would know, the Legion had had its moments of plans being changed at inconvenient moments.

Another look at the map to confirm what he had already memorised and Ingwel hummed a tuneless sound.

'These two farms make for good strongpoints, and the hills behind them will give us a good vantage with our artillery.' His fingers tapped the desk. 'Of course, that depends on if we can reach them before the warhost does.'

The knight nodded his agreement. 'I believe you'll be able to reach the farms before they do, even without the rain, their hellcannons alone were slowing them down. With this rain? I think they'll have a full day of not being able to move.'

Ingwel nodded once to indicate that he had heard the human, even as he continued to stare at the map. 'Are the farms abandoned?'

'Not to my knowledge. They're close enough to…' The knight leaned forward and tapped his finger on a marked settlement on the map, though his forehead creased. 'This city that they have protection enough under normal circumstances.'

Another grunt of thought from Ingwel. 'You might want to pass on a message to Lord Hoffman to ride ahead and warn the farmers to leave for the time being, lest they get caught in the crossfire.'

'I'll do that.' The knight nodded a single sharp nod. Then the human frowned. 'Has there been any word about the graf's muster?'

'No,' Ingwel said, dragging the word. 'I'm starting to get worried. Even if we get there first with time enough to fortify our position, we're still massively outnumbered. Without the Middenland army, we won't survive. Quality means nothing when drowned in a sea of quantity.'

As he spoke, Ingwel crossed his arms, his mind's eye coming up with possible movements that could be made from both sides of the coming battle, trying to predict any possible openings that could be used against the Legion.

'Even if we get lucky and they are unable to advance, we don't have the numbers to prevent them from breaking off and trying to circle around us,' he thought aloud. 'We need to be a noose around their necks.'

The knight coughed into his fist. 'What if we rally the free company militias in the nearest settlements to help us? It would leave openings for the marauders still roaming, but it would help pad our numbers for this battle.'

Ingwel sucked in a breath, not against the idea, but not for it either. The free companies being tasked specifically with the defence of the smaller settlements, he didn't particularly want to pull them from that purpose. He knew how fickle the fates could be—or how much Tzeentch liked to twist events that otherwise had nothing to do with him—and it would not shock him if the moment such a defence was pulled, marauders would just happen to target the now vulnerable villages and towns.

'I'd prefer to avoid that.'

From outside the building, there was a brief moment where raised voices were heard. Ingwel stilled, listened intently, then slowly moved toward the nearby window, pushing open the shutters a crack to better see what was happening outside. From his position, he was able to watch as a horse carefully trotted toward the abandoned inn, its dark eyes flicking this way and that, clearly unnerved by the surrounding Children of the Gods. The rider of this horse tugged at the hooded cloak that was offering meagre protection from the squall, then slid down from their mount.

'Peace, peace. I'm a friend,' the rider called out when the nearest saurus started to approach with one hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. 'I have a message for Marshal Ingwel'tonl.'

The saurus paused, though his posture did not relax. 'Identify yourself,' he commanded.

'I am Captain Bahnsen of the Middenheim army. I bring word from the Graf of Middenheim.'

Ingwel had heard enough, and he recognised the voice. He pushed the shutter open fully and leaned out from the window to make himself seen as well as heard. 'Let him in, and care for his horse.'

The half dozen saurus didn't outwardly react, other than the slightest slumping to their shoulders as they relaxed from the tension of the unknown. The human, Captain Bahnsen, wasn't so composed, he started in shock at the sudden appearance and commanding voice closer to his person than he had any reason to have anticipated.

'Marshal,' the captain spoke up, but Ingwel cut off any further words.

'Get in out of the rain. At least be warmed by the hearth while you pass on your message, lest you catch a death of cold.'

After a moment, wherein Bahnsen looked about for the entrance to the inn—Ingwel physically pointed to the corner around which he would have to go to find the door, he hadn't approached from the road, which was likely what had caused the saurus standing watch alarm—the Middenheim captain moved, hunched over and tugging his cloak closer to his body in his effort to protect himself from the storm.

Even then, it took about five minutes before the door to the room that had been converted into his office opened to allow Bahnsen entry. The peasant-born officer had shucked his cloak, no doubt put it nearby the entry chamber's fireplace to dry, and without it was clear how little it had managed to protect him from the elements properly, he was still soaked through to such a degree that one could easily make the mistake of assuming he had been swimming in the Sea of Claws. Ingwel took mercy on the human and gestured pointedly at the room's hearth, a wordless "suggestion" to stand close to the flame while he spoke. The relieved sigh that escaped Bahnsen's lips the instance that he was hit by the radiated warmth of the fire was almost reward enough.

Ingwel absently handed the human a cup of tea, still warm but untouched from when he had poured it for himself a quarter of an hour prior. Bahnsen didn't seem to register the gesture, not until he'd gulped down half of the Arabyan blend—Ingwel chose not to be offended at the guzzling of the drink, the captain was still, despite the hearth and the warm drink, shivering, though less violently than before—after which he finally seemed to take note of the cup and then looked up at Ingwel and the Knight Panther.

'Captain,' Ingwel greeted, though his voice became wary as he took in the human's pinched expression.

'Marshal… Ingwel?' the captain took a moment to try and remember the name. Or uncertain that he was talking to the right saurus, humans and their difficulties telling apart the Children of the Gods, Ingwel privately laughed.

Ingwel nodded, confirming that he was indeed the one that Bahnsen assumed.

Bahnsen's shoulders slumped, then after a look at the still half-filled cup in his hand took a more restrained sip before speaking again. 'I come with bad news.'

Ingwel breathed in a deep breath, and held it for a moment before slowly releasing it, careful not to let the action make a hissing sound.

'Let's hear it.'

Bahnsen grimaced. 'The graf regrets to inform that his army has been delayed.'

Ingwel pointedly looked at the nearby window. While his view of the outside was blocked by the shutter sealed back into its closed position, it made his point. 'Everybody is delayed, this weather is merciless.'

'It's not the storm. The graf was forced to turn back not two days into his march, he returns to Middenheim.'

Both Ingwel and the Knight Panther straightened their postures, sharing an incredulous look before returning their attention to Bahnsen. 'He has turned back?' The knight was the one to ask the question they both shared.

Bahnsen sighed heavily, grimaced, and then met Ingwel's eyes. 'He sends his apologies, but something came up that required not just his attention, but the Middenheim army's attention.'

'And what, exactly, is more pressing than the warhost?' Ingwel asked, not bothering to exaggerate his feelings so as to be heard. In a way, his not doing so would make his feelings heard all the clearer, as the low, near monotone to human ears was similar to how some humans, when angry, would flatten their voices to such a monotone.

Bahnsen shuddered, crossed his arms across his body, but didn't remove his gaze from Ingwel's scarlet eyes, managed to maintain his composure despite his very apparent discomfort.

'The undead left the Drakwald and are marching toward Middenheim with numbers enough that the city would be wholly under siege if they reach it. If the graf hadn't turned back, the only defence would be a minimal garrison of town militia and volunteers.'

Oh… That is actually a valid reason. What is that Empire saying? 'Oh. Das ist zum verrücktwerden.'