Battle on the Mud's Start

Five hundred and seventy-five years ago

—

The music was strangely haunting for a scene that was supposed to be a moment of triumph, history being written forevermore.

Solinaraxl—Solin, he reminded himself of the shortening, the nickname—watched as Sigmar rallied his forces, reformed against the greenskins, whilst the Dawi arrived. The Battle of Blackfire Pass, the moment that the nascent Empire formed a lasting alliance with the Dawi of Karaz Ankor, the young Emperor carrying the gifted weapon which would become the symbol of not just Sigmar, but of the Empire that he had crafted with his own hands.

Solinaraxl—Solin—unconsciously checked whether his hood was still in place, noting that a few people kept casting surreptitious looks his way. He had no way of telling if they were simply curious that he hadn't lowered his hood, or if they were suspicious about what lay beneath that same hood.

Ailsa hummed and leaned sideways, resting her head upon his shoulder. It was probably a deliberate move; now he couldn't fidget and worry at the hood without disturbing her. She was cunning like that. A whispered word, barely heard over the battle, soothing, settling his nerves.

Solinaraxl—Solin—sighed and accepted her devious move, returning his attention to the human and the Dawi's combined might, clashing against the greenskins to the eerie music. Sigmar called out another rallying cry, charging against Urgok Bloodfang, while High King Kurgan Ironbeard charged from the opposite direction.

The music rose up, the cellos fading in favour of violin strings plucked in such a way as to raise the tension. Man and Dawi reached their target, a combined strike that brought low the orc warlord. Around them, the mob of greenskins reacted poorly to the loss of their warlord—one broke, followed by another, and then the green tide was swept away, returned to whence it came.

Solin's claws itched to check his hood again, but Ailsa's gentle weight on his shoulder reminded him to stay still. Among these humans, he always felt like a shadow hiding in plain sight. He focused instead on the battle's aftermath, the moment that Sigmar and the Dawi reaffirmed their new friendship, clasping each other's forearms.

The audience clapped, a round of applause as the actors held their final poses, before then turning to face the audience and giving a bow while the actors who were painted in green exited the stage, no doubt to remove that same gaudy-looking paint.

Despite himself, Solin clapped along with the rest of the audience until the curtain lowered. As the actors bowed, Solin pondered the human need to dramatise their past. In his own history, battles were not performances but duties. To a saurus, battle was a sacred dance, every move a tribute to the Old Ones. Watching humans and Dawi re-enact history felt oddly alien—especially with music guiding their steps, an art form Solin had only recently come to appreciate through Ailsa's gentle insistence. What would his kin think of this opera, this blend of history and art?

Ailsa chuckled, her milky eyes somehow finding Solin's with little issue.

'What did I tell you?' she said with a soft smile.

Solin stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head, huffing in amusement. 'Alright, opera isn't sssso bad. But I am fairly sss-certain that the Battle of Black Fire Passss wasn't quite sssso short, or sssso easily won.'

Ailsa laughed softly. She always did when she felt he was just being pedantic about some aspect of warmblood society. Or it was what she constantly referred to as his lisp; that was another of those things that seemed to cause her no end of delight, even as she worked to help him to speak without the constant sibilant accent.

She held onto his arm as they stood, allowing him to guide her to the exit of the Altdorf opera house. He still wasn't certain what her condition was—her vision was clearly impaired, but it wasn't total blindness. It was bad enough though that in unfamiliar surroundings, she was nearly dependent on being escorted.

Guiding Ailsa through the crowded opera house was a practised dance. He subtly adjusted his pace, ensuring her steps were confident. In return, her grip on his arm was a reminder that he was not alone in this alien world.

'An expert on battles, are you?' she asked with a humorous grin, though there was a slight undercurrent of something else to her tone.

Solin opened his mouth, prepared to answer with brutal honesty that, yes, he had been involved in enough battles to be considered an expert and would no doubt be involved in more. Instead, he exhaled softly.

Even after a year, he had not been told what had happened to her husband. But all evidence suggested that he went to war and never came back. It didn't take an expert to work out why a knight of the Empire would fail to return to his home after being sent to Estalia. Certainly, Ailsa and her two offspring believed him long dead.

'Well,' he finally started to speak again. 'I sssuppose it would have been rather dull for the audience to experience the entire length of the battle. Cut it short, make it palatable. And it makesss Sssigmar look even more impressive. Not that he needed help: man became a god. Can't get more impressive than that.'

Ailsa laughed again…

#

Present Day

Northern Middenland

—

Solin stared at the map that Ingwel was gesturing at, barely hearing the words of his spawn-brother. Instead, his mind was just constantly playing that song that had been played in the opera house so long ago. It was probably a good thing that Solin already knew what the planned positions were; he didn't actually need to hear this. This was more for the benefit of the majors who hadn't been privy to the process of making the plan.

'Boney.' Ingwel pointed at a spot on the map, an elevated hill. 'Your artillery will line up here.'

Boney leaned forward, amber eyes critically analysing the hill. The sight was enough to momentarily pull Solin's mind from the past and its cellos and violins playing in concert. He felt a small spark of pride for Boney, who was clearly taking to the idea of being an artillery commander, was putting what he had learnt to good use already, as the skink began to talk about the angles of fire and the area of effect.

'What assistance will we be getting?' Zak asked during a lull in the conversation.

Ingwel huffed irritably, his scarlet eyes meeting the small collection of humans around the table. 'Minimal.'

Hoffman gave a sympathetic grimace, then turned to look at the other humans, those who weren't wearing the pelts of the panthers from which his knightly order got its name. His gaze rested on a man of a far more rugged appearance, one who also wore the pelt of a beast as a thick cloak, though this one was not of a leopine creature, but instead a wolf. The knight's muscular frame was clad in battle-scarred plate armour, which lacked the ornate details of the Knights Panther. The open-faced helm revealed a stern visage, eyes hard and resolute, reflecting the unyielding spirit of a warrior who had seen countless battles. In his hand, he bore a massive warhammer, its weight and craftsmanship a testament to his order's martial prowess. His presence was a stark contrast to the others, a palpable aura of strength and fierce determination emanating from him, marking him unmistakably as a Knight of the White Wolf.

The Knight of the White Wolf clicked his tongue, an irritated scowl momentarily crossing his features. 'I was sent ahead to warn that my chapter has been delayed.'

'Oh for the love of…' The mumbled complaint came from Captain Bahnsen, who glowered irritably.

The broad-framed knight lifted a hand in a warding motion, though his lips twitched in a manner which Solin recognised as wanting to provoke a fight for the fun of the moment, but restraining himself because he understood that the timing for such was not appropriate.

'Do not mistake it as unwillingness to be here sooner. We are slowed by the pace of reinforcements.'

'And you've willingly slowed yourselves to their pace?' Hoffman sniped.

The White Wolf smirked wryly. 'Believe or not, kitty cat, we aren't willing to upset these individuals.'

'Must be mighty impressive if you mutts aren't willing to challenge them to a brawl over their speed, flea-bag.'

'How's the view from your high horses? Must be difficult to see what real battle is like from up there.'

'I suppose that hammer of yours is fitting for a wolf, blunt and lacking any finesse.'

Solin rested his jaw upon his palm, eyes curved into an amused grin despite himself. 'I do so love it when your orders are forced to share the same space, it's entertainment that not even Altdorf's opera can truly capture.'

Both knights huffed and turned their attention to Solin.

'And what about you, Scales?' Hoffman quipped, a grin playing on his lips. 'Do you plan on sunbathing while we handle the real fight?'

'Or maybe you're here to show us how to blend into the background better,' the White Wolf added with a chuckle.

Solin's grin widened, showing a flash of sharp teeth. 'Careful, gentlemen. You might find yourself outmatched by a lizard if you're not careful. Besides, while you two argue over who's the better warrior, I'll be the one saving your hides when things get rough.'

The two knights shared a glance, momentarily united in their shared amusement at the saurus' retort.

'If you're done mucking around,' Ingwel's tone was drier than the deserts of Araby, cutting off the impending banter before it could begin. He then turned his attention to the Knight of the White Wolf. 'Sir…?'

'Wolfram.'

Hoffman guffawed. 'A White Wolf called Wolfram? Really?'

Wolfram lifted two fingers and held them such that Hoffman could clearly see the gesture.

'Gentlemen,' Ingwel hissed irritably. 'Sir Wolfram, in your honest opinion, are these reinforcements that are slowing you worth the delay?'

Wolfram inhaled and all humour faded into a stern expression. 'Aye. In my honest opinion, they could make or break this battle. Especially since the Graf had to turn around and go home.' His glare shifted to Bahnsen. 'Two regiments of halberdiers. What a stirring donation the Graf sacrificed for us.'

'Graf Todbringer can hardly be faulted for an army of undead choosing to march on Middenheim when they did,' Bahnsen snapped.

'Oh, I get that… but Middenheim will keep. That city has never fallen before; it won't fall to a bunch of corpses that don't even realise they're dead. Just fire Ulric's Fury at the undead, problem solved.'

Solin chuckled. 'And thus the annals of history shall remember, Ulric's Fury, the biggest artillery weapon ever built, was fired to remind "a bunch of corpses that don't even realise they're dead," that they are, in fact, dead.'

Wolfram laughed boisterously. 'You get it.'

Ingwel shook his head and tapped the table. 'Whatever our opinions on the matter, it is what it is. We have an advantage in that the rain has made the ground absolutely sodden. They aren't moving anywhere, their hellcannons are immobile.'

'If they abandon the hellcannons,' Zak spoke up, 'then they can withdraw. Without the Middenheim army, we aren't circling them.'

'They most likely won't be withdrawing. Terrain disadvantage or not, they still outnumber us. Things will have to go very right for us before they consider a retreat.'

Ingwel nodded, a finger absently pointing at Solin to convey that he agreed with what he had just said.

'Right…' Wolfram hummed, then turned to Bahnsen. 'You take command of one of the halberd regiments, I'll take the other?'

Bahnsen blinked. 'You aren't going back to the rest of your chapter?'

'What purpose would it serve? I'm already here, I'd just be going back to join them as they march here. I might as well make up for the delay of the rest.'

Bahnsen scrutinised the knight for a long moment, then nodded slowly. 'Makes sense to me.'

Hoffman looked toward where the majority of the Knights Panther were waiting. 'The muddy terrain isn't going to be helping us with any cavalry charges, but we'll do what we can.'

Ingwel nodded. 'Work with Captain Preda and focus your efforts more on protecting us from flanking efforts and countering any cavalry of theirs.'

Yet another scrutinising look at the detailed map.

'We cannot let them push us from the hill. If we lose that hill, we have no choice but to withdraw; we will not survive otherwise.'

Hoffman grunted an agreeing huff, and when he spoke next, his tone was dire. 'And this is the only position we'll have this opportunity. We fail here, they're going to have an uncontested path north and east. Even if the Graf no longer has to worry about defending Middenheim, he'll never be able to catch up before they cross the border, and we won't have terrain in our favour again.'

Solin could sense the gravity of the situation settling over the room like a heavy fog. The air was thick with anticipation and unspoken fears, each person aware of the precariousness of their position.

Outside the tent, the distant rumble of thunder echoed the tumult within, a grim reminder of the storm both natural and man-made that awaited them. Solin took a deep breath, the scent of damp earth and rain filtering in, grounding him in the present. They all had their roles to play. Now it was a matter of execution, of turning strategy into survival.

With a final glance around the table, he stood taller, resolved. The next hours would define their future, and he intended to see it through to the end.

#

Ingwel scowled at the message he had been handed, then scribbled out a note onto his map. Over his head, the leacanvas that covered his wagon was subject to a constant pattering as the night's rain beat an irregular rhythm. It wasn't as heavy a rainfall as it had been hours prior, but still heavy enough that the ground was not going to be drying anytime soon. Nearby, Iycan blinked up at him.

'Trouble?' the skink asked.

'The Grudgebringers have been delayed. They ran afoul of a breyherd, possibly the same one that Anten and Witchhunter General Matthius mentioned,' Ingwel said in answer whilst peering at the map intently, as though he were trying to determine the accuracy of such a thought. 'They're cleaning up that mess, but that's why they weren't able to reach us.'

Iycan huffed with a small measure of bemusement. 'You can't fault them for deciding to remove a problem.'

'I don't. It's a good thing that Commander Bernhardt is putting in the effort. If the breyherd was this close, then there was a chance they might have been attracted to the battle—I would prefer that any potential threats to our flanks be removed before they make their move. But that is still less manpower come the morning.'

Iycan hummed. 'The sun will rise in only a few hours. Maybe you should get your rest while you still have a chance.'

Ingwel breathed out an amused exhale. 'You say that as if you aren't planning to remain awake the entire night yourself.'

Iycan shrugged, eyes curving into an amused grin. 'Hypocrisy and lies come hand in hand with running intelligence networks.'

The oldblood hummed thoughtfully, acknowledging the skink's words. 'Any news from your network?'

Iycan clicked his tongue and leaned back, head angled upwards even though all he'd see from doing so was the muted beige of the canvas covering the wagon.

'Got a messenger bird from Rauscher. An apology for the Graf's turning around to leave us in the lurch, along with confirmation that the undead are indeed marching on Middenheim. Sharpe sent a message, more of the same, along with a note that the survivors of Efror have joined up with a landsknecht that was apparently formed by order of the elector of Stirland to hunt the undead.'

Ingwel raised a brow ridge at that last part, rumbling curiously, but then dismissed it as interesting but ultimately unimportant to the matter at hand. 'I suppose we should be thankful that somebody is focusing on the undead while everybody else is looking to the Chaos warhost.'

Iycan shrugged a single shoulder. 'Would have been better if they'd managed to contain the undead long enough for us to focus down the warhost without dividing our attention. Ah well, no use dwelling on what could have been or should have been.'

Iycan moved to the flap that led to the outside of the wagon's dry sanctuary, then paused, looking to the outside of the wagon, at the rainfall.

'It does seem to be easing up. But we'll have the terrain advantage tomorrow regardless.'

He didn't wait for Ingwel to reply before hopping out of the wagon and disappearing into the dark of the night toward his own shelter.

Ingwel huffed, looked to his desk and the parchment scattered across its surface before shaking his head. Iycan was right, he should get some sleep.

#

Mort absently etched a fresh marking on the parchment while squinting, despite his spectacles, at the symbol that had been engraved upon the plaque. He then turned his attention to the parchment and sighed.

Another dead end unless I have the rest of the set… he mused, not truly annoyed at the revelation but still disappointed.

The flap that marked the entrance to his wagon fluttered, then was pushed aside as somebody deigned to enter. Mort looked up, expecting it to be either Ingwel, or one of his guardians, come to remind him to eat or to step out and get some of the morning sun before the battle started. Instead, he found Solin entering.

'Oh, you.' Mort returned his attention to the plaque, frowning as he tried to think of any other potential meanings for the images decorating its surface.

'Polite.' Solin huffed but didn't sound annoyed at the reaction.

Mort exhaled a breath of air through his nostrils, then fixed his attention on Solin. Even though he was hardly an expert, he was able to note instantly that the fabric of the younger saurus' clothing was new, the red fabric of his tunic not yet faded, and the leather of his surcoat lacked any of the wear that had dominated his old one.

'You actually managed to convince Marz to recreate your clothes then?'

Solin chuckled. 'For all that he complained about it.'

Mort steepled his hands. 'Could have taken the opportunity to get something different. Instead of…' he gestured vaguely at Solin's entire body.

Solin shrugged. 'I'm comfortable as I am.' His eyes narrowed. 'And you aren't sniping at me as you usually do.'

Mort focused his eyes on Solin's face. 'You definitely aren't in the right frame of mind.'

'Excuse me?'

'You've been thinking about her, haven't you?'

Solin's arms crossed in front of his chest, and the gesture came across as a defensive ward. 'Excuse me?' he repeated.

'I'm not blind, Solin, despite what the glasses might suggest.' Mort paused, allowed the ever-so-slight flinch from Solin at the word "blind" to pass without comment. 'I heard about what happened. If it wasn't her you were thinking about, it would have been her spawn. Which was it?'

There was a moment of silence.

'It doesn't matter anyway.' Mort turned away from Solin, turned his eyes to the plaque and the page with his inscriptions. 'So long as it doesn't distract you in battle. And you are good at that.'

'Being distracted?' Solin asked in a wry tone.

'Pushing aside your thoughts for a more appropriate time,' Mort corrected, scratching a question mark next to one translation that he felt was reaching. 'Why are you in here?'

Solin shrugged, peering cautiously at the gold plaque, but very deliberately keeping it out of arm's reach.

'Just making the rounds.' His brow furrowed. 'I've seen that before.'

'Hmm? Which one, and any meanings behind it?' Mort asked, interested.

'That symbol next to that stylised bird. It's a very old warmblood symbol, means… Ascension. Divinity.'

Mort glanced at the image in question. It was a stylized, upward-pointing triangle with a radiant sunburst at its apex, the rays extending outward in a spiral pattern. Incidentally, it had been one of the few that Mort had known without a shadow of a doubt. It had come up in Annat'corri's musings a few times, and if it was one that the slann hadn't needed to second-guess himself on, then Mort was confident that he wouldn't need to do so either.

'How do you know that?' he asked after a while.

Solin clicked his tongue. 'Some unsavoury warmbloods like to use the symbol. A declaration of their sense of worth, or their ambitions. Though the last time I saw it? That was in Araby, before the Legion.'

Mort hummed in understanding, working out quickly what Solin was referring to—the very event which had led to the temple-host which would become the Legion leaving Madrigal on their perpetual task.

'Well, the symbol itself is actually one of ours.' Mort leaned back and sighed. 'It's our symbol for gods that aren't the Old Ones.'

'Really…? Huh…'

Mort sighed softly. 'It's not one that gets much use. According to Annat'corri, it fell out of use even as early as the spawning of the second-generation slann. So, unless Lord Kroak is still in the practice of engraving messages…'

Solin huffed in naked amusement at the mental image Mort's words provided. 'I doubt it.'

After a moment of consideration, Mort slid the page toward Solin and let the younger saurus have a look at Mort's efforts to decipher any and all meanings that could come from the plaque. Solin paused a moment, then picked up the page, his crimson eyes roaming the lines of potential meanings that Mort had worked out.

After a moment, he hummed thoughtfully. 'A stone that bestows lesser divinity?' He summarised the most recurrent translation that Mort had puzzled out. Solin put the page back on the table, a queer look in his eyes. 'Sounds like a common myth of warmbloods.'

'Oh?' Mort let out, curious.

Solin shrugged a single shoulder. 'One of the big ambitions of warmblood alchemists: to create an artefact that can bestow upon them immortality. Usually, the myths about such take the form of a stone.' Solin's eyes curved into a bemused smile. 'Which is one of the reasons there is so much interest in warpstone.'

Mort huffed out a guffaw. 'Warpstone can never grant immortality.'

Solin made a sound that Mort translated as only partial agreement. When the Eternity Warden looked at the younger saurus with a raised brow ridge, the green-scaled saurus shrugged.

'We know that some of the rodent grey-seers have lived beyond the natural lifespan of their kind, and we know they make… extensive use of warpstone.' He then lifted a hand to forestall the comment Mort was about to make, then waved a hand at the parchment. 'But there do seem to be side effects. So, I'm not saying that warpstone is the key to a long and happy life. Long? Maybe. Happy? Nah. But with what everybody knows about warpstone? Alchemists think it's the key to cheating death.'

Mort leaned back, grumbling non-words as his way of airing annoyance at the short-sighted idiocy that seemed to blight any race that had warm blood. After a moment, he took back the parchment. 'I doubt a relic of the Old Ones is made of warpstone.'

'No… but maybe this relic is the cause of such myths that have alchemists believing their goals possible.'

Mort stilled a moment, then barked out a loud 'Hah' dripping with scorn. 'Typical. Trying to copy the feats of gods, and fouling up in the process.'

Solin shrugged again. 'Most of the time, I can't fault them for the ambition. It's when they decide to put others at harm for their ambitions that I take issue.'

Mort shook his head, grumbling as he carefully slid the plaque behind his cuirass and nestled it in a hidden leather pouch. Rising to his feet, his eyes wandered to the two nearby shields resting against a chest. Solin followed his gaze and moved to the shields, deliberately picking up the Madrigalian aspis over the standard tower shield used by Mort's regiments.

Mort accepted the large domed shield, his fingers tracing the intricate design etched into its surface. 'I usually use the other one,' he remarked, though his tone betrayed nothing of the emotions swirling within.

Despite its size, Mort handled the shield effortlessly. A human would struggle with its weight, but for Mort, it was as light as a feather. Crafted entirely from an otherworldly alloy, the shield was reputedly made from metal fallen from the sky—a true starmetal, not Gromril, but a gift from the Old One Xa'litza. The Shield of Xa'litza, a relic of the Old Ones, and though it was not as famed as the likes of the Blade of Realities, it held a special place in Madrigal's collective memory.

'Usually, you use the other one for solidarity with your guardians,' Solin stated, crossing his arms. His stance, stubborn and unwavering, made it clear he was not going to relent. 'It's good for morale, showing you're one of them. But you're Annat'corri's Eternity Warden. It's about time you started carrying your badge of status again. Do you think Annat'corri gave it to you just to let it gather dust?'

Mort brushed his hand against the shield, feeling the small imperfections from battles long past. They were merely cosmetic, nothing that a buffing and a coat of paint wouldn't fix, but each scratch and dint carried a story, a history of valour and duty. 'I should send it back to Annat'corri,' he muttered. 'Let my successor as his Eternity Warden have it.'

Solin snorted. 'Or you can use it and give it purpose again.'

Mort scowled at Solin, who met his gaze unflinchingly. 'The one thing no one would judge you for keeping true to, and you switch to warmblood designs the moment we decided the Remas tower shields were practical. A shield like that shouldn't be just for ceremony. Send it back, and that's all it'll get.'

Mort stared at the shield a moment longer, memories flooding back—of battles fought, victories won, and the weight of expectations. He huffed and flipped the shield to properly equip it. 'Fine then. I suppose, carrying something of such importance, I should be at my best.'

The gem on his bracer slotted into a recess on the shield. Instantly, he felt it affix to his arm, as securely as if there were a leather enarme wrapped around it. The enchantments flowed into him, familiar and warm, like an old friend's embrace. He fancied he felt a gentle, chiding reminder in the magic's touch, as if the shield itself questioned his long absence. It was probably just his imagination.

Solin let out a small chuckle. 'You, Mort… you should never be at anything but.'

Mort cast a look at Solin but ignored him in favour of moving his arm, getting used to the different shield now rested upon it. Despite its size, Mort's arm felt freer than it ever had when using the Remas-styled shield. This was a shield that was meant for more than being a portable wall.

When he looked toward Solin, he found that the younger oldblood had left the wagon.

#

Hours later, Solin held his spyglass to his eye and watched as the long column of Chaos warriors slowly trudged forward. The formation of warriors was occasionally broken up by the large forms of trolls, giants, and daemons—a wide space always marked those out, the warriors not foolish enough to march too close to such dangerous entities.

Even by the standards of a large force trying to move as a singular entity, the speed of the Chaos warhost was a shambling trudge rather than a purposeful march. The reason was clear: the mud from the constant rain of the past few days was making the warhost's ability to move the hellcannons in the formation a chore. The mud would cause the Chaos dwarfs who had been tasked with the cannons' operation to constantly slip as they tried to push the large artillery guns along slickened ground, even while the dirt caking the wheels dried and gummed up the axles, making them harder to turn.

Not that the armoured warriors weren't also having difficulties with marching. Whilst Solin observed through his spyglass, he was privy to the sight of more than one warrior stumbling as they set a foot down on a particularly slick patch of mud, or found a muddy puddle to be deeper than they had anticipated. It was a mild source of amusement.

Solin moved the spyglass, scanned the column for the biggest threats that he could identify. The daemons were obviously up there; only a fool would look at a daemon and think otherwise. But sometimes the biggest threats were not the most obvious. His gaze paused a moment, and recognition flared in his breast. The deep purple samurai armour brought to mind vivid memories of the fight months prior. One of the exalted champions, but not the warlord in command.

He wondered, just briefly, whether there was a story behind the mutilation. Lips torn away, ears removed… the man didn't even have a nose, just a gaping hole surrounded by scar tissue. Were it not for the healthy pallor of his flesh, the man could almost be mistaken for a walking corpse.

Solin also spotted the man who wore the skull of a dragon-ogre. He hadn't yet spotted the sorceress or the old man, though the apparent leader of the warhost was visible, his armour gleaming white and clean and so not what was envisioned when one pictured Chaos. The shining white armour didn't even make one think it would be worn by those who followed an entity called "Malice."

Click. Click. Click-click.

Solin lowered the brass tube from his eye and deposited it safely inside the folds of his surcoat. His now free hand rose up, hovered just over his left shoulder, fingers not quite gripping the hilt of his blade. Not yet.

He cast a look to either side, then clicked his tongue. Click-click. Click. At the wordless command, the saurus he was leading started to slowly advance, moved closer to the tree line, to the edge of the forested terrain. By now, little over half of the column had passed them by. One of a few direct obstacles between the column and the hills where the majority of the Legion was perched.

For a moment, Solin wished Sharpe was there. The treeline being where it was, his skirmishers would have had a gay old time firing at the warhost. Alas, the chameleon was still down south… So instead of skirmishers firing in the way that they had become masters of, it was redcoats, clearly visible to all but the most short-sighted or colour-blind. With any good fortune, the saurus would be taking enough attention to keep the skinks from trouble.

Click-click. Click-click.

Solin tilted his head, registered the signal, then crouched low, waiting in anticipation. At his sides, the saurus followed his example, crouching low enough that their coats were hidden by the thick foliage. Even if by chance a Chaos warrior were to look their way, they were hidden from sight. For the moment.

Forty-three seconds later, thunder echoed through the air.

#

Skaros led the way, took place at the front of the formations that slowly trekked across the sodden grounds of the Empire. For a moment, he cursed the skies, cursed the southern lands. So wet, so miserable.

Didn't acknowledge that his home, his original home, had been in a constant state of damp and rain, the long fields of grass a perpetual bog. Home at least had some semblance of nostalgia to cushion the irritation, a fondness that his service to Malice had never diminished. The people? They could go hang themselves. In fact, Skaros might well have helped them do so if he had ever had the opportunity. But the land? That he fondly remembered.

There was a muffled curse from somewhere behind him. Skaros paused, turned his head to look back, teeth grinding as yet again the hellcannons were rendered immobile by the sodden mud-soaked ground. He huffed out an irritated breath and stomped back along the column, barging past any warriors who had the misfortune of not being fast enough to make way for his passage.

'Again?' he growled.

The hellcannon's operators, a team of Dawi-Zhaar, glowered at him and uttered an insulting choice of words in their tongue before the lead operator replied, shortly explaining that it was hardly their fault that Skaros had chosen to have everybody move when the ground was still soaked from the rain.

'We've been delayed long enough,' Skaros snapped back at the tusked dwarf. 'If you cannot get this hellcannon moving again, I will have you left behind while the rest of us march on.'

The Dawi-Zhaar swore at him, a fist shaking in impotent anger, but Skaros had already turned his back and was stomping away, ignoring the splashes of mud that then coated whatever was touched by the foul specks. His eyes unconsciously moved to the hills and took in the distant buildings that were likely farmhouses. He was about to turn away, but something kept his attention drawn to that direction.

Ah… so this is where they've decided to meet us.

Almost the moment that the thought had passed his mind, there was a distant crack that could almost have passed for thunder, had the rain not ended the night prior. Absently, Skaros watched an object sail through the air, before seemingly splitting apart and turning into a wave of molten fire. His hand came up, and the flaming substance touched upon not his body, but the barrier he had conjured. The nearby warriors weren't so lucky—viscous flaming fluid coated them, burnt and scorched away at the flesh, heated armour to unbearable levels and cooked them alive.

Skaros ignored the screaming, waved a hand to move the protective barrier, and with the barrier, the liquid fire was pushed away from him.

'We are under attack,' he shouted. 'Look upon the hills, they fire upon us like craven whilst we marched unaware.'

Skaros angled his head back toward the hellcannons, which were immobile. A small part of his mind said that he should be impressed with their strategic timing; they'd picked the fight at a moment when he was inconvenienced, unable to return their artillery fire with that of his own.

But he did not need to get into an artillery slugging match. He had the favour of Malice, he had the drive. He had—his hand absently patted the part of his cuirass which hid beneath it his prize from the Efror Catacombs—destiny on his side. He wasn't foolish though; far too many had fallen because they'd lost sight of the big picture in the throes of their hubris, gifted power by their gods they dismissed threats to their being. Malice had warned him that he could expect no protection if he brought the danger to himself through reckless stupidity.

Malice was exactly as the name implied. A malicious entity that felt no remorse at punishing stupidity and undue hubris by leaving them to the fate that they sowed.

The uselessness of his hellcannons was an irritation, whether he could persevere without them or not; they were still tools that he would have preferred to use.

He thrust a finger toward the nearest Dawi-Zhaar. 'Get working on turning the hellcannons around to fire back at them,' he ordered.

He didn't bother with listening to the response, he stepped back, scouring his forces for certain faces. He ignored another tide of liquid flame, his barrier flickering blue as it held the viscous substance at bay.

'They're on the hills,' he bellowed while he pointed his sword toward those same hills, where large creatures were visible on the peaks. 'It's those same lizards from the keep.'

He trusted his lieutenants to maintain some focus among the masses, to temper the urge of his warriors to ignore any decorum and sense and charge headfirst. This was a warhost, not a raiding party, and he would not tolerate any of his warriors falling into a mindless rage.

Another cannon fired. This time it was a solid iron ball, not whatever those fiery shots were. The ball hit the ground at an angle and bounced, soared at a less sheer angle, and then smashed its way through a row of warriors whose shields were not enough to save them from the high-speed mass of solid iron.

They have the range advantage, Skaros scowled. And the terrain. This was planned, not happenstance. I see, so that's what those horsemen were following us for the other day.

It was… vexing. But, Skaros had furies within the warhost—those lesser daemons that were little more than slivers of magical energy given imp-like forms. Skaros personally did not care for furies. Of everything to come of Chaos, they were the weakest, most pathetic of them all. But somehow, flocks of the things kept finding their way into Skaros's warhost, no matter how often he willingly sent them to their demises.

He supposed that they had their uses, pathetic sacrificial chaff that they were. Good for distraction. Or, in this case, to go remove the artillery from the game.

'Release the furies.'

At his command, hundreds of the small white-fleshed winged daemons were released from their cages. Without a second's hesitation, they took to the skies and tried to swarm the reptilian creatures that already occupied the air above.

#

'Fire.'

The cannons fired, the bastiladons that they were mounted upon rumbled at the noise, and the way that the objects they carried vibrated and rocked back at the force, but then the large thundersaurs took a steadying step forward and braced themselves again for the next barrage.

Boney wondered absently how long it had taken for the bastiladons to be trained to be so accepting of cannons firing from the tops of their shells. And not just accepting, but they knew to brace themselves for the force of the cannon firing and knew not to panic when the deafening booms of gunpowder igniting sounded so close to their ear canals.

He watched the passage of cannonballs cut through the air in an arc before then bursting into a wave of liquid fire which splashed down upon the Chaos warriors unfortunate enough to be caught in the way. A brass tube was lifted to Boney's eye, and he examined the results of the salamander shots, taking note of enemy casualties.

The initial volley of salamander shot didn't do as well as anticipated. The skink clicked his tongue in annoyance, but otherwise didn't let any of that annoyance bubble to the surface. A part of him considered ordering the cannons to switch to solid shots—it could be better at that moment to save the far more scarce salamander shots. He dismissed the thought quickly. The spyglass given to him by Iycan focused his sight upon a collection of trolls, and Boney resolved that, if nothing else, that was a threat that was not permitted to reach any form of melee.

'Focus fire on the trolls,' he ordered, pointing his sabre at the collection of trolls that had caught his attention.

Behind him, he heard the cannon crews work at reloading the artillery. He left them to it, scanned the enemy force intently for any other threats that warranted personal attention from a barrage of artillery fire. If the enemy commander was smart, the Chaos warriors were going to be kept in a loose formation going forward, to mitigate the threat of artillery bombardment. Which was fine because while loose formations might help in minimising losses to any ranged attacks, it also served to weaken their ability to fight in a melee against an organised enemy.

A phalanx required that one stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their kin. The threat of being burnt for clustering too close to those same kin prevented that from happening. Even if Boney ordered the cannons to only fire solid shots at them, they'd be smart to keep their distance from each other. So, he would take the win for what it was, the mere threat that he represented would put fear in them.

Another volley of cannon fire. Boney watched, satisfied as a wave of liquid fire crashed down upon a gathering of trolls, burning away at them, and their unnaturally fast healing was countered by the molten substance that clung to their flesh and continued to sear and burn and incinerate. Then his gaze drifted, took in a large creature that was decidedly unnatural. He remembered his lesson on the different ammunition types for the cannons.

'Switch to explosive shots, focus fire on any large daemons.'

Boney heard the acknowledgement he was given, watched with cautious eyes as the enemy ranks spread out and began to advance toward the hill. He recalled the warning—if the enemy took the hills, the battle would be lost. They were still a ways away, time enough for at least a couple of barrages of explosive shells before returning the focus to carving down the numbers of the human warriors.

The air clapped, the sound was thunder. Explosions erupted down below, small clouds of fire that extinguished almost as soon as they sparked to life. Most of those detonations caught a lumbering greater daemon, skeletal and insectoid and an affront to anything natural. The greater daemon staggered backward, huge chunks of its body missing. Daemon or not, it couldn't linger on the mortal plane with such damage inflicted, and its body disintegrated before it finished hitting the ground.

'Another barrage with the explosives,' Boney called out, pointing his sabre at another daemon as though it were a baton and he were the conductor to the artillery's orchestra.

A new screeching sound hit the air, and from the midst of the Chaos force below, figures rose up, wailing and shrieking as they took flight.

'Furies…' Boney muttered, feeling some concern at the sight. If there were any threat to him and the artillery at this moment, it would be a swarm of the imp-like daemons that could fly over the majority of any defensive formations that would otherwise be in the way.

Fortunate then, that Ingwel had planned for such a possibility. An answering shriek called out in challenge, and from behind the artillery position and down the hill, a large number of terradons took flight and flew swiftly to intercept the furies. As much as Marshal Ingwel preferred terradons being reserved for non-combat utility purposes, even he had admitted that they would likely be needed in this battle. The best way to counter enemy flyers was to use flyers in turn.

The marshal had been proven correct on that front.

The artillery fired again, and below a daemon flinched back as it caught the explosive rounds with its body, though in this instance enough missed that it wasn't yet fading from the mortal plane. Boney considered ordering another barrage, but with the fact that by now the warhost below had organised themselves to face toward the threat, and were marching forward, he re-prioritised.

Time to focus on cutting down the numbers. The far too many numbers.

Did I make a mistake by ordering the cannons to focus on the daemons? The thought came unbidden, and he quickly shook his head to dismiss them. Not the time to start doubting. If he had made a mistake, it would only be worse for dwelling on it, clinging to what now can't be changed instead of working to do what he can here and now.

He observed the terrain, scrutinised the field of battle with the intention of puzzling out what may happen—what options might be made by either side of the conflict. Boney would admit, freely, that he wasn't experienced in the strategic thinking that came with a battle on such a scale—keenly remembered that his first experiences in the Legion had been deliberately smaller, with the stated intention of building him up to the ability to command such numbers. Strictly speaking, he still wasn't commanding in the numbers he would be expected to come in the future—he was in charge of the artillery guns on the hill, and a couple of regiments of skink musketeers, to better defend the position if any Chaos forces tried to circle around and remove the artillery.

The warhost had to move uphill to reach the Legion. But it wasn't a simple straight line to the hill, for midway toward the Legion, there were two farmhouses with a small forested glade between them. Three obstacles with Legion forces waiting within to keep the Chaos warriors back, away from the massive lines of artillery that were raining fire down.

The air vibrated as the guns fired again, smoke scenting the air with the cloying tang of burnt powder.

#

Ingwel stared down the length of the brass tube, the twin glass lenses at either end magnifying his view of the field below. His attention briefly lingered upon the pristine white armoured form of the one that matched the description of the leader of the Warhost. It was strange to behold, a Chaos champion that did not look in any meaningful way like a warrior of Chaos. If it weren't for the eight-pointed star, he could almost be mistaken for a Bretonnian paladin.

The distant form of the champion angled his helmeted head, looked up and almost seemed to meet Ingwel's gaze, before then turning back to his warriors and gesturing, most likely calling out orders. Ingwel likewise turned his attention away from the champion and surveyed the rapidly reorganising masses of armoured warriors.

This was a very clearly different beast from the raiding masses that had been sent out across Middenland for the past months. Maybe it was simply the fact that they were being commanded by an actual warlord, rather than let loose to carve a bloody path across the province, but this was not a mass of marauders clad in hell-forged armour. This was an army, with the discipline that such a term warranted. Despite the artillery raining down death upon them, they moved with deliberation. They reorganised themselves into their appropriate formations, albeit looser than normal in answer to the cannon barrages.

Good. Ingwel huffed in satisfaction. As a saurus of Madrigal, Ingwel was intimately aware of the benefit of a well-formed phalanx. If the warriors of Malice feared too much to properly form such a formation, then that was a shift in the balance of power when the inevitable melee was met.

His vision momentarily rested upon the warhost's cavalry, and his head tilted as he took in the strange creatures that had been mounted upon by the armoured knights. While there were a number of horses, mutated though they were, the majority of the mounted cavalry were riding instead upon what were very clearly daemons. Black chitinous abominations that shared a similar likeness to pillbugs, but with a humanoid skull in place of a head, though with a number of horns protruding from odd angles. The bug-like daemons were probably going to be less hindered by the muddy terrain than the horses were. Something to look out for, no doubt.

The air rumbled as the artillery fired, and Ingwel felt a glimmer of amusement when one of the larger daemons—the ones which Zak had speculated were Malice's versions of Greater Daemons—staggered back as a cannon shell exploded against its chest, causing it to stumble back, falling against one of the hellcannons, the crew of which was struggling to re-angle toward the Legion's position. The Chaos Dwarfs were forced to withdraw from the cannon, lest they get crushed by a flailing and quite agitated daemon, their fists shaking in outrage at the event once they registered that they were safe from being crushed.

As if it were a signal, the cavalry below surged into action. For looking like oversized pillbugs, the daemon mounts could move fast. Ingwel was right in his earlier musing—they weren't hindered by the mud in the same way that horses were. Still, they weren't charging directly toward the hill; instead, it looked as if they planned to try and circle around. No doubt hoping to find an opening and strike.

The foot warriors started moving, the loose blocks that formed their front line starting to advance, whilst they had their shields held aloft. Ingwel tracked their paths, clicking his tongue thoughtfully.

'Are they planning to attack in waves?' he asked aloud, though not expecting an answer. 'Or is this a sacrifice to determine our strengths and weaknesses?'

By his reckoning, it looked as though the bulk of that first wave was going to hit either of the farmhouses or the glade between. No doubt the hope was that they'd provide ample cover from the ranged superiority of the Legion.

As if Ingwel hadn't considered that already.

Above, the bleached white forms of Malice's furies clashed with the terradons Ingwel had tasked with keeping the air clear of Chaos. One of the furies dropped from the sky, its shape dissolving even as it fell, arrows punctured into whatever passed as flesh for daemonic entities, though whether it was the arrows that had felled the imp-like being, or the deep gauges that came from a terradon's claws and beak, Ingwel couldn't say.

'Sky is looking peaky,' Iycan commented, his eyes affixed to the aerial battle above.

Ingwel hummed. 'There are more furies than we have terradons,' he mused thoughtfully.

Iycan grunted an agreeable sound. 'Quantity to make up for our quality, clearly.'

'Well, if that doesn't describe the theme of this entire battle,' Ingwel said with a huff, gesturing down at the mass of warriors below. 'As much as we like to say that one saurus is worth ten Chaos warriors, that's still not the type of odds I want to put into practice.'

'I don't think we're quite that outnumbered,' Iycan said with an amused slant to his eyes. 'But I take your point.'

Another volley of cannon fire shook the air. When Ingwel looked upon the resultant effect upon the Chaos mass, he raised a brow ridge thoughtfully.

'Seems Boney has divided the cannons. Half and half, salamander and explosives.' Even as he watched, a daemon fell to the ground, its form dissolving as it no longer had the ability to maintain its presence in the mortal realm in light of the damage dealt by the explosive shots.

'Not a bad decision,' Iycan said. 'Work to cut down on the numbers whilst still trying to remove the biggest threats on the field.'

Ingwel nodded once, then shifted his attention to survey how much damage the salamander shots had done. At least two blocks of warriors had been doused with the flaming liquid bile and were writhing and no doubt screaming in pain. Interestingly, it hadn't been any of the front-most blocks of warriors that had been hit. Ingwel wondered if that was a deliberate choice. While it would have been convenient to have cut down on that first wave—assuming that this was the intention of the warlord leading the warriors and that it wasn't simply a case of slow communications down the lines—but on the other hand, those who weren't at the front and advancing were, while not a static target, certainly a more conveniently slower target.

Ingwel moved the spyglass, refocused the lenses upon the warlord leading the Chaos force.

'Well, it's your move.'

As if he had been heard, the warlord turned his head to seemingly stare back at him.

#

'Those cowards! Weak-willed craven firing at us from afar!'

Skaros ignored the screaming tirade of the warrior—it wasn't an isolated opinion, many of the warriors were shouting similar rants, or grumbling about them. An unfortunate consequence of how so many to fill the ranks of the warriors of Chaos came from martial cultures where the emphasis was on proving oneself a better warrior in melee.

Skaros cuffed the nearest ranting warrior upside the back of his helmet. The sound of his gauntlet meeting the helmet made a small ringing sound, and the warrior turned, fist raised, but quickly backed down on identifying who had dared to lay a hand upon him.

'Do not fault them for being intelligent. Instead, try to think how to turn this around,' Skaros growled, refusing to flinch as the air shook and flames rained down nearby.

'But my lord,' the warrior cried out, shaking his fist toward the hills where the cannons had fired from, 'this is a despicable method of combat, there is no glory to be had in what they are doing!'

'Of course it is, but we outnumber them, and they know it. This is their effort to even the field, take our advantage away, and turn it to a disadvantage.'

The air shook again. More flames washed over a formation of warriors.

'We have numbers enough that they probably aren't having to even aim those guns at us,' Skaros mused aloud, then pointed to a nearby block of warriors. 'Spread yourselves out more!'

The fact that the ambushers had a force of fliers to counter the furies that Skaros had ordered released was an irritation that he hadn't anticipated. He had expected to quickly silence those cannons, force the enemy to turn their attention backward and split their focus between protecting their cannons and then their flanks should the furies manage to kill the cannon crews swiftly enough, as well as their front, where the inevitable clash would come once the warhost advanced.

His eyes took in the field of battle, as chosen by these insipid reptiles.

The artillery fire was raining down upon them from the highest, and most steeply inclined hill. While the peak wasn't such that it could fire over the trees of the small forested grove that was between the two farmhouses that were situated at the base of the hills, that glade also was not nearly large enough for the warhost to use as cover. It wasn't wide enough, nor was it deep enough to hide more than a few hundred warriors, even if they were to pack themselves as tightly together as they dared.

Due to the heavy rain the previous night, there was no chance of that grove getting set ablaze… Any fire would be contained to whatever the substance being fired at them was, until it burnt itself out. The same could be said of any grass that hadn't yet been trampled into mud with the warhost's passage.

Aside from the grove and the farmhouses, the biggest advantage for Skaros's force was that the ground was not level, rising and dipping enough that there were blind spots, small as they may be—again there was no way that he could have his entire warhost hidden from the devastation that the distant artillery guns were raining down, but it meant that there were ways for his warriors to advance unimpeded.

The question was: had the enemy general accounted for that?

Nearby, Soulshriver moved through the ranks, approaching Skaros. Once he was near enough to Skaros that they could hear each other, the warlord pointed a finger at the Nipponese champion.

'I want that grove, and those two farmhouses, I want them both purged. Burn them down if you must.'

If Soulshriver had had eyelids, he might have blinked. Instead, his head tilted just slightly. 'You want me to lead them personally?'

Skaros didn't flinch at the latest thunderous choir from the hilltop. 'They would be fools not to have planted troops to dissuade you. Clear a path to the hills. Personally, if you must.'

'And the cannons?'

Skaros twisted his head and glared up at the aerial battle overhead, at the undermining of his original plan to deal with those cannons. He didn't answer Soulshriver, waved a hand dismissively and started to stomp his way along the ranks, eyes open for anybody he had a desire to directly communicate with.

The air rumbled, and Skaros twisted around and lifted his hand. The oncoming wave of fire split and parted and moved to his sides, missing him. However, a few warriors on either side of him were not so fortunate. No matter.

His eyes scanned the regiments, searching. Finally, his attention locked onto a regiment of Chosen. Nearby, Valnar was screaming obscenities, his twin axes held in white-knuckled grips. Every other sentence to be bellowed out was a command, accompanied by one of the axes waved toward a regiment of warriors, who surged forward at the command given.

'Vanar.' Skaros didn't shout, but his voice was heard clearly all the same as if he had.

Valnar instantly calmed, turned to Skaros, the skull he wore as some morbid trophy angled to convey that he was listening intently.

'Skaros.' His tone wasn't reverent, was barely the right side of respectful, but that was Valnar's way. He seemed to have only two tones of voice, hateful rage, or dispassionate neutrality. So long as the hateful rage was never directed at Skaros, then Skaros would let it be.

The air thundered again, accompanied not by lightning but a rain of fire, though this time Skaros wasn't beneath the oncoming wave.

'Those guns, they are a problem.' Skaros spoke conversationally, as if there weren't cannons being fired at them. 'I do not care for problems. I would have this problem removed.'

Valnar the Everwrath huffed, turned his head to look toward that hill. He didn't say anything, just stared for a long stretch of time and then huffed again and started to walk. Skaros let him go, turned instead to the regiment of Chosen who had marked themselves with their devotion to Malice. His focus fixed itself to the one in charge of the regiment, mind racing.

The ambushers had chosen their placement well, and with the confusion of the initial barrages, it was difficult to properly organise the counter-offensive. No messengers nearby to run orders to the regiments of warriors, it was a daisy chain of shouted orders and a hope that the fools wouldn't mangle the orders partway.

Skaros did not appreciate his ability to command being hampered so. He scanned for Fatesaw or the Incubator, but in the chaos wasn't able to spot them. Fortunately, both were competent leaders, perfectly able to lead their own portions of the warhost without being micromanaged.

Still, despite everything, he was not worried.

Malice would prevail.

-TBC