Battle on the Mud - Lethal Dance

Northern Middenland

Battle Duration: 3 hours

—

Leaves fluttered, crisp and brown, starkly contrasting to the rich green they wore just a month ago. They drifted down, caught by the breeze, each one dancing in the air. But any peace in their quiet descent was shattered as they were torn from their flight.

Blade met blade with a metallic clang, a sharp retort slicing through the silence. Glistening white steel, folded upon itself to a potent edge, sliced through the air in a sweeping motion that connected with the dark blue-black alloy forged in the fires of Dawi craftsmanship, shaped by hands experienced in an art perfected over lifetimes beyond that of most humans.

Fingers clenched around the hilt, colour draining from the knuckles under the pressure. One stance was light, poised to spring, energy simmering beneath the surface, ready to take flight. The other remained still—almost unnaturally so—but still limber, prepared to strike at a moment's notice.

Crimson eyes narrowed, locked onto lidless dark orbs. A flicker of a glance—a heartbeat of hesitation—and both moved in reply. It was a dance: fierce, deadly, yet graceful. An adjustment of footing, a pivot on one heel, and a blade arced with lethal intent. A skip, bending backward at the waist to limbo beneath the folded steel, only to spring forth, teeth bared, air whistling as it parted before the passage of Gromril's blade.

Solin exhaled heavily, swallowed down a flare of irritation as the samurai managed to slip beneath the arc of his blade.

Tricky bastard, Solin snarled in the privacy of his mind, then boxed away the annoyance, sealed it somewhere at the back of his mind where it wouldn't cloud his judgement.

How long had it been, since he had last fought against somebody of this calibre? It wasn't as if Solin believed himself to be at some otherwise unattainable height of martial skill, but this level of mastery in a human was a rarity. It was the kind of exclusivity that meant that one human in a lifetime might—might—achieve such a mastery of skill. Far more common among Dawi or elves, who simply had more years to hone their craft than any human would get.

Just his luck that this one, a human martial master, was also a thrall of Chaos.

He backstepped and twisted, brought his sword up and to one side, redirecting a thrust that would have punctured his chest. Releasing one hand from the hilt of his sword, he tried to snatch at the haft of the polearm. Wasn't too surprised that the samurai was able to pull back it back just in time.

It didn't help, Solin mused—not for the first time—that he was facing an opponent wielding a weapon uncommon among those he usually fought. A glaive. Not the typical choice for Chaos thralls. He didn't know enough about the people of Nippon to say whether the weapon reflected this warrior's homeland—assuming the man was truly a samurai, and not just wearing the armour as some twisted mockery. Honestly, Solin would have expected him to be using one of the curved blades at his hip rather than a polearm.

Still, the choice of a polearm levelled the playing field, making the fight more balanced than usual for anyone facing Solin and his zweihänder. No size advantage for a change. How novel.

Solin leapt back, just avoiding the sweeping arc of the glaive that would have taken his feet out from under him.

The problem is that neither of us has the advantage of reach. In theory, I'm still dangerous if I can get close, whereas his weapon loses all potency once I get within arm's length. But he knows that… he's keeping his distance.

Solin's eyes trailed to the two blades sheathed at the samurai's hip.

Still, it could be a trap. Get too close: he pulls out the katana. Or the other one. If he really is a samurai, then his draw speed will be uncanny—maybe fast enough to gut me.

Against any other opponent, Solin might have relished this fight—a rare chance to let loose and truly push himself. But with his opponent a Chaos champion, any excitement was smothered by a sense of duty and disgust toward this thrall of the great enemy.

Adjusted his grip, eyes momentarily left those of the samurai—still felt a pang of unease every time he noticed the lack of eyelids, sliced cleanly away at some point in the past, leaving them unprotected, bloodshot from the inability to so much as blink. Just one of many disfigurations, along with the permanent rictus grin, the missing nose, absent cheeks and ears… even his brows had been peeled off at some point, leaving thick scarring where there should have been eyebrows.

What did this man once look like? Was his ghoulish appearance a punishment for a failure, or a part of why he fell to begin with?

Even details like the armour brought questions. Was the armour purple because of some previous allegiance to Slaanesh? Or had he worn purple armour for some other reason? Was purple a common choice in Nippon?

Solin sensed, rather than saw, the samurai adjust his footing, and he reacted instantly. Pivoting on the ball of his foot, he angled his zweihänder to deflect and redirect the blow. An opportunity—he lunged forward while their weapons were still locked in the bind. The samurai backpedalled and twisted, evading the shoulder that would have slammed into him… but he failed to account for Solin's tail.

When the thick appendage slammed into his hip, the samurai stumbled. His eyes, unable to widen due to their disfigurement, seemed to radiate a shock Solin could almost feel. It was an opening. Solin adjusted his stance and swung his blade.

But the samurai recovered quickly, driving the haft of his polearm into the ground to vault himself backwards, just out of reach of Solin's strike. His landing was far from graceful; his feet slid as he hit the mud, struggling to find purchase. But the manoeuvre had bought him precious distance and enough time to steady himself once more.

There was a light panting to the samurai as he shifted his footing, eyes locked onto Solin. Though he couldn't narrow his eyes any more than he could widen them, he still managed to convey an intensity that seemed to narrow his gaze, as if he were glowering at Solin.

In the background, the sound of violence continued on, heedless of the momentary pause between Solin and the samurai. The crack of gunfire when skinks fired muskets, harsh cries from Chaos warriors, and the death rattles of those caught in the fray.

Solin exhaled, and he shifted his feet, angled his sword. Saw the samurai do the same. Inhaled.

Leaves fluttered, crisp and brown, starkly contrasting to the rich green they wore just a month ago. They drifted down, caught by the breeze, each one dancing in the air. But once more, the peace of their quiet descent was shattered by the metallic clang of blade meeting blade.

#

Mex flinched to the side as a musket fired from just behind him, close enough that if the skink holding the weapon had angled the muzzle just two inches to the left the bullet would have clipped him. He suppressed this ill feeling and told himself that he trusted the skinks with their handguns to have his back. He wasn't lying, he did trust them. But it was unsettling to be so close to any while they were firing—the breakdown of combat into a skirmish meant that the normal formations and distances weren't at play.

A nearby warrior of Chaos fell to the ground; either his armour hadn't withstood the bullet's passage, or the bullet had caught him in a vulnerable spot that wasn't so protected. Couldn't tell, too far to make out.

There was another clang of metal meeting metal, echoing through the grove. Max briefly lowered his spear, eyes scanning warily for any hint of the source.

'Anybody see the whirlwind of death?' he asked, anxiously.

It was telling that each time the clash occurred, regardless of whether it was out of sight, even the Chaos warriors hesitated, looking about anxiously. It had become apparent very quickly that the fight between the Chaos Champion and the colonel was a no-man's land. Anybody that got too close was cut down. The troops were left having to fight around the duel.

It wouldn't have been so bad, if it weren't for the fact that they were hardly stationary in their fight. More than once, Legion and Chaos alike were left scrambling in a hasty retreat as Solin and the ghoulish samurai flew into the scene, fighting like they were Sotek's fury made manifest, a whirling storm that tore through everything with the misfortune of being near.

One of the skinks pointed. 'Over there. Still a ways back, and they don't look to be coming this way.'

Small relief, Mex mused privately. He knew, intellectually, that Solin was a blessed spawning. But those brief glimpses he'd gotten of the fight were eye-opening, revealing just what that truly meant. It was the first time that Mex had truly seen the colonel let loose. It was uncomfortably easy to forget most of the time—what with the Oldblood's unconventional mannerisms—just how dangerous the older saurus truly was, even by their standards.

'Think I can get a shot at the champion?' one of the skinks, a younger one—young enough he might have only recently earned his musket—asked eagerly, looking in the direction that the fight was reportedly taking place.

'At the range you'd need to be standing to not get killed before you pull the trigger? How likely do you rate your chances of hitting?' Mex asked. 'And before you answer, I will mention that I'm one of the saurus who actually practices with muskets in my spare time. For fun. So I know how accurate those things are.'

The skink hesitated, then shook his head. 'Not likely. Just as likely to hit the colonel as the actual target,' the skink admitted, still looking wistfully toward the battle.

'That's what I figured,' Mex muttered, exasperated but not entirely unsympathetic to the skink's ambitions. 'Just ignore them unless they get close, focus instead on the warriors. Those we can deal with. Not every fight is our fight.'

'But…' the skink opened his mouth to argue, but Mex shook his head and let out a small hiss, not anger, not even exasperation as much as it could have been warranted. It was just a sound to shush the smaller lizard.

'What we can do for the colonel, is keep fighting the warriors—as deadly as getting anywhere near that fight is, he could still get killed if they outnumber and surround him while he is focused on the champion.' It was another skink that answered, explained while his eyes were directed toward the latest batch of Chaos warriors to muster the nerve to try and engage in combat. 'And that's not taking into account our entire reason for being here: we are here to stop them from passing this grove and marching on the rear lines.'

The younger skink nodded, finally seemed to give up on the idea of sniping out a Chaos champion. Not that Mex would fault the enthusiasm, but with life and death at stake, enthusiasm needed to be tempered with practicality and caution.

Quickly spared a glance at the older skink who had put the younger in his place, committed his face and colouring to memory. The absence of a tricorn meant he wasn't a sergeant, but he already had the makings of being one, the steel of a leader forming beneath his scaled exterior. Mex promised himself to keep an eye on that potential and put forward a word next time a new sergeant was needed among the skinks.

Any introspection was put to rest as the latest batch of Chaos warriors proved that they'd figured out that the threat of the champion's duel wasn't nearing and surged forward.

Mex braced himself, spear adjusted and angled, the haft cool and familiar beneath his grip. The warrior charging toward him had the sense of mind to stop his charge before he ran himself through, but it was too little too late. Even though he managed to halt himself, he was still within reach of Mex, who lunged forward, driving his spear through the weak spot at the warrior's collar. The blade slipped through the gap between helmet and breastplate and found its purchase in the flesh beneath. The warrior gasped wetly, hand coming to the blade impaled in his throat, batted weakly at it before slumping to the ground. Still wasn't dead, but the repeated gargling sound as he tried to breathe was evidence enough that he was on that path without a chance to recover.

Mex dismissed the warrior from his mind. Insignificant and unimportant. No need to dwell on the irrelevant chaff. Took a step back, listened to the thunderous chorus of muskets firing as all five of the skinks with him at that moment released their payload. Eyes roved left to right, scanned for anything that needed his attention. Felt a moment of foreboding, narrowed his eyes and focused on a warrior lingering further back, took in the axe that the warrior held, the stance, and the direction that the warrior was looking.

With a sharp snarl, Mex lunged back, his grip closing around the skink's shoulder. He yanked hard, felt the skink stagger as the axe whistled past, burying itself in the tree trunk with a dull, hollow thunk that sent small tremors through the bark. Mex released his hold, baring his teeth as he turned to face the warrior. Still snarling, Mex ripped the axe free from the bark, his hand gripping its cold, unforgiving metal. Without a moment's hesitation, he whipped it around and hurled it back. The axe spun through the air, burying itself into the Chaos warrior's breastplate with a sickening crunch, punctuated by the warrior's guttural, pained scream.

He barely heard the startled thanks of the skink he had saved, his gaze already locked onto another Chaos warrior charging forward, large two-handed axe held high. Mex twisted his spear, muscles coiled as he slammed the haft into the descending axe, deflecting it with a solid, jarring crack. The Chaos warrior stumbled, his momentum thrown off, leaving him open. Mex seized the moment, pivoting low and sweeping the haft into the warrior's shin with a powerful swing. Quickly pulled back the spear, hooked the weapon against the warrior's leg and gave it a sharp tug, watching with grim satisfaction as the warrior toppled backwards into the blood-stained mud.

The warrior's bulk hit the mud with a heavy squelch, spattering red-stained muck across his helmet. For a fleeting moment, he lay exposed, his gloved hand scrambling to rise—then another saurus lunged, spear poised to strike. With practised efficiency, the saurus thrust his spear down, driving it through the armour and into the chest with a wet, satisfying crunch. The heart, or whatever Chaos warriors had in place of hearts, was utterly destroyed by the piecing weapon's passage.

Mex didn't spare another thought for the warrior, rumbled approvingly at the younger saurus who had taken the initiative. Took in the warriors of Chaos, trickling through the trees, listened as somewhere, a volley of muskets fired, not from any of the skinks Mex currently had nearby—one of the other groups. Snarled irritably as yet another warrior charged. Fortunately, this one was either a fool or simply slow to react, ran right into Mex's spear, his own momentum driving the weapon deep. A wet crunch echoed as the spear pierced armour and flesh, his own forward push locking him into place, a final rattle escaping his lips as his body went limp.

'Pull back in good order,' he called out, careful to use High Saurian so that his kin would understand the words. 'Toward the pond.'

That was the plan from the beginning, as soon as formations broke in the wake of the fight between champions. Lure the Chaos warriors to the large pond, regroup with everybody else there. The pond was the line, the barrier between the warriors of Chaos and the exit on the opposite side of the grove from which they entered.

But it was important to make sure that the warriors didn't think it was pre-planned. No plan survived first contact with the enemy, that Chaos Champion making an appearance was proof of that. But adaptation was the key, and if they could pull even a fraction of the warriors toward the pond, they'd have a foothold for regrouping. Every step back was deliberate, drawing the enemy closer, leading them exactly where Mex wanted them.