Battle on the Mud - Hour One

Northern Middenland

Battle Duration: 1.5 hours

—

Soulshriver didn't flinch when a stray artillery shot came worryingly close to his detachment. By now they were close enough to the grove that he was reasonably certain that they were actually hidden from the reptiles' artillery. Even if they were able to see Soulshriver and his warriors, the angle of fire would not be to the reptiles' advantage.

The tall trees of the grove were a small blessing in disguise in that regard, it had meant that there was no ideal position that the reptiles could have positioned those that would have had an overwatch over the entire battlefield. It wasn't much, a small sliver of land where the trees blocked the line of fire unless they wanted to chance setting the grove ablaze, which wasn't as easy as it sounded, despite those fiery blasts. the night's rain had soaked the trees, offering them a modicum of protection from being cast into flame.

If the reptiles were intelligent, they would know that the grove represented the ideal point from which the warhost's warriors could advance on them. Tall trees protected them from sight, from artillery fire, and once they came out the other side of the grove, they would be at the base of the hill and beginning to climb, a poor angle for the artillery to fire upon them.

Not that the absence of artillery fire meant there wouldn't be other forms of defence. If these were the same reptiles they chased from the Feyerabend Keep, they were undoubtedly armed with handguns. Advancing up the muddy hill while being shot upon by ranks of handgunners was not Soulshriver's idea of a good time. Unlike so many of the warriors that flocked to Chaos, even—or maybe especially—those of Malice, Soulshriver did not in violence for the sake of violence. Violence was but a means to an end.

Maybe it was a holdover of the man he used to be. Before his pride cost him everything. Before his time as a plaything to an entity that had relished in showing him just how corruptible he really had been.

As ever when his thoughts drifted to those torturous years when he had been a plaything to the Serpent of Desire, he felt an itch where he should have had lips, an irritation where his nose should have been, and a burning sensation where his ears had once been. He quickly dismissed the memories, tightened his grip upon his naginata and inhaled. Slowly calmed himself of the emotions that would interfere with his ability to fight, to win.

Calm. Calm of mind. Calm of nerve.

Just because he was fallen from grace, didn't mean that was not still samurai. He was more than a mindless brute waving a weapon with no finesse. His mind and body had been honed into a weapon of grace.

He reached the edge of the grove and slowed his pace for a small sliver of a moment while lidless eyes stared into the trees as if seeking something. But then the squelch of mud from one of the warriors behind him had his gait return to its previous pace.

No time to dwell, he had his task.

If there were any threat within this grove, he would see to it that they were purged. If the reptiles were intelligent, they would stay out of his way.

The first gunshot told him that no, the reptiles were not intelligent.

#

Wolfram grinned a feral, wild grin, and adjusted his grip on the heavy two-handed war hammer he carried not just as his weapon of choice, but as his badge of status. He was a Knight of White Wolf, and even if he wasn't on horseback at that moment, had instead chosen to fight this battle on foot, that did not take away from that fact.

It had been a deliberate choice. There were two regiments of Middenland state troops, all armed with halberds, which Wolfram approved of. It had been decided to have one each of the regiments garrisoned in the farmhouses which bookended the grove between them. So, rather than take to horseback and help the cavalry in the same way the Knights Panther had opted to do, Wolfram chose instead to take command of one regiment of halberds, whilst the Middenland captain could personally command the other.

As interesting as these lizardmen were, as competent as their marshal appeared himself to be, Wolfram had felt that the halberdiers would feel more at ease being commanded by a ranking human.

Technically, he was also in command of just as many of the Legion's skinks, all armed with handguns. That had Wolfram's face twist in a moment of distaste. Such impersonal weapons, handguns, though Wolfram still preferred them over the larger artillery guns. War was meant to be fought face-to-face, one was supposed to be able to see the life draining from their fallen foes, fallen from facing against a stronger, more martially competent opponent. Guns were… cowardly. Impersonal.

But Wolfram, despite the typical mentality of all true worshippers of Ulric, a mentality of abrasiveness and a desire for a glorious fight of strength of valour, was not a fool. He acknowledged that in the modern day, guns were a necessity for the continued survival of the Empire. That saying that had spawned since Magnus the Pious was a regrettable truth. The Empire survived through faith, steel, and gunpowder.

Knightly orders like the White Wolf, and even the Panthers? They made judicious use of the steel, while those who weren't in a position to become martial champions would use gunpowder to make up for that lack.

And in a fight such as this? Where they were outnumbered such that despite the quality they were destined to drown in the numbers? Guns were the necessary evil.

That he acknowledged that, wasn't blinded by his personal feelings regarding guns, did not mean that he knew how best to utilise them. So, despite the fact that technically he had been granted temporary command over these handgun-carrying lizards, he had told them that he would trust they knew how best to organise themselves, and that he would focus on the martial defence while they could manage themselves on the ranged front.

As such, he had watched as these handgunners had spread themselves out, positioned on the walls that surrounded the farmhouse, on the roof of that same farmhouse, anywhere they could get a vantage to allow them to fire out at the Chaos warriors despite the wall surrounding the property. Wolfram had even been amused to see a number of the skinks carefully pulling out loose bricks from the surrounding wall to create improvised gun ports, briefly bringing to mind an image of a castle's arrow slits.

But with the numbers that were marching on them, there was little chance it would be enough to deter the Chaos warriors, they would push through. That was where Wolfram and these Middenlandese halberdiers would make their stand. If the forces of Chaos wanted to reach the hills, they had a fight on their hands.

'Here they come,' one of the skinks on the roof of the farmhouse called out.

At that warning, all the skinks began to ready their weapons, if not for firing, then to take the place of those who fired first.

Wolfram exhaled, fighting back the building excitement at the coming combat. He was in a position of command, couldn't let himself fall into the mindset of a warrior, had to be the island of confident leadership in the coming fight.

'Halberds, ready up,' he spoke loudly, clearly. 'When they breach the wall, and they will breach the wall, they are going to find themselves faced with the finest steel in the Empire, and Ulric's fury.'

'By the White Wolf!' came the rallying cry of the halberdiers even as they packed themselves into a tight formation with Wolfram at the front and centre, facing the wooden gate which represented the weak point of the defence through which the warriors of Chaos would invite themselves.

The warriors of Chaos had to clear the farmhouse if they desired to move past it, or else they condemned themselves to being fired upon the entire time, not to mention the possibility of being flanked by Wolfram and the halberdiers.

The skink sergeant who had taken the role of command over the handgunners made himself heard again.

'Ready. Aim.' He paused a moment, and Wolfram wondered briefly if something was wrong. 'Fire!'

Following the shout, the air echoed with an orchestra of gunfire, black powder igniting and spewing out iron balls of death. For all his composure and discipline, Wolfram still had to resist the urge to cover his ears. It was one thing hearing the artillery firing from their hill, it was another to share close quarters with so many handguns, all firing in unison. Even as the sound faded and the scent of burnt powder wafted in a thick smoke, his ears continued to ring.

'Fire!'

And then the sound repeated. Wolfram spent a moment regretting that he was standing in the courtyard, and not at the wall where he could watch the advance of the Chaos warriors, if for no other reason than so that he could actually watch them approach rather than stand waiting in anticipation but not knowing the exact moment the warriors made their inevitable appearance.

The orchestra of gunfire played again. Wolfram reckoned that the foul-smelling smoke was going to cling to his beard by the day's end. A regrettable consequence, though still not nearly so bad as the tinnitus that he could feel forming. How ever did handgunners manage? Enduring this constant choir of thunder every battle, every handful of seconds.

'Focus fire on the daemons!' the skink shouted abruptly. The order was immediately followed by another thunderous applause.

Daemons, Wolfram mused. A part of him relished the idea of testing his mettle against such a foe, but again he reminded himself that this was a moment where the personal glory of such combat was a distant secondary concern compared to the survival of those under his command, these halberdiers who weren't prepared for combat against such a threat. Technically, he thought ruefully, neither am I. I doubt any human is ever truly prepared for such a fight. Such thoughts put a rare hope in his head that the handgunners would be able to snatch away the possible fight before it came to such.

Anticipation was a grating sensation being rubbed against his nerves, the lack of visibility, the lack of being able to even hear the threat approach over the noise of handguns firing so close. His grip on his hammer tightened, knuckles popping, leather glove creaking.

Again the guns fired. And then the gate shuddered and shook as a heavy force impacted it from the other side.

Wolfram grinned, all teeth. 'Halberds, ready arms.'

The gate shuddered again, even as the halberds were lowered into stances of readiness. The guns fired again.

#

Soulshriver knew he was being watched as he led his men through the grove. It was an itching sensation on the back of his neck, a feeling of unease, that he had made a wrong move. That was false, of course. He didn't make a wrong, he made the move he needed to.

But, he mused, lidless eyes scanning the trees, these reptiles probably consider this to be favoured terrain. If they are here, this is about to get far bloodier than it had to be.

As if in answer to his thoughts, there was a crack, an explosion of sound. Soulshriver turned, watched as one of his warriors staggered and fell back, blood leaking through the bullet hole. He even managed to spy the one who had fired the shot, the smoke of the gun giving away their presence, despite somehow managing to remain largely unseen despite the ridiculous red coats that these reptiles seemed to insist on wearing.

He met the eyes of that little reptile, his lidless orbs meeting unblinking and inhuman amber. For a moment, he was unsettled, unable to read anything from the small lizard's eyes, and had he still eyelids with which to blink, he would have done so.

Another gunshot, from a different angle. Soulshriver felt the bullet barely miss him, had reacted to the sound before his mind had actually registered what he was reacting to. Managed to spot the lizard responsible for that second shot.

Didn't get a chance to react further, as from the trees emerged more lizards, the larger ones. And they were being led by a familiar figure.

Soulshriver recognised the leader. He had been at the Feyerabend Keep, the one with the Imperial-style greatsword who had managed to survive not just Soulshriver but also the other champions of Malice.

If the reptile wanted Soulshriver to finish the job that had been left undone, then he would indulge. He adjusted his stance, naginata rested a loose grip, while his stance shifted. Met the unreadable gaze of that large lizard, stifling down the unease that came of that alien glare.

More of the reptiles kept emerging from the trees, invisible despite the red garments until that moment they came out, armed with billhooks that were held at the ready. The choice of weapon used by the reptiles was a clear indicator that they'd made this ambush specifically with the warhost in mind. That they'd opted for polearms meant they were better prepared for a fight against the heavy hellforged armour of the warriors of Chaos.

Except for that leader, he was using the same greatsword as at the keep. The dark metal of the blade was faintly glowing an azure glow, and Soulshriver wished he knew the context for that. Was it just a fancy glowing blade, or was it an indication of an offensive enchantment at work?

Couldn't dwell on what he had no way of knowing. It wasn't as if he could just ask the oversized lizard, he wouldn't insult his own intelligence or that of the lizard by assuming that the other would actually take the time to explain.

Amusing as the idea might be.

There was no verbal indication of the moment they were to engage in melee. Couldn't even say it was the gunshot of another of the smaller lizards, somewhere deeper in the grove firing at an unseen warrior.

Whatever it was that passed in the air as that moment that said they were to start, it passed through, and the warriors under Soulshriver charged forward with battle cries of 'Break the chains!'. In turn, the lizards shifted their stances and let the warriors charge toward them, billhooks held at the ready, and only reacting after the warriors had neared enough to be in reach of their polearms.

Soulshriver suppressed a growl of irritation, cursing the stupidity of men too stupid to live. He, unlike the warriors, did not waste his energy sprinting at his enemy, he stalked forward with a deliberate pace, but still a casual walk in comparison to the fools who wasted energy charging across the muddied ground toward a foe armed with what amounted to glorified spears.

There was a huff from the leader of the reptiles, who watched with seeming apathy at Soulshriver's deliberately slow pace. Or maybe it was a huff of impatience, Soulshriver honestly could not tell.

The way that the reptile's stance was tensed, muscles visibly coiled with the tension of a ballista readied to be loosed, was clue that the reptile was ready for the coming fight. Even those of the armoured warriors who strayed too close to him weren't enough to release that tension, the greatsword in the reptile's hand was swung with a deceptively casual swing that still managed to cleave through armour and flesh before any got close enough to actually be considered a threat to it.

The warrior that got closest had managed to get his shield up in time to block the swing, but the force had left him unbalanced and the following arc of the sword finished the job without looking like it had been a change of plans, like that followup had been the intention from the start.

It reminded Soulshriver of the first sight he'd had of this reptilian warrior, standing at the breach of the keep, that sword constantly swinging in wide arcs that refused to allow any passage through the opening.

As Soulshriver reached ten paces from the reptile, he finally recognised what this creature truly was. This was no mere warrior.

A kensai.

It was so rare for Soulshriver to meet any who had achieved such a status, those warriors who had ascended beyond the mundane and become something more. They existed, Soulshriver himself was one such. Skaros and the Everwrath had been the only others that Soulshriver had known of for a long time. And there were tales of others across the lands, the elf Tyrion, or the Dawi's Slayer King, were but two examples that he had heard tell of. There was also tell of the orc Grimgor Ironhide.

But now, to finally meet another… and this time he recognised that was what this warrior was, despite the way it was using the blade in the mundane methods of normal, mortal warriors. This time, the warrior wasn't being caught out after being tired out from fending off waves of chaff and a troll, this time the warrior was ready.

A sliver of excitement traced its way along Soulshriver's spine. A fight, a proper test of his martial prowess the likes he hadn't had since before his tenure as a guest of the Serpent. That excitement was quickly suppressed. No need to get himself killed by letting his emotions interfere.

At five paces from the reptile, Soulshriver moved, naginata swinging low, but angled to rise as it arced around. The reptile took a step back, avoided the keen-edged blade, then hopped forward, its greatsword swinging down and right. Soulshriver adjusted his weapon, let the blade connect with his polearm's shaft, then pushed his weapon away from his body while angling it such that the lower end of the shaft would slam into the reptile's ankles.

He hadn't anticipated the reptile stepping forward, twisting its body to seemingly dance around the sweeping blow. The next instant, the reptile's shoulder slammed into him, a powerful impact that caught him off guard. Controlled the stumble from the blow, drove the shaft of his naginata into the ground, then used it as an anchor with which to swing his body around whilst crouching low, avoiding the swing of the greatsword that he had sensed more than actually perceived, felt the large blade only barely avoid shaving any of his chonmage. Quickly straightened himself, was already bringing the naginata's blade up.

The reptile used its sword to redirect the naginata, and in the same motion brought the pommel forward with force enough that it would surely crack bone should it connect. Leaned to the side hurriedly and swung a leg up into a high kick, used the added momentum when the kick missed to turn his lean into a cartwheel, which managed to put some distance between them for a moment, all while he yet again forced back the excitement of a true challenge.

Despite his efforts, a small chuckle escaped him. His perception of the battling warriors, those of his, and those of the reptile, faded into an obscure haze, where he knew they were there. When one of the lesser reptiles neared, hoping to take advantage of his apparent distraction, he was quick to swing his naginata around in such a manner as to leave that reptile shorter by a head. But the other warriors were nothing but background noise, for his awareness was limited to himself and this reptile.

For the first time, there was something readable in the reptile's eyes. A flicker of some indiscernible emotion. Oh, Soulshriver thought to himself, has it just now recognised that I am kensai also?

The reptile straightened its posture, and momentarily held its blade upright, such that the flat of the greatsword passed over its face. It was almost like it was giving a salute, but the tension faded from its body, and when it lowered the blade, it adjusted its stance, and Soulshriver knew that it had just changed its style entirely.

And then, the reptile flew forward, that large blade it held swinging. In a normal warrior, that was a swing that would have gotten the one trying it killed, for it was a wide swing, even for the standards of a greatsword, which made use of such arcs. But the fluidity and the grace of that wide swing, the opening was gone almost fast enough that one would be forgiven for thinking it had never been there to begin with…

Soulshriver could not block that. His naginata's shaft would not survive the impact. Even if it wasn't cleaved through, it would still fracture, weakened unacceptably. So he dodged. Realised that it wouldn't be enough and turned his momentum into a dive. Landed in a roll, then used his naginata to lever that roll such that he was thrown back to his feet. And already that reptile was there, blade swinging.

He would have to change his entire strategy. While Soulshriver favoured avoidance to blocking, he'd always fought with the knowledge that it was an option.

Except, he quickly realised after evading another powerful cleave, I am fighting an enemy who, despite using such a large blade, favours speed. I can't rely on avoidance because he's fast enough to keep up with me no matter which way I move. He is not over-committing a single strike, every move he makes, he already has another in mind and follows through.

And Soulshriver laughed, a hoarse and wretched sound born of a throat that had been torn and scarred, but for a moment his mirth—his joy—overtook him despite being forced to repeatedly dodge, to evade strikes that would not relent.

'Yes, yes!' He laughed, leaping back and finally managing to get some room to breathe when he deliberately positioned himself behind a pair of warriors, one of his own, and one a reptile.

The obstacle finally had the reptile pause. Though its eyes never left Soulshriver, it was very clearly planning, considering angles of approach and what—and who—could potentially get in the way. In turn, Soulshriver assessed the reptile.

The blade it used was large. If Soulshriver had been a fool, or just plain ignorant, he would have assumed the size meant that it was a brute's weapon, designed to bring overwhelming power down upon the intended recipient. But he had experience enough with greatswords of the Empire's design to know that was a falsehood. The weapon was intended to be a swift weapon of superior reach, maybe not quite so finesseable as Soulshriver's naginata, but not lesser for it. And despite the size of the blade, Soulshriver had heard that those who carried such blades had a stance or a style that could allow the weapon to be used even at close quarters.

Having never seen such a method, that which was called "half-handing", Soulshriver could not speak on the strengths and weaknesses that would come of it. Best not to force the other warrior to resort to it, lest it turn out that Soulshriver was ill-equipped to counter such a style. Even if the reptile didn't resort to it, Soulshriver could see the lugs a third of the way up the blade, and while they weren't sharp, the force that the reptile was able to swing that blade meant that it made little difference. One of those lugs connecting with him would result in severe injury.

The moment the two warriors had to survey and assess faded away—the Chaos warrior was been felled, and the lesser reptile responsible had quickly been cut down without a thought by Soulshriver—so the exalted champion hurried to make the first move of the swiftly re-engaged combat, the naginata dancing in his hands as he tried to bypass any defence that the reptile might put up. The reptile quickly proved that he was just as capable of avoidance as Soulshriver was, adjusting its grip on the greatsword so it was held in only its left hand and then weaving around the flurry of naginata strikes, while angling its blade to form a barrier from any natural flurried followup strikes. And if there wasn't a follow-through? That large blade was flicked out in a manner that forced Soulshriver to step back, proving that even on the defensive, it still had a bite.

For the first time, something other than the joy of a worthy opponent leak through his discipline. There was a flicker of irritation as the reptile danced around his flurry. And he didn't use that description for the flowery prose. The reptile was moving with a fluid grace that evoked images of the wind in the air, a grace rarely seen outside of professional dancers.

It almost felt like a mockery, but for the fact that nothing about the reptile suggested that he was trying to be mocking. As far as Soulshriver was aware, the only mockery these reptiles were capable of was through sardonic wit and words.

Then again, I can't read anything of this creature. No facial expression, no twist of the lips, no baring of teeth. And any body-language is buried beneath the fighter's grace. It could be sneering at me, and I cannot tell.

An ill-placed thrust of his naginata was dodged with a pirouette that had the reptile's tail slapping into Soulshriver's chest. His dō shielded him from the brunt of the surprisingly powerful strike, spared him from finding himself short of breath, but it was still enough to stagger. Quickly turned that stagger into a feint, made to look as though he were in the midst of tripping, then used that motion to swing the naginata. He was close enough that a backstep wouldn't avoid it, the reptile wasn't able to move to either side for it would still be cut down, and the naginata was at a level where a simple hop would not have the height to avoid. The only thing the reptile could do would be to block the strike with its greatsword…

Instead the reptile leapt backwards, twisting in the air and landed lightly on its feet. Had it been anything other than one of the lizardmen performing such a move, it might not have been so jarring to his senses, but instead he had borne witness to a physical feat that would not have been out of place performed by a trained acrobat, performing for an audience. It felt wrong, uncanny to the eyes.

With a grunt, Soulshriver planted his feet, inhaled deeply, and held it just long enough to dismiss his emotions once more—quick enough to avoid being caught off guard should the reptile attempt to capitalise on the moment.

The reptile shifted its stance, reacting to Soulshriver's posture. For a breathless moment, the two stared at one another, silently measuring each other. Around them, the chaos of battle continued as warriors clashed steel on steel, but there seemed to be an unspoken understanding, a pact, that kept the rest of the combatants at bay. Neither side dared encroach upon the duel, as if knowing that to interrupt it would spell a swift and violent end.

Soulshriver briefly considered rallying his warriors, reforming their ranks and pressing their advantage. It would be the tactically sound decision, but his pride held him firm. To retreat from this duel, to abandon it in the eyes of his foe, would be to admit weakness. Cowardice. He could not allow it.

No. The battle could rage on around them, but this fight—this duel—belonged to him and the reptilian kensai before him.

With a final exhale, Soulshriver lowered his naginata and prepared to engage once more. The tension between them thickened, like a wire pulled taut, just waiting for the moment it would snap.

#

Captain Mex snarled, stabbing his spear, puncturing the cuirass of the Chaos warrior that had fallen victim to his attention. The warrior gargled, dropping his axe in order to grasp at the polearm stabbed through his breast. Mex felt the warrior's weak efforts to pull the weapon free, and after deciding that there was little chance of the warrior surviving, indulged the warrior and yanked the spear free. Then he swung the weapon and slammed it into another warrior's knee.

The warrior in question stumbled, forward charge halted as he was forced to regain his balance. That was time that Mex spent wisely, twisted his wrists, so the spear was rotated such that the sharp hook was positioned behind the knee. And then he pulled his spear back toward him. The hook slid through the gap in the armour and pierced through the flesh beneath. The warrior screamed. The hook pierced his flesh, causing him to slip on the muddied ground. He landed on the opposite knee while his leg, hooked like a fish, was reeled toward Mex. With a second tug, the warrior was now on his back, flailing in futility as he desperately tried to reach for the hook.

Yet another yank of the spear, there was a ripping sound as the hook tore its way free, left behind the crippled body of the warrior. A follow-up thrust had the spear's tip punch through the exposed flesh of warrior's the neck beneath his helmet.

Glancing at his sides showed Mex that his cohort had taken no injury so far. That probably wouldn't last, but a good start. Mex was distracted when a skink ran toward the line of saurus, eyes gleaming with excitement and concern in equal measures.

'One of the Chaos champions is here, in the grove!' the skink reported frantically.

Mex felt his body tense up in a manner that had little to do with the ongoing battle. 'Which one?' he asked, after giving a stern look at his fellow saurus, who had all stirred at the news.

'The one that looks like a ghoulish samurai,' the skink said. 'The one that the colonel said killed Kro-Loq.'

Mex's tension racketed further at the reference to his predecessor, and the one who had killed him. Kro-Loq's death he had been the reason he had been forced to take an advancement in rank, filling in the vacancy left behind. Didn't matter that in the technicality of it, he was ready. It had come before he had felt ready for that responsibility. He had enjoyed being a hunter, enjoyed leading a cohort as their sergeant in being hunters.

Still, he was a Child of the Gods, and he had accepted his advancement without complaint. Even if he wondered often the past months since his promotion whether his fellow saurus expected him to somehow be different, more capable.

'Where's the colonel?' he asked the skink once he had organised his thoughts and feelings.

'Fighting the champion,' the skink answered, his tone bordering on disbelief. 'That part of the grove? We do not want to be anywhere near there, not right now.'

Mex could imagine why. He might not have ever born witness to the kind of combat that the veteran oldbloods of the Legion like Solin or Mort were capable of—and he was centuries away from coming remotely close to that level of combat himself—but it was also no secret that if they got into a fight with anybody that could match them, it was in everybody's best interest to keep their distance. Best to just keep doing as they were, focusing on fighting the warriors and any other threats that entered this grove thinking to avoid the all-seeing eye of the artillery battery.

'Where are they fighting?' Mex asked, absently adjusting his tricorn, having been knocked slightly askew earlier.

The skink pointed the way he had come. 'They look to be staying at the south-east edge of the grove.'

Mex nodded thoughtfully, mentally marking down that part of the grove as a no-go zone, as much as he wanted to lend assistance to the colonel. 'That still leaves a large span where the Chaos filth can enter.' He turned to his cohort, the grip on his spear tightening. 'We keep fighting, and we lure them to the pond.'

There was a rumble of agreement from the saurus. Mex turned to again to the skink.

'Where are your cohort?' he asked the skink.

'Scattered, as soon as we realised how dangerous it was to be anywhere near that fight,' the skink replied quickly. 'Sergeant Vhix tasked us with passing on the report to the saurus cohorts. It looks like fighting has devolved to skirmishes rather than proper regimented fighting.'

Well, that's to our advantage, Mex mused thoughtfully. 'Ok, you're with us now.'

The skink nodded and moved to position himself nearby, close enough to assist with his musket, far enough not to get in the way of the saurus when they engaged in melee.

Not a moment too soon, it looked like the next wave of Chaos warriors started to enter the grove.

#

The gates shook at the force of the blow from the opposite side. Again. And Again. Honestly, Wolfram was impressed that they had endured as long as they had.

Each time the gates shook in answer to the loud crashing sound, the lizards with their handguns fired. Wolfram had no way of knowing whether the gunfire was aimed at the ones slamming on the gates, or if they were firing at other targets, further from the surrounding walls.

Didn't matter either way. Not with the numbers of Chaos warriors. They would just step over the bodies of the comrades that had fallen to take their place.

At the wall, one of the lizards who had been firing out of a makeshift firing port yelped, hopping back, handgun in a tight grip. As Wolfram turned his head to look, the lizard huffed, then lunged back at the firing hole, jabbing the handgun through the gap with force. There was a startled shout as the one on the other side of that hole suffered an angry lizard's bayonet. Then the handgun fired, clearly the lizard wasn't content to leave things be with an improvised spear jab. Once that was done, the lizard pulled the handgun back out the hole and then grabbed the nearby stone which had been removed from the wall to make the firing port and it was quickly shoved back to where it had originally come from, sealing the gap.

All along the wall, that action was being repeated by the other lizards, all holes in the wall sealed back up, denying Chaos halberds the opportunity to be stabbed through those same holes through which they had been fired at.

The gates shook again. Dust rained down. Where the dust had come from, Wolfram did not know. Again thunder cracked, an orchestration of gunfire. Fired by those lizards who were perched on the roof of the farmhouse. Or the barn.

Wolfram took one hand from his warhammer and wiped at his forehead. Wiped away the thick dust-tainted sweat before it got into his eyes. Didn't bother with the rest, let it trickle into his beard, at least the worst that would do was smell a little pungent. Not a fatal issue, enduring an odour problem.

Assuming that he would even be able to smell that in the coming moments. Death had its own scent—a potent mix of blood, smoke, and fear—which typically overpowered such mundane smells as a sweat-soaked beard.

With one last thunderous crash, the gates burst open under the relentless assault. A towering daemon, its body a grotesque visage that held no rightful place in the lands of the rational, stumbled forward as the barrier gave way. Well, that explains it, Wolfram thought, a chill running down his spine. I didn't think they'd have lugged a battering ram with them.

The creature straightened, its eyes burning with unholy fire. Before it could advance, a deafening volley of gunfire erupted. The lizardmen unleashed a hailstorm—iron or lead, didn't matter—their shots converging on the daemon. The bullets tore into its hide, each impact resulting in blood that was white with speckles of purple splattering out. Whether this was the final straw or if the creature had somehow evaded their aim until now, it didn't matter. The daemon let out a guttural roar, staggering backwards as its form began to dissolve, tendrils of smoke unravelling into the ether.

But that was no reprieve. It might have been the removal of a large threat, but now there was space for the warriors of Chaos to come through without fear of getting trampled by a large daemon.

'For the Empire!' Wolfram howled, sounding as much like his namesake and knightly order as anything resembling human.

The Middenland state troopers echoed his yell—they did not break from the formation, did not waver in the face of the enemy. Whether they were borrowing Wolfram's bravery and discipline, or were just that determined to prove that Middenlanders were a different breed, there was no faltering.

So the foul warriors of Chaos approached, but they swiftly found that a company of Middenland halberdiers, led by a Knight of the White Wolf, were protecting this point, and they were not giving up ground—not for Chaos.

Halberds thrust forward, sharpened points punctured into the armour of the vile warriors who led the charge into the courtyard. Then, with well-practised precision, the axe heads were levered, pivoted and lowered—not to chop into the warriors, but to hook their legs. The polearms were yanked back sharply, disturbing the balance of the warriors who were victim to the manoeuvre. The armoured warriors stumbled, legs pulled out from under them, crashed to the ground, where they were upon for following thrusts to puncture through armour and flesh.

'Hold the line,' Wolfram shouted, projecting his voice through the cacophony of battle. 'They do not take this point. We stand here. We show this Chaos filth that Ulric's children bow to nothing!'

At that moment, a warrior managed to get close despite the wall of polearms. It was a short-lived victory on the warrior's part, for Wolfram swung his hammer with the ease of years of practice. The weighted head met the warrior's armour and buckled it beneath the force of the impact. The warrior dropped to the ground. He did not get back up.

'For Ulric and the Empire!' one soldier cried out, voice cracking in a manner that suggested that he hadn't yet lived to his second decade. A boy, forced to fight for his homeland.

But the youth of the soldier did not take away the meaning of his words, and it was a rallying call that was echoed by the rest of the company.

Wolfram's hammer came down upon another warrior, the helmet denting beneath his weapon's landing. Didn't wait for the warrior to fall as death caught up to him. Slammed a foot into the unsteady warrior. Sent the body tumbling back, disturbing the advance of more warriors.

Gunfire echoed. The smoke wafted, stung the eyes and irritated the nose. But they were all minor concerns.

Hammer rose up, sent another warrior staggering and rolling across the bloodied ground. On either side, more warriors were put down like the rabid animals that they were, by expertly applied halberds, stabbing or slicing with brutal precision.

Another burst of gunfire, this time not from the roofs, but from the ground, flanking the halberd company. The lizards, those who had been firing through the improvised holes in the wall, had reloaded and moved themselves to the wings of the company's formation. They unleashed volleys of gunfire into exposed flanks of the Chaos warriors who tried to push their way through the open gate and into the courtyard.

For a moment, it looked as though the warriors of Chaos were faltering, realising that they were faced with an unbreakable wall before them. But then a fresh sound was heard over the thunder of distant guns. Daemons appeared, smaller than the one which had smashed open the gate, then pounced forward with unnerving agility. Chittering pillbug-looking abominations—unsettling to the eyes for how wrong they were. How absolutely unnatural they felt to the very senses.

Wolfram taught the first the daemon to reach the line that he was not cowed, and did not care for its existence. It was a lesson applied via his hammer smashing its skull-like head into splintered shards.

The other daemons screeched, sounds that were painful to hear. But the halberdiers were ready. They angled their halberds, the blades forming a barrier that kept the daemons from ever coming close. The lizards fired again, focusing their fire on the abominable insults to mortal eyes.

'Advance,' Wolfram ordered, once the echo of gunfire faded. 'Push them back!'

As a single entity, the company stepped forward. Once. Twice. Paused to fend off the next wave of warriors and daemons. Then, again: step. Step. Step. Halt to fend off yet another wave. And advance, step. Step. Step.

It wasn't easy, even if one discounted the constant need to pause, to push back the next lot of warriors who felt that they would be the ones to break Wolfram and the halberd company. The ground was uneven with corpses, the bodies of the fallen, the dead wretches of Chaos. It slowed them, made it inconvenient to move when one had to kick aside or clamber over those armoured carcasses.

Pause. Defend.

Wolfram cursed as the line faltered, unable to stay straight on the corpse-strewn ground. More daemons lunged forward, and this time the line wasn't as stalwart as before. The inconsistent barrier was to their detriment, creating gaps that allowed the daemons to reach the first rank.

Screams filled the air as the daemons grabbed at the unfortunate souls who had been the weak links. Mandibles tore chunks from them, while arms pulled and ripped. The luckier ones were those who died swiftly. The unluckiest was the one torn in two, but was still alive and aware, crying and sobbing from the pain.

Once the daemons were put down in retaliation, the soldiers of the company fuelled by equal measures fury and desperation, fear and resolve, Wolfram snarled. Couldn't take the time to focus on the dead right that moment. Needed to shut the gates.

The damage to the gates wasn't irreparable. The worst of it was to the crossbar, which had given out before the gate itself had.

Step. Step. Step.

'Get that gate shut,' Wolfram shouted, slamming his hammer down on a warrior who had chosen that moment to try and force his way through the opening. 'And get it braced.'

At his command, those at the far ends of the formation broke away, moving to the wooden gate and pushing against it, moving it shut once again. Then, those same troopers moved to find something, anything with which to brace the gate shut or to replace as a crossbar. It didn't matter what they used—as far as Wolfram was concerned, even discarded Chaos weapons were perfectly acceptable for the purpose. At least that way they'd get use that wasn't killing the sons of the Empire.

While they did that, the rest of the company pressed themselves against the gate, forming a human barricade.

Just in time—the warriors on the other side started to slam themselves against it. The wood shuddered, with the impact, though it was neither as loud, nor as impactful as when the gate had been smashed open to begin with. But without the crossbar, it wouldn't have mattered that it wasn't so powerful a blow. Still, the defenders were forced to push with straining muscles, while digging their feet into the blood-soaked ground.

'Hold fast,' Wolfram urged, his voice steady amidst the turmoil. Above, the lizardmen on the roof fired yet another volley, the sharp cracks of their guns echoing over the battlefield.

There was another mighty slam, Wolfram himself had to adjust his stance as his feet threatened to slip from the slick texture of the gore on which he stood. Another slam, and then an improvised crossbeam was hefted into position.

Slam.

The gate held firm.

Slam.

There was a groaning to the wood, but still it did not give.

Slam.

And then… a pause.

'They're pulling back,' one of the rooftop lizardman handgunners called down, the first word that they had uttered since the violence started.

It took a moment for the words to sink in, but then there was a growing cheer as the men of Middenland realised that they had won. Faces lifted into weary but genuine smiles. Some clapped comrades on the shoulders, while others heaved, tearful, and others still dropped to knees and preyed, offering thanks to Ulric, or maybe even Sigmar if that was how they were so inclined. It was tempered with the knowledge that it was temporary, the battle was far from over.

But they'd survived, slowed the enemy's momentum, and kept them from reaching the hill behind the farmhouse. Subsequently, the artillery and main gunlines had been kept safe.

They had bought time.

And if that wasn't worth a moment of celebration, then Wolfram didn't know what was.

#

Ingwel spied the retreat of a portion of the Chaos warhost. It wasn't a rout, unfortunately—it was merely an organised withdrawal to their lines.

Still, that's a small victory. That front has held for the time being.

He lowered his spyglass and hummed thoughtfully, then he raised the lens once more, swivelling his gaze toward the eastern farmhouse. Smoke curled ominously from its direction, and the frantic movements of the defenders suggested they were hard-pressed. What was different between the two? He couldn't tell, not from a spyglass.

Could be that a different quality of warriors had been sent to the eastern farmhouse as compared to the western. Could be that more warriors had been sent east. Could be the quality of the defending force wasn't at the same level as that of the west side.

Could just be bad luck. It was surprising how often a battle down to the fickle whims of chance. That one lucky strike that felled a warrior that by no means should have been felled, that one unlucky slip in the mud.

As a commanding figure, his job was partially to weigh the scales of fate and do what he could to make luck an irrelevant factor, but one couldn't account for everything. That was the nature of chance.

He lowered the spyglass again, then turned to a nearby skink, one sat upon a younger aggradon than was allowed to be used in battle. But the youth of the raptor did not mean that there weren't uses for it.

'Go to Captain Yen'ayes, and tell him that the eastern farmhouse needs to be reinforced.'

The runner chirped an acknowledgement, then urged his mount to move.

Couldn't over-commit to the defence of a single point. The two farmhouses and the grove were all equally important. Couldn't stretch the defence too thin. But sending Yen'ayes, who had been held in reserve was a calculated risk. Couldn't spare many of the limited numbers on holding those points.

Movement caught his attention, and when he peered through the spyglass, he made note of daemonic cavalry, trying to loop around the eastern farmhouse, to bypass it entirely. That was a venture that would end poorly for them. Already, Ingwel could make out the aggradon cavalry led by Preda start to make moves, where they would counter-charge that cavalry before it could become a problem.

His attention drifted to the ominous figure that was the warlord of this warhost.

So, what are you going to do, now that the west attack has been repelled? Are you going to over-commit to the east, where you are having better luck, are you going to waste manpower trying another assault on the west? Or are you going to pull back and try to coax me into coming to you? I promise you, I am not suicidal.

Ideally, the warlord would over-commit to one of the fronts. It was ideal, purely because it meant that the enemy troops would be clustered close, better fodder for the artillery.

But he couldn't count on the enemy being a fool. He didn't know this warlord, certainly not well enough to predict what moves he would make. So, he would continue to observe, to wait and look for the weak point where he could apply pressure.

Maybe that way, he and the Legion would come out of this alive despite being so grossly outnumbered.